Talon rolled with the punch, and shot upright.
"Now!" the female Daimon shouted.
Before Talon could catch his balance completely, another Daimon grabbed him by the waist and shoved him backward, into the street.
Straight into the path of a mammoth vehicle that was going so fast he couldn't even identify it.
Something he assumed was the grill of it hit his right leg, shattering it instantly.
It pitched him forward, onto the pavement.
Talon rolled for about fifty yards, then came to rest under a streetlight on his stomach while the dark vehicle went careening down the street, out of sight. He lay with his left cheek against the pungent asphalt, his hands spread out beside him.
His entire body ached and throbbed and he could barely move from the pain. Worse, his head pulsed as he struggled to stay conscious.
But it was hard.
An unconscious Dark-Hunter is a dead one. The fifth rule of Acheron's handbook came to mind. He had to stay awake.
With his powers waning from the pain of his injuries, the fog shield began to dissipate.
Talon cursed. Any time he felt any sort of negative emotion, his powers diminished. It was yet another reason he kept such a stranglehold on them.
Emotions were deadly to him in more ways than one.
Slowly, carefully, Talon pushed himself to his feet at the same time he saw the Daimons fleeing down another alley. There was nothing to be done about it. He'd never catch them in his current condition, and even if he did, the worst thing he could do to them was bleed on them.
Of course, Dark-Hunter blood was poisonous to Daimons...
Shit. He'd never failed before.
Grinding his teeth, Talon fought the wave of dizziness that consumed him.
The woman he'd saved ran to him. By the confused look on her face, he could tell she wasn't sure how to help him.
Now that he could see her up close, he was taken by her pixielike face. Fire and intelligence burned deep in her large, dark brown eyes. She reminded him of the Morrigan, the raven goddess he had sworn his sword and loyalty to all those centuries before when he had been human.
Her long, straight black hair fell in braids of all sizes around her head. And she had a smear of charcoal across one cheek. Impulsively, he brushed his hand over it and wiped it from her face.
Her skin was so soft, so warm, and it smelled strangely like patchouli and turpentine.
What an odd combination...
"Oh my God, are you okay?" the woman asked.
"Yeah," Talon said quietly.
"I'll call an ambulance," she said.
"Nae!" Talon said in his own language, his body protesting the gesture. "No ambulance," he added in English.
The woman frowned. "But you're hurt..."
He met her gaze sternly. "No ambulance."
She scowled at him until a light appeared in her intelligent eyes, as if she had had an epiphany. "Are you an illegal alien?" she whispered.
Talon seized on the only excuse he could give her. With his heavy, ancient Celt accent it would be a natural assumption. He nodded.