this with bullshit. The time for talk is over.”
The two stared at each other. Their muscles tensed, jaws clenched. Anger swelled in their guts. Ewan was the first to move, with Knocks charging him the hair of a second later.
Ewan swung his pike. Knocks ducked, the blade barely missing him.
Knocks threw an uppercut, catching Ewan directly under the chin. Ewan reeled backward, stunned. He recovered, swinging his pike wildly, trying to buy himself a little more time to clear his head.
Knocks sidestepped another swing, jabbing at Ewan, missing by inches.
Ewan kneed Knocks in the stomach, doubling him over, punched him clean in the back of the head.
Knocks reached up, grabbing the pike, punching Ewan repeatedly with his bloody stump; it hurt like hell, Knocks gritting through it, hitting him over and over—the rag beginning to swell, soaked with blood.
Ewan tried to protect his face, struggling with both hands to keep his grip of the pike. Writhing, he tried to avoid the blows, but Knocks kept landing them.
Knocks let go of the pike, and reached up, snatching the cap right off Ewan’s head.
Ewan swung again, but he was too close, connecting with only the shaft, not the blade. Weakened without his cap, Ewan let go with one hand, swiping for it, missing.
Knocks tossed the cap behind him, then reached for the pike, wresting it out of Ewan’s grip. He swung the blunt end into Ewan’s gut, doubling him over, then, bringing the blunt end upward again, smashed him in the face.
Ewan was knocked upright. He staggered back a step, fuzzy from the hit.
The pike swung one last time, this time crossing Ewan’s stomach, cutting deep into the flesh, tearing through his innards.
Ewan’s jaw dropped, both hands clutching the wound. He fell to his knees, then backward, knocking his skull on the street, trapping his own feet beneath him.
Knocks held aloft his bloody-rag-wrapped stump, pointing at Ewan’s stomach. “Try cutting that off to save your life.” He threw down the pike as if he was spiking a football, then held both arms out to his sides. “I did it,” he said, giggling. “I fucking did it. You’re fucking dead.” He danced around a little. “I just killed you. What are you going to do about it, Ewan? Huh?”
Ewan gurgled, leaning up, reaching a single arm out to Knocks. It was over, but he wasn’t ready to concede. He rolled onto his side—one arm trying to hold in his insides while the other tried to push him to his feet. His arm gave way and he tumbled face-first onto the pavement, spilling organs into the street.
Knocks stood over him, smiling. “Look me in the face,” he said. “You look death in the face and you accept it. I want to see you accept it.” Ewan pushed himself up again and stumbled forward on his knees, trying now to crawl away. With a light kick, Knocks toppled him over.
Ewan lay on his back like an upended turtle, staring unblinking into the rain as the life drained from him. The sounds around him dulled; he knew Knocks was talking, but he couldn’t make out anything other than the staccato of rain spattering beside his ears.
It was over.
YASHAR WIPED HIS bloody fists off. The downpour was strong and steady now, the roar of the storm drowning out all but a few distant clangs. Angels and Sidhe littered the sidewalks. Blood ran pink in the swelling rainwater. Only two angels still stood, busy holding their ground, about to be overrun by the half dozen remaining Sidhe.
In the street between them, Knocks and Ewan wrestled with a pike.
Colby screamed as the pike sliced open Ewan’s stomach.
He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t let him.
Ewan collapsed. Colby had failed.
“Motherfucker!” Colby yelled, his voice drowned out by the rain. He watched as Knocks danced around, taunting Ewan. His stomach dropped, his throat went dry. Hands became balled fists digging fingernails into flesh; teeth gritted against one another, grinding away small flakes of enamel.
Colby could feel the veil between worlds thinning, a cold, dark presence rumbling on the other side, begging to be unleashed. A voice in the back of his head demanded to be let out. The door was locked; he had but to twist the knob. Let us in. Let us do it, it whispered. The fabric was growing thinner by the moment. There was enough dreamstuff flowing through him to do it. Then he recognized the voice.
It was the master of the hunt.
No, he thought. Not this