the darkness, around and around the block, until daylight.
Sam got older. The longer he could stay alone, the larger the circle Nox traveled.
Up here there was no industry, no outside investment, and therefore no cops. The nameless, faceless murderers who killed his father didn’t return, but Nox went on his little missions so he could head off other threats to the peace of his household. Dead Bolt dealers and junkies drawn to the dark mess of the Old City, with no one to stop them from plying their deadly trade.
It made him crazy.
The guy is standing on the steps of Trinity, holding court like he’s king. He’s got a line of people waiting for his poison, out in the open, no shame.
Nox sees red.
He’s eighteen years old, tired and hungry for something more than rice and beans and water. He rations everything out, not knowing when things will turn around. If they will. People who stuck it out through the storms and the Evacuation have packed up their belongings and left. Nox is alone in the neighborhood except for Sam.
This man, this criminal, smiles and laughs as he passes another clear baggie to another poor soul—and Nox feels a rage he’s only experienced twice before.
He waits in the shadow until the man is alone, counting up money with a huge grin on his face.
He waits until the man walks down the stairs and steps into the shadows pooling on the sidewalk.
Then Nox strikes.
Everything crowded into Nox’s head in a symphony of madness—past and present crashing into him like angry waves. He stared at the faded brick walls of his former school and tried to remember when this building was a joyful memory.
H E WENT home.
H ALF A block away, Nox spotted people inside his gate, on his stairs. The Sig—because a blackjack was no longer enough to make him feel safe—was tucked in the back of his waistband, under his heavy black sweater, and his hand was on it before he consciously registered it.
None of the men were Sam, for which he was instantly grateful. The blond on the top step, he realized, was Mr. Creel—and as he moved closer, he processed that he might need to kill him if he’d brought danger to his house.
Then the other two men attacked, and Nox started running.
He pulled the first man down by the back of his jacket. Nox recognized him as local muscle for one of the larger dealers—that meant a green light for him to get four rib punches and a toss down the stairs. As he collapsed on the ground, Nox moved to the ongoing scuffle.
Nox plucked the second dealer by the back of his shirt. He was heavy, but that just gave gravity a hand in yanking him down the steps after Nox banged his head against the concrete railings and issued a threat.
At his feet, Cade sat up suddenly, looked up at him, and Nox felt a flash of fear as recognition dawned on the kid’s face.
His hood had fallen back.
“Oh shit,” the kid muttered before passing out again.
Nox’s trouble just kept multiplying.
C REEL WAS down for the count, passed out and sprawled on Nox’s front step. Adrenaline coursed through Nox’s body like a fast-moving virus; he had to clean up this mess before Sam woke up or anyone noticed the commotion.
He carried an emergency blanket in his pack, and that became a cocoon for the kid lying unconscious at his feet. The kid’s immediate safety taken care of, Nox dealt with the assholes at the bottom of the stairs.
Part of him wanted to shoot them both—bad enough they prowl his neighborhood, bringing death and destruction, but his house? He tried to keep his logical mind engaged before the animal shredded them both and left them to bleed out in the middle of the street.
One hand on each of their jacket collars, Nox hauled them down the block. The weight and effort taxed his body, pushing it to the limit as he gritted his teeth. Over tree roots and around broken sidewalks, all the way to the main drag. In the center sat an enormous pothole—that was the
Sam got older. The longer he could stay alone, the larger the circle Nox traveled.
Up here there was no industry, no outside investment, and therefore no cops. The nameless, faceless murderers who killed his father didn’t return, but Nox went on his little missions so he could head off other threats to the peace of his household. Dead Bolt dealers and junkies drawn to the dark mess of the Old City, with no one to stop them from plying their deadly trade.
It made him crazy.
The guy is standing on the steps of Trinity, holding court like he’s king. He’s got a line of people waiting for his poison, out in the open, no shame.
Nox sees red.
He’s eighteen years old, tired and hungry for something more than rice and beans and water. He rations everything out, not knowing when things will turn around. If they will. People who stuck it out through the storms and the Evacuation have packed up their belongings and left. Nox is alone in the neighborhood except for Sam.
This man, this criminal, smiles and laughs as he passes another clear baggie to another poor soul—and Nox feels a rage he’s only experienced twice before.
He waits in the shadow until the man is alone, counting up money with a huge grin on his face.
He waits until the man walks down the stairs and steps into the shadows pooling on the sidewalk.
Then Nox strikes.
Everything crowded into Nox’s head in a symphony of madness—past and present crashing into him like angry waves. He stared at the faded brick walls of his former school and tried to remember when this building was a joyful memory.
H E WENT home.
H ALF A block away, Nox spotted people inside his gate, on his stairs. The Sig—because a blackjack was no longer enough to make him feel safe—was tucked in the back of his waistband, under his heavy black sweater, and his hand was on it before he consciously registered it.
None of the men were Sam, for which he was instantly grateful. The blond on the top step, he realized, was Mr. Creel—and as he moved closer, he processed that he might need to kill him if he’d brought danger to his house.
Then the other two men attacked, and Nox started running.
He pulled the first man down by the back of his jacket. Nox recognized him as local muscle for one of the larger dealers—that meant a green light for him to get four rib punches and a toss down the stairs. As he collapsed on the ground, Nox moved to the ongoing scuffle.
Nox plucked the second dealer by the back of his shirt. He was heavy, but that just gave gravity a hand in yanking him down the steps after Nox banged his head against the concrete railings and issued a threat.
At his feet, Cade sat up suddenly, looked up at him, and Nox felt a flash of fear as recognition dawned on the kid’s face.
His hood had fallen back.
“Oh shit,” the kid muttered before passing out again.
Nox’s trouble just kept multiplying.
C REEL WAS down for the count, passed out and sprawled on Nox’s front step. Adrenaline coursed through Nox’s body like a fast-moving virus; he had to clean up this mess before Sam woke up or anyone noticed the commotion.
He carried an emergency blanket in his pack, and that became a cocoon for the kid lying unconscious at his feet. The kid’s immediate safety taken care of, Nox dealt with the assholes at the bottom of the stairs.
Part of him wanted to shoot them both—bad enough they prowl his neighborhood, bringing death and destruction, but his house? He tried to keep his logical mind engaged before the animal shredded them both and left them to bleed out in the middle of the street.
One hand on each of their jacket collars, Nox hauled them down the block. The weight and effort taxed his body, pushing it to the limit as he gritted his teeth. Over tree roots and around broken sidewalks, all the way to the main drag. In the center sat an enormous pothole—that was the
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