Defiance Page 2

  Not only that, but the shock of busting the doors open jolted the earpiece off. It went skittering away, and I leapt, boots hitting the pavement as the metal doors clanged down on either side. I’d just jumped up out from under the sidewalk like a human-sized jack-in-the-box, and the screaming started.

  Now move that ass, Dru-girl! Dad’s don’t worry about the ammo, worry about running tone, like that time we were outside Baton Rouge and the zombies had shown up.

  Oh, but it hurt to think about Dad. And zombies. And everything.

  The crowd would provide some cover, but not enough. Neon ran against glass, streaking oddly because I was moving so fast, scarf fluttering and snapping in my back draft, pulled tight against my throat. This part of the city was alive and thumping, other nightclubs spilling out onto the street and people everywhere. There’s a skill to running through a crowd, but you don’t have to use it when you’re streaking along like djamphir do. Instead, you just have to avoid hitting anyone.

  You could really hurt someone or throw them out into traffic. But there’s another reason you try to avoid hitting someone—because it’ll slow you down. And you can’t have that when a bunch of vampires are chasing you. The gum in my mouth had turned into a hard piece of flavorless glue. My teeth tingled as the aspect rose, slicking over me and spurring me on. My mother’s locket bounced, cool metal kissing my breastbone.

  At least in a skirt I could really move it. Jeans sometimes get a little tight. But I was booking so hard I was glad of every inch of movement the dress could give me. I jagged around the corner, hit the crosswalk, and leapt. A silver BMW hit the brakes, they had the green light, my boots thudded into the hood, and I used it like a springboard, crumpling the sheet metal. I heard the high screeching cry behind me. It drove glass spikes through my brain and tried to dig in, twisting and tearing, but I didn’t slow down.

  Training’s good for that. When a situation occurs, Dad always said, you don’t rise to the occasion. You sink to the level of your training.

  I did snap my head aside and spit the gum free, wished I hadn’t because my saliva immediately dried up and the taste of wax citrus was worse than ever.

  Head for the Park, you can lose them in the Park. And that’ll get you closer to the Schola, plus the other djamphir can night-hunt around you. That’s a great plan, really wunderbar, now let’s see if it’ll work. The world stuttered and slid around me, like I was on a greased glass plate. Another hunting cry lifted, whistulating at the end like a kettle with a busted flap. The two groups inside the club had to be hunters, and there were others on the prowl tonight. They were calling in reinforcements. Two djamphir combat units and a logistical team weren’t going to be able to handle this, and now that the nosferat knew they were after a svetocha, they wouldn’t stop.

  Which made getting the hell out of Dodge the best idea around. But it also meant heading for Chelsea Park was a bad idea, not enough cover, I had to think fast but there wasn’t anywhere else to go except vaguely north and hope for the best.

  Running. The air was made of diesel scorch, a stitch hovering just outside my ribs, ready to grab me as soon as the clear goop over the world snapped aside and I was left with just human speed.

  That’s not good, not good not good—

  But I kept going. I had no choice.

  The world rang like a wet wineglass stroked just right, and I heard an owl’s soft passionless who? Who? A streak of white coalesced overhead, feathers shading themselves in like a fast-forward of a charcoal artist at work. The owl’s yellow eyes took fire, and it wheeled in a tight circle overhead. Then it shot away like a rocket, and I held off the inevitable snap of the world taking back its usual slow speed with a tearing mental effort.

  It was like being with werwulfen on one of their daylight runs that starts in the green blur of Central Park. Flashes smearing by, an openmouthed old lady, a group of college kids on the corner, a Chinese restaurant with a pirate ship on its sign, each just a compressed bullet of smeared information. The owl—Gran’s owl, though it was my aspect taking animal form—nipped smartly to the right and disappeared into the open maw of a subway entrance.

  Bad idea, Dru.

  But I’d never doubted Gran’s owl before. I flashed over the pavement, each step making a weird smacking sound, and saw why the owl was leading me there.

