dropped all the way to the ground, the air whistling past his face as he fell. He landed on all fours with nary a sound, right in front of Conan Doyle's brownstone, then bounded across the street. Using the guy's car for cover, he peered around the BMW. The bastard was trying to haul the girl to her feet, half carrying her and half dragging her toward the stairs of her apartment building.
And that was where he dumped her, looking around to see if anyone had seen what he had done.
The prick wiped blood from his lip where she had slapped him and pulled the keys from the pocket of his sport coat.
Danny emerged from the shadows in front of the car. When the guy spotted him, his eyes narrowed for just a second with annoyance, and then widened in confusion and fear. The stink of fear suddenly filled the air.
"What the fuck?" the guy said, as Danny sprang at him.
The rage cheered him on, telling him that what he was doing was right — that people like this deserved everything they got.
"You like to hit girls, huh, asshole?" Danny growled, snatching up a fistful of the guy's jacket.
The guy threw a feeble punch, striking Danny on the chin, but he barely felt it. He rammed his horned head forward in a savage head butt. His horns sliced the asshole's forehead, and Danny shoved him up against the car. The guy was dazed, blood running down his face in streams from a pair of nasty gashes in his forehead.
"Tough guy," Danny spat, running his clawed hands along the side of the gray sports car, digging furrows into the expensive paint job. "You got your car, your looks, your money. You think you can do anything you want."
He grabbed the guy by the throat and hauled him off his feet. Expensive shoes dangled inches above the pavement.
"But you can't," Danny sneered, looking into the guy's bloody face. "And I'm here to remind you of that."
He slammed the guy down atop the roof of the car, and he bounced, rolling down across the windshield to lay moaning on top of the hood.
Danny laughed, a short, nasty barking sound. This was the best he'd felt in weeks.
He grabbed the guy again, dragging him across the hood. One of the guy's eyes was starting to swell, and Danny reached down with a claw and raked the swollen flesh, tearing open the skin. Blood spurted from the wound.
The guy screamed. It was the greatest sound Danny had ever heard. All of the fear he'd had of himself was gone, now. By knocking his girlfriend around — knocking her unconscious — this guy had bought himself a world of hurt. He deserved whatever he got.
Son of a bitch did me a favor.
Danny covered the guy's mouth with a hand.
"Shhhhhh," he hissed, bringing his demonic features closer. "Don't want to wake up the neighborhood, do we?" His tongue flicked out, licking away some of the man's blood.
It tasted like honey.
That was when he realized that his skin didn't itch anymore, his bones didn't ache, and he felt as though he could take on the world single-handedly.
All it took was blood.
He grabbed hold of the guy's neck, beginning to sink his curved, black claws into the soft flesh, eager to get to the blood.
When a voice stopped him.
"Hey, kid," said the gravelly voice. "You really want to be doin' that?"
Danny watched as Squire emerged from a patch of shadow thrown by a window box on the front of one of the other buildings that lined Mount Vernon Street. He was smoking a cigar and stank of booze.
The goblin just stood there, staring at him with red, yellow-flecked eyes, and Danny felt his rage begin to subside.
"He would have deserved it," Danny said, tossing the unconscious boy back atop the hood and stepping away.
"You goin' in?" Squire asked, motioning toward the house with his large, potato-shaped head.
"Yeah," Danny said. "Yeah, I think I should."
"Good answer." Squire took a puff from the foul-smelling cigar and the two of them walked side by side to the steps leading into Conan Doyle's home.
Whenever Clay drove, he had to force himself
And that was where he dumped her, looking around to see if anyone had seen what he had done.
The prick wiped blood from his lip where she had slapped him and pulled the keys from the pocket of his sport coat.
Danny emerged from the shadows in front of the car. When the guy spotted him, his eyes narrowed for just a second with annoyance, and then widened in confusion and fear. The stink of fear suddenly filled the air.
"What the fuck?" the guy said, as Danny sprang at him.
The rage cheered him on, telling him that what he was doing was right — that people like this deserved everything they got.
"You like to hit girls, huh, asshole?" Danny growled, snatching up a fistful of the guy's jacket.
The guy threw a feeble punch, striking Danny on the chin, but he barely felt it. He rammed his horned head forward in a savage head butt. His horns sliced the asshole's forehead, and Danny shoved him up against the car. The guy was dazed, blood running down his face in streams from a pair of nasty gashes in his forehead.
"Tough guy," Danny spat, running his clawed hands along the side of the gray sports car, digging furrows into the expensive paint job. "You got your car, your looks, your money. You think you can do anything you want."
He grabbed the guy by the throat and hauled him off his feet. Expensive shoes dangled inches above the pavement.
"But you can't," Danny sneered, looking into the guy's bloody face. "And I'm here to remind you of that."
He slammed the guy down atop the roof of the car, and he bounced, rolling down across the windshield to lay moaning on top of the hood.
Danny laughed, a short, nasty barking sound. This was the best he'd felt in weeks.
He grabbed the guy again, dragging him across the hood. One of the guy's eyes was starting to swell, and Danny reached down with a claw and raked the swollen flesh, tearing open the skin. Blood spurted from the wound.
The guy screamed. It was the greatest sound Danny had ever heard. All of the fear he'd had of himself was gone, now. By knocking his girlfriend around — knocking her unconscious — this guy had bought himself a world of hurt. He deserved whatever he got.
Son of a bitch did me a favor.
Danny covered the guy's mouth with a hand.
"Shhhhhh," he hissed, bringing his demonic features closer. "Don't want to wake up the neighborhood, do we?" His tongue flicked out, licking away some of the man's blood.
It tasted like honey.
That was when he realized that his skin didn't itch anymore, his bones didn't ache, and he felt as though he could take on the world single-handedly.
All it took was blood.
He grabbed hold of the guy's neck, beginning to sink his curved, black claws into the soft flesh, eager to get to the blood.
When a voice stopped him.
"Hey, kid," said the gravelly voice. "You really want to be doin' that?"
Danny watched as Squire emerged from a patch of shadow thrown by a window box on the front of one of the other buildings that lined Mount Vernon Street. He was smoking a cigar and stank of booze.
The goblin just stood there, staring at him with red, yellow-flecked eyes, and Danny felt his rage begin to subside.
"He would have deserved it," Danny said, tossing the unconscious boy back atop the hood and stepping away.
"You goin' in?" Squire asked, motioning toward the house with his large, potato-shaped head.
"Yeah," Danny said. "Yeah, I think I should."
"Good answer." Squire took a puff from the foul-smelling cigar and the two of them walked side by side to the steps leading into Conan Doyle's home.
Whenever Clay drove, he had to force himself
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