and its claws tore through my right arm. The knife went clattering. “Move move move!” someone yelled. The mercenaries. They were retreating. The scar on my wrist gave out an agonized burst of heat.
It stank. It stank, a titanic massive smell that tore through my sinuses and made me gag, bile rising hot and whipping through my throat.
I hit the plate-glass window of a pawnshop, which wouldn’t have been so bad if this part of town hadn’t needed iron bars so badly. Agony as my ribs snapped, I fell to the concrete as it streaked for me, a low hulking shape that was wrong, my eyes refused to focus, even my blue eye refused to see what it was, blood hot and slick on my face, splashing against the pavement.
Cold. It was cold, frost starring the pavement. Little curls of steam slid up from my skin, my breath pluming in the air as I gasped. It was so cold.
I lay there as it roared, coming for me again, I had to get up, couldn’t, there’s a limit to the damage I can take even with the scar oh God oh God it hurts—
The night turned peacock-iridescent with flame. The bolt hit it low on the side, hellfire crackling and fluorescing into blue, scarring my eyes. Holy shit, that’s hellfire in the blue spectrum! Who is it, a hellbreed come to dispatch me personally?
The thing went flying, snarling. The sound was like adamant nails on the biggest fucking chalkboard ever. There was a crashing—metal and glass crumpled like paper. I choked on blood and tried to make my body obey me, struggling to turn over onto my side and push myself up. The frozen pavement burned my skin.
“Keep still, Kiss.” The voice was familiar. Too familiar. “Let your body mend. This will only take a moment.”
What the fuck is he doing here?
The thing snarled again. I pushed myself up on my feet, ribs snapping out and crackling as they melded back together but too slow. Far too slow. I coughed, bending over, a great gout of blood and lung-fluid fountaining out of my mouth and nose, splatting and steaming on the ice-starred sidewalk.
“Be still, Kismet.” Now he sounded irritated.
I lifted my head.
Perry, in a loose, elegant gray suit, stood with his hands in his pants pockets, the streetlamps shining on his blond hair like a halo tilted just-so. He cocked his head as if listening, looking at the creature, which hunched in the middle of a shattered car. Hellflame dripped from its smoking hide, melting glass and metal, and I opened my mouth to scream.
The gas tank ignited. Flame belched, and the thing’s squealing roar choked off midway. Glass whickered, metal shrapnel flew. I flinched, throwing up my unwounded left arm to shield my eyes. Grating pain tore all the way down my ribs.
Soft padding feet with claws snicking, retreating so quickly the sound blurred. The sound was distinctive, and habit noted it; if I hadn’t had the cuff off I wouldn’t have been able to track it as the sound faded a couple of miles away to the south. I coughed again, spat blood. Pain ran up my right arm from the scar, throbbing and delicious, sinking into torn muscle and broken bone.
His fingers sank into my left arm, a bolt of agonized heat going through me. Glass and metal groaned as the awful numbing cold retreated. “Idiot. Little idiot. Look at this mess.”
I coughed again, choked on blood, bent over and vomited more blood. I didn’t know I had this much claret to lose. How many pints is that?
I hate wondering things like that. But I usually only have time to wonder when the danger’s past and I’m still breathing, so I guess it balances out.
Perry’s fingers tightened. He propped me against the shattered glass and twisted iron. I’d made quite a dent, must have been going at a fair clip when I hit. The sirens were closer now, and everything was creaking as the terrible devouring cold fled the air.
Montaigne is going to have a fit. Pain ground through me again and I made a weak moaning noise.
My right arm hung in strips of meat, the humerus
It stank. It stank, a titanic massive smell that tore through my sinuses and made me gag, bile rising hot and whipping through my throat.
I hit the plate-glass window of a pawnshop, which wouldn’t have been so bad if this part of town hadn’t needed iron bars so badly. Agony as my ribs snapped, I fell to the concrete as it streaked for me, a low hulking shape that was wrong, my eyes refused to focus, even my blue eye refused to see what it was, blood hot and slick on my face, splashing against the pavement.
Cold. It was cold, frost starring the pavement. Little curls of steam slid up from my skin, my breath pluming in the air as I gasped. It was so cold.
I lay there as it roared, coming for me again, I had to get up, couldn’t, there’s a limit to the damage I can take even with the scar oh God oh God it hurts—
The night turned peacock-iridescent with flame. The bolt hit it low on the side, hellfire crackling and fluorescing into blue, scarring my eyes. Holy shit, that’s hellfire in the blue spectrum! Who is it, a hellbreed come to dispatch me personally?
The thing went flying, snarling. The sound was like adamant nails on the biggest fucking chalkboard ever. There was a crashing—metal and glass crumpled like paper. I choked on blood and tried to make my body obey me, struggling to turn over onto my side and push myself up. The frozen pavement burned my skin.
“Keep still, Kiss.” The voice was familiar. Too familiar. “Let your body mend. This will only take a moment.”
What the fuck is he doing here?
The thing snarled again. I pushed myself up on my feet, ribs snapping out and crackling as they melded back together but too slow. Far too slow. I coughed, bending over, a great gout of blood and lung-fluid fountaining out of my mouth and nose, splatting and steaming on the ice-starred sidewalk.
“Be still, Kismet.” Now he sounded irritated.
I lifted my head.
Perry, in a loose, elegant gray suit, stood with his hands in his pants pockets, the streetlamps shining on his blond hair like a halo tilted just-so. He cocked his head as if listening, looking at the creature, which hunched in the middle of a shattered car. Hellflame dripped from its smoking hide, melting glass and metal, and I opened my mouth to scream.
The gas tank ignited. Flame belched, and the thing’s squealing roar choked off midway. Glass whickered, metal shrapnel flew. I flinched, throwing up my unwounded left arm to shield my eyes. Grating pain tore all the way down my ribs.
Soft padding feet with claws snicking, retreating so quickly the sound blurred. The sound was distinctive, and habit noted it; if I hadn’t had the cuff off I wouldn’t have been able to track it as the sound faded a couple of miles away to the south. I coughed again, spat blood. Pain ran up my right arm from the scar, throbbing and delicious, sinking into torn muscle and broken bone.
His fingers sank into my left arm, a bolt of agonized heat going through me. Glass and metal groaned as the awful numbing cold retreated. “Idiot. Little idiot. Look at this mess.”
I coughed again, choked on blood, bent over and vomited more blood. I didn’t know I had this much claret to lose. How many pints is that?
I hate wondering things like that. But I usually only have time to wonder when the danger’s past and I’m still breathing, so I guess it balances out.
Perry’s fingers tightened. He propped me against the shattered glass and twisted iron. I’d made quite a dent, must have been going at a fair clip when I hit. The sirens were closer now, and everything was creaking as the terrible devouring cold fled the air.
Montaigne is going to have a fit. Pain ground through me again and I made a weak moaning noise.
My right arm hung in strips of meat, the humerus
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