  Because there were paper-cutout black shadows of nosferat leaping upstreet as well as down, and I’d be caught between them and the ones behind me like a rat in a cage if I didn’t figure something out right quick.

  I put my head down and streaked for the subway entrance. Just before I hit the top of the stairs, another howl lifted into the night. This one was pure and cold, digging through layers of humanity and tickling the furry thing on four legs that lurks under the thin veneer of civilization in you, me, everyone.

  The wulfen were out, and they’d heard the nosferat making a ruckus. Thank God.

  It didn’t mean I’d survive this, but my chances just went up.

  My purse bounced against my side and my fists pumped. The scarf slipped, seed pearls scratching at my windpipe. I clattered down the stairs, my feet only touching every fifth or sixth one. There was a half-turn, I almost hit the wall, leapt the iron railing in the middle, cleared the turnstile where you were supposed to swipe your card, and landed on the platform with a jolt. Almost overbalanced, scrambled, and I’m pretty sure I was giving the whole three people on the platform a good shot of my undies because the skirt was flipping and flapping like a flag in a high wind.

  The train had just pulled in, a streak of butter-yellow light and screaming filthy silver. I nipped smartly through the doors as they closed and found myself in an empty, urine-smelling subway car. Orange plastic seats stood in neat, tired rows, and graffiti scarred the walls.

  The claws of a side stitch tangled in my ribs, sweat standing out in great clear drops on my skin. At least my hair was still mostly up. Curls fell in my face, streaked with gold as the aspect blurred over my skin with warm, loving hands. My ribs flickered with hummingbird breaths, while my heart felt like it was going to kick out of my chest and do a cancan right there.

  The train heaved away just as I caught flickers of shadowy movement near the turnstile. A flash of ivory teeth and wide black gelatin-gleaming eyes as the nosferat snarled, then the train plunged into the tunnel and the only thing I could see was my own reflection on the window. I looked scared to death, high hectic color blooming on my cheeks and the eyeliner Nathalie had talked me into giving me raccoon eyes. My mother’s locket gleamed sharply, a chip of ice against my sweating skin. The stitch in my side retreated a little, but I couldn’t stop gasping.

  I tried to look everywhere at once. Reached up, touched my ear. Nothing but the sharp edges of a diamond stud met my fingertips. Dammit. I remembered the earpiece skittering away now.

  I pulled my skirt down, tried to control my breathing. Pulled at the scarf to loosen it a little. I wasn’t an idiot enough to think I was out of the woods yet. If they wanted me bad enough, they could certainly chase a train. I let out a high nervous laugh, grabbing a pole as the train flung itself into a long downhill curve.

  Plan C wasn’t turning out so bad. I was still breathing.

  A thump from the car behind me brought my head up. Was it just subway noise, or . . .

  I considered spitting again, the taste of danger candy was so thick. Definitely not out of the woods yet.

  Were my chances better staying put or moving? Well, duh, moving. I headed for the front of the car, my legs about as starchy as rubber noodles. It felt like one too many hits of Dad’s Jim Beam, the world turning to a loosey-goosey carnival ride. There was another thump in the car behind me, and I still couldn’t tell if it was train noise or a nosferat looking to take my head off the hard way.

  Huh. Is there an easy way to take someone’s head off? It’s one of those unanswerable questions, like why hot dogs come in eight-packs and buns come in tens. Someone had asked me that a while ago,
is there an easy way?

  My heart squeezed down on itself, hard. I shoved the feeling away. I couldn’t afford to think about him. I needed all my wits in one basket right now.

  I eyed the door. There was a release catch, and if I bailed, I could be pretty sure it would hurt and then I’d be down here in the tunnel. In the dark, or so close to complete dark it doesn’t matter.

  What a choice. Nosferat in a rollicking subway car, or bailing and possibly breaking something, then having to deal with nosferat and trains in a dark tunnel. “Stick to the plan,” I muttered, digging in my tiny little purse. “Stick to the goddamn plan. Yeah.”

