Reckoning Page 0,56

through the din like hot knives through soft butter. The aspect was scorching, flowing over me, and my toes scrabbled against the side of the building, seeking purchase. Nothing, they just slipped, my arms tensed. My wrists and shoulders shrieked as I tried to haul myself up, but even with superstrength the angle was wrong. I smelled copper—thin rivulets of heat slid down my arms, soaking into my T-shirt.

Blood. My blood. The hunger woke up, fueling a burst of unhealthy strength. I let out a huuungh of effort, lost but still embarrassing under all the other racket. Managed a couple of inches, but my arms were shaking. My claws were ripping, little bit by bit, out of my fingertips.

Have you ever had your fingernails slowly torn off? It’s not fun.

I tensed again, everything focused on bending my arms. But I was tired, we’d run a long way, and the smell of blood wasn’t just taunting me. It was filling my head with smoky rage, hard to think, and my strength was bleeding away too.

I felt instead of heard the skkkkritch! as my claws slipped, and then I was plummeting like a star, eight stories passing in an eyeblink. Spinning catlike in midair, got my feet under me, and the aspect flexed, snapping like a rubber band over every inch of skin I owned.

Landed hard enough to jolt the breath out of me, but nothing broke. My hands were raw pieces of meatpain; I lifted them both to my mouth and got a faceful of bloodscent. It sent me to my knees on a drift of garbage, and I spun aside instinctively as flaming wreckage began drifting down into the alley.

What the hell? But it was obvious. Someone had blown up the helicopter. With a rocket, no less. Just waiting for us to get there before they opened fire.

Hiro. Christophe. Nat. Oh, God.

Nosferatu hunting-screams rose like bright ribbons in the night. They jabbed through my head, iceglass spikes, and my back hit the brick wall of the alley. It was filthy down here, and the heat and humidity just made it worse. I heard muffled wingbeats, and Gran’s owl filled itself in. It soared down, dodging falling bits of fiery refuse as they cartwheeled silently into the alley. The bird was a charcoal sketch, its feathers just suggestions of paleness. It made a tight circle over me, kept gliding.

Can’t go back up there; they could have other guns to pick everyone off. Think, Dru!

My thinker sputtered like an old engine. Houston. He said Houston. You’re in enemy territory, there’s mad hexers and a bunch of nosferatu roaming around, and you’re bleeding. You’ve just run halfway across the city and anyone who might help you is probably running for their life too right now.

Yep. It was official. I ruined everything, I was a disease. No matter how bad shit got, there was always worse coming down the pike.

I braced myself against the wall. I didn’t have much time—the suckers were going to get here any second to mop up whatever was left. Going up to rescue anyone was impossible, and idiotic too. But Christophe. And Nat . . .

Get the hell away from here. That’s the first step.

I coughed, hard. Cleared my lungs. My hands were moving, flipping up the flap of my messenger bag. The aspect burned against my fingertips, soothing and repairing. I found the switchblade by touch and fished it out. It snicked open, and I suddenly felt much calmer.

This is a test, Dru. You don’t have anyone else to take care of now.

Gran’s owl zoomed away. I bolted for the mouth of the alley, following it and dodging flaming wreckage.

And I vanished into the night.

PART TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It probably says something for American cities that a teenage svetocha, covered in grime and soot and with blood streaking her arms, can pass largely unnoticed. Just what it says ain’t nice.

I wasn’t on autopilot, but I wasn’t quite myself either. The touch was a loosely waving anemone around me, steering me away from the edges of trouble. I crouched for a good fifteen minutes in a dumpster once, peering out between the lid and the lip of it, my feet slipping a little on greasy crud and my eyes watering from the stench. It covered up the thick aroma of cinnamon rolls boiling up from my skin, though. And while I watched, gagging every few moments and trying desperately not to throw up, I saw things.

Dogs built of smoke and fine