that right,” I said.
God damn it, Ian, stop getting yourself killed.
I hoped he could pull out of this. He’d done it before—he would be all right. Wouldn’t he?
Jazz gripped my arm. “Was that a dog?” she whispered. “Jesus, how did they get the dogs out here? We’ve got to move, now.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t a dog. Just . . . trust me. Stay here and keep him safe.” I had to see if Ian had taken one or both of them out—or if they’d gotten him first. “Can I borrow your gun?”
She handed it over. “Try to stay alive, Houdini.”
“Funny. I think I’ve heard that before.” I hitched a half-smile and glanced at Cyrus. The kid had stayed put. His big blues stared at me, and I could have sworn I knew what he was thinking:
Boy, you’re pretty stupid going out there, Mister. It sounds scary.
I had to agree. So far tonight, stupid had been my middle name. Good thing Jazz hadn’t known that before, or she might have named the kid Stupid Donatti.
CHAPTER 11
After Jazz handed me a couple of spare cartridges and a peck on the cheek for luck—useless, but it felt nice—I hop-crawled out of the shelter and hunkered beside it to listen, gun at the ready. The weapon seemed on the flimsy side. I glanced at it in the stronger light and understood why my bones hadn’t shattered with the shot. It was a .22 Browning. Practically a cap gun. What was she doing with this peashooter? Oh, right. Conner the Barbarian had forced her to toss the Glock. This must have been her spare.
I was no marksman. I’d probably fare better armed with a big stick.
It would have been silent, except for the birds babbling their feathered heads off. Didn’t they know there were people with guns down here? I straightened slowly and shifted my weight to my good leg. Had to move away from Jazz before someone showed up looking for trouble with a capital Shoot to Kill. I limped in the direction Ian had disappeared earlier and realized that whoever had been left standing would have no problem finding me—with my foot draggingon the ground, I was about as stealthy as an elephant.
Ten feet, then twenty, and no sign of anyone. Ian or otherwise. Much farther in, and I’d have trouble finding Jazz again. Everything looked the same. There were probably fifty different varieties in here, but to me, a tall brown thing with green stuff was a goddamned tree. I would have stopped and waited for them to come to me, but Jazz and Cyrus were still too close. I picked up the pace, unmindful of the racket I made, and blundered another fifty feet.
On a tangle of dried weeds, I found my answer. The score was tied—one for us, one for the thugs. Harmon or Pope, minus his throat, sprawled face-up with clouded eyes fixed on the branches above. I guessed Harmon, because only a guy called Pope would take the time to thumb a cross on his dead buddy’s forehead with his own congealing blood after shooting the wolf that brought him down.
The wolf lay on his side a few feet from the body. Crimson stained his white muzzle, and his fur glistened darkly in at least three spots I could see. At least his eyes were closed.
Jesus, Ian, I thought you couldn’t kill humans.
Apparently, there were exceptions to this rule. Maybe they could only kill people while they were wolves. I stood and watched him, hoping to see a twitch, a shallow breath, anything that might herald another miraculous recovery.
When nothing happened, I made yet another colossally stupid decision.
“Hey, Pope!” I bellowed. A handful of startled birds burst into flight above me. “Trevor’s gonna hand your ass to you in a basket when he finds out you two morons couldn’t even bag a chick and a kid.” I turned in a slow circle, alert for any sound. At least the birds had given it a rest.
Something crunched to my left. I swung the gun and fired blind.
An answering shot thundered. Splinters burst from a tree behind me. I dropped and rolled, crouched opposite the wounded side of
God damn it, Ian, stop getting yourself killed.
I hoped he could pull out of this. He’d done it before—he would be all right. Wouldn’t he?
Jazz gripped my arm. “Was that a dog?” she whispered. “Jesus, how did they get the dogs out here? We’ve got to move, now.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t a dog. Just . . . trust me. Stay here and keep him safe.” I had to see if Ian had taken one or both of them out—or if they’d gotten him first. “Can I borrow your gun?”
She handed it over. “Try to stay alive, Houdini.”
“Funny. I think I’ve heard that before.” I hitched a half-smile and glanced at Cyrus. The kid had stayed put. His big blues stared at me, and I could have sworn I knew what he was thinking:
Boy, you’re pretty stupid going out there, Mister. It sounds scary.
I had to agree. So far tonight, stupid had been my middle name. Good thing Jazz hadn’t known that before, or she might have named the kid Stupid Donatti.
CHAPTER 11
After Jazz handed me a couple of spare cartridges and a peck on the cheek for luck—useless, but it felt nice—I hop-crawled out of the shelter and hunkered beside it to listen, gun at the ready. The weapon seemed on the flimsy side. I glanced at it in the stronger light and understood why my bones hadn’t shattered with the shot. It was a .22 Browning. Practically a cap gun. What was she doing with this peashooter? Oh, right. Conner the Barbarian had forced her to toss the Glock. This must have been her spare.
I was no marksman. I’d probably fare better armed with a big stick.
It would have been silent, except for the birds babbling their feathered heads off. Didn’t they know there were people with guns down here? I straightened slowly and shifted my weight to my good leg. Had to move away from Jazz before someone showed up looking for trouble with a capital Shoot to Kill. I limped in the direction Ian had disappeared earlier and realized that whoever had been left standing would have no problem finding me—with my foot draggingon the ground, I was about as stealthy as an elephant.
Ten feet, then twenty, and no sign of anyone. Ian or otherwise. Much farther in, and I’d have trouble finding Jazz again. Everything looked the same. There were probably fifty different varieties in here, but to me, a tall brown thing with green stuff was a goddamned tree. I would have stopped and waited for them to come to me, but Jazz and Cyrus were still too close. I picked up the pace, unmindful of the racket I made, and blundered another fifty feet.
On a tangle of dried weeds, I found my answer. The score was tied—one for us, one for the thugs. Harmon or Pope, minus his throat, sprawled face-up with clouded eyes fixed on the branches above. I guessed Harmon, because only a guy called Pope would take the time to thumb a cross on his dead buddy’s forehead with his own congealing blood after shooting the wolf that brought him down.
The wolf lay on his side a few feet from the body. Crimson stained his white muzzle, and his fur glistened darkly in at least three spots I could see. At least his eyes were closed.
Jesus, Ian, I thought you couldn’t kill humans.
Apparently, there were exceptions to this rule. Maybe they could only kill people while they were wolves. I stood and watched him, hoping to see a twitch, a shallow breath, anything that might herald another miraculous recovery.
When nothing happened, I made yet another colossally stupid decision.
“Hey, Pope!” I bellowed. A handful of startled birds burst into flight above me. “Trevor’s gonna hand your ass to you in a basket when he finds out you two morons couldn’t even bag a chick and a kid.” I turned in a slow circle, alert for any sound. At least the birds had given it a rest.
Something crunched to my left. I swung the gun and fired blind.
An answering shot thundered. Splinters burst from a tree behind me. I dropped and rolled, crouched opposite the wounded side of
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