  Hiro wasn’t just going to have kittens. He was going to have little baby penguins, too. And Bruce would just look disappointed. And Christophe . . .

  He’s on his way. You know he is. You’ve just got to keep your head attached until he gets here.

  Easier said than done. The brakes squealed; I rocked sideways as the train slowed. Coming up on the next stop. My fingers closed on the teensy disposable cell phone just as a third thud, this one accompanied with a screech of tearing metal, came from the car behind me. I dropped the phone, glanced back, and saw the claws sticking through the back wall. They retracted, then maggot-white fingers squirmed through and started tearing at the back end of the car like it was tinfoil.

  Run first, call in later.

  I was suddenly, deeply glad there were no civilians in this car. The train jolted, slowing, and I grabbed for the door release.

  Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, sure. Worked great in an amusement park. Not so great right now.

  The aspect blurred lovingly over me as I wrenched at the door, metal squealing and tearing along with the brakes. The station burst open like a flower, lit by fluorescents, a long flight of stairs going up. I kicked the door twice; on the second kick it exploded out and I grabbed the side of the hole it left behind. The door flew into a tiled wall, hit with megaton force. Dust and sharp tile shards puffed up. I leapt, just as the nosferat burst into the car.

  My feet hit first, and training curled me into a ball. I rolled, shedding momentum and erasing some skin on my knee and my right arm, came up running. The scarf tore free, its little pearls scraping some skin loose as well. Hit the stairs at warp speed, my boots making an odd hollow ringing against the concrete. Slapping boot-steps behind me, too heavy and fast to be human.

  In movies, the girl being chased looks over her shoulder while the thing comes for her. The urge to do that never occurs to me. For one thing, it’ll slow me down too much.

  For another, if I’m going to be hit, I don’t want to know. I want to be running flat-out when it happens, not stumbling because I’m glancing back like a moron.

  The world slowed down again, but grudgingly. I was too tired, I was terrified, but the edge of emotion that let me use superhuman speed was wearing off. Adrenaline can only take you so far.

  I jumped the turnstile at the head of the stairs. Gran’s owl was nowhere in sight. I was on my own here, and the nosferat was right behind me, footfalls echoing and its glassine snarl bouncing off the tiled walls. A half-turn and another short flight, and the night breathed over my hair, full of exhaust fumes and the smell of danger. Wax oranges filled my mouth, I swallowed again and wished I hadn’t, and the touch blazed inside my skull.

  My feet tangled together.

  If they hadn’t, the nosferat would have hit me. As it was, he went tumbling overhead as I fell, his claws kissing my hair and shearing a few curls as he twisted like a cat in midleap. I rolled, erasing more skin on my leg, gained my feet with a convulsive lurch, and stumbled back. The street was dark, residential, but I could hear the neon and the clubs pounding just a short distance away, a thunderstorm pulse.

  The nosferat landed neatly, kneeling with one hand spread against the wet pavement. Fine rain misted down, and his black eyes gleamed in a streetlamp’s uncertain light. He was blond, jewels of water hanging on his fashionable razor-layered cut. His clothes were worth more than a month’s running money, Armani unless I missed my guess, and the shoes were alligator.

  Bastard. Even gators don’t deserve that. Especially when most of their meat was probably dumped back into the swamp to rot after the jerks got the hide.

  I inhaled, my hands coming up and everything narrowing to a single point around me. This was it. This was what I’d been training for—facing a nosferat on a dark street.

  Getting a little of my own back. Some revenge.

  If I hadn’t been playing bait tonight I’d’ve had a gun, or a pair of malaika. Even my silver-loaded switchblade would’ve been nice. But no, it was mano a mano for this.

  Great.

  The nosferat’s lips curled back, ivory teeth glowing. Those teeth grabbed all available light, pulling it in from the darkened street and swirling it against his lips. The snarl made his pretty teenage face into a caricature of hatred. I loosened my knees.

  If you’ve got a Plan D, Dru