ever seen it before. It was like a shadow of magic, indigo, violet, bloodred, dark and seeping. Rising up through the soil and pushing into the Necromorph’s body while the disk in his neck pulsed and glowed the same shadowy colors as the magic.
He twitched. Jerked. Stood back up.
Holy shit. He was dead. Had been dead. But he was not dead anymore.
I pressed against the wall. Stone growled. The Necromorph looked at me.
“You will not stop me.” Then he took off running, bleeding, fast and fluid and silent, a slice of moonlight in the shadowed night, despite the wounds Stone had given him. Stone was right behind him, just as fast, but each footfall landed like a heavy engine shaking the night.
Yes, I could have stood there and watched the rest of the gory details. But I was going to get the hell out of there while the getting was good.
I ran uphill toward my house. I didn’t care if that would be the first place anyone would expect me to go. I needed to get away, get out of there, run, run, run before the nightmares caught up with me.
I was halfway home when I heard footfalls behind me. Human footfalls. Running.
“Allie?”
I knew that voice. Davy Silvers. Hound. But I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not for him. Not for anyone.
Davy had two things on me. Legs and youth. He caught up to me before I reached the doors to my apartment.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait. Hold on.” He tugged on my sleeve and it hurt like hell. It took everything I had not to punch him in the nose.
I stopped, spun on him.
“What is your problem?” I yelled.
He stumbled back several steps and held up both his hands. He was sweaty, his face too pale in the streetlight. “I heard you scream. Heard the fight back there. Then you were running, but there’s nothing behind you but me. You have blood on your face.”
Maybe. I had anger too. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop following me around?” I said. “You could have been killed.”
He folded his arms over his sweatshirt and tucked his hands in his armpits. “You’re hurt,” he repeated stubbornly. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or take you down to the hospital myself?”
“Listen,” I said, trying to calm down, trying to pull my wits back on, one word at a time. “A guy jumped me. I hit my head on a wall fighting with him. I’m fine.”
Davy was a Hound. One things Hounds are good at is spotting bullshit.
“Okay, we can go with that for now,” he said. “At least we both agree you’re hurt. Ambulance or front seat of my car?”
“Neither. I’m going home.”
I started toward my apartment a block up the hill. Davy followed me. Out of swinging range.
Smart boy.
“Go home, Davy.” The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me shaking and tired.
“I am. Just not my home.”
We walked a distance from each other all the way up to my building. By the time I reached the stairs, every ache, pain, and scratch was reporting for duty.
I hurt inside and out. And magic was pointing a headache at my brain that already made my molars ache. The wind was too cold, even with my heavy coat on. That meant I had a fever. Great.
Still, if I showered, took some aspirin, and slept for a month or so, I’d probably come out of this with only minor scars. I stopped in front of my door.
“Davy—” I looked over my shoulder.
Davy’s face was washed in the blue light of his cell phone, which he closed and stuffed in his pocket. “Yes?”
“Who were you calling?”
“Zayvion Jones.”
My brain tried to figure that one out, and came up empty. And I mean static-on-the-TV empty.
“What?” I said. “Why? How do you even have his number? Why are you still following me?” My voice rose up and up with each question, even though I didn’t want it to.
It’s called panic. I’m good at it.
“You’re hurt, and you stink of so much used magic, it’s like you rolled in a pile of shit and spells. Some of them are . . . stuck to you. I don’t know how to fix that.” He shrugged. “Zayvion did things for you back in the warehouse. He did things I’ve never seen a doctor do. With magic. So if you’re not going to let me take you to the hospital, I’m going to get someone here who can help. Help