The river was his best guess. Maybe they’d toss him in like a sack of kittens.
I’d be lucky to get off that easy.
Then the SUV stopped at a red light.
Nox could see the cloud of smoke above the club in the distance. He was still staring at the smoke, dazed, when the side window next to him shattered.
A hand the size of a dinner plate plunged through the glass.
Sampson dragged one of Silas’ men out through the window and unlocked the door before the driver even realized what was happening. Instead of hitting the gas, the idiot came out and tried to take on close to seven feet of angry Darkborn.
Bad move, big guy.
Silas’ other lackey was still in the back with Nox, and he jumped out to help. Sampson hurled him headfirst into a sign, leaving the guy’s face almost as cut up as Sampson’s hand. Nox crawled out of the car and stumbled to his feet, but the fight was already over. The driver and one of Silas’ thugs were knocked out cold, and Sampson finished off the second guy, who was bleeding under the sign, with one hard stomp from his size fifteen Red Wings.
The Darkborn grabbed Nox by the arm and shoved him into the passenger seat of the SUV. “You’re welcome. Now get your ass in the car.”
“Sam, look at your hand.” Nox could barely get the words out, but he pointed at the gashes slicing through his friend’s skin and the blood running down his arm.
Sampson yanked his sleeveless T-shirt over his head and tugged down the ripped Sex Pistols one he was wearing underneath. “Wrap it around my fingers, but not too tight. I’ll take care of it. After we get out of here.”
“I owe you one,” Nox said as he picked the slivers of glass out of Sampson’s hand with a pair of tweezers. He had so much gauze stuffed up his bloody nose that he wasn’t sure if Sampson could understand what he was saying.
After they’d ditched Silas’ men, Nox had bought a first-aid kit from the nearest Duane Reade drugstore. Now they were parked in a seedy long-term lot near Penn Station, and it was the best Nox had felt all day. He could almost see out of one eye, and Silas’ thugs hadn’t knocked out any of his teeth.
It’s the little things.
“One?” Sampson winced as Nox pulled out a big piece of glass. “You owe me three or four by now, boss,” the huge Darkborn said.
“You don’t have to call me that anymore. The club is gone, and opening another one would be like sending Silas an invitation to kill me.”
“You mean another invitation?” Sampson didn’t smile.
Nox ignored him, tossing a piece of glass on the dashboard. “So I hope you didn’t risk your life for a job.”
Sampson’s jaw tightened. “There are other cities. And if you think I saved your ass and stole one of Silas Ravenwood’s cars because of some crappy job, you don’t know me very well.”
Nox felt like a jerk. “Sorry, Sam.”
“Forget it. You’re just lucky those guys didn’t kill you before I got there.”
Nox knew Sampson was right, but he didn’t feel lucky. Alive was different from lucky. A guy had to be pretty unlucky to lose the only girl he’d ever cared about.
Nox tipped the bottle of peroxide over Sampson’s gnarled hand. “I think it’s all out.”
“Just wrap it up,” Sampson said. “Darkborns heal pretty fast.”
Nox wound a whole roll of gauze around his friend’s hand until it looked like a prizefighter’s.
Sampson pointed at his face. “You better clean out that cut on your cheek, stitch it up. Pretty boys don’t look so pretty with scars.”
“Yeah?” Nox flipped open the mirror on the visor and cringed. He looked like crap. Silas’ punch had left a gash across his cheek. “I don’t know, I think I look good. All things considered.”
“Good for a hamburger, maybe. A rare one. Now sew that thing shut.” Sampson screwed the top off a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You’re out of peroxide. Time to man up.”
Nox found a needle in the first-aid kit and poured alcohol all over it. He was looking forward to the pain.
But the moment Sampson flicked on a lighter and Nox saw the flame, he felt something else. The alcohol stung Nox’s skin, and the world faded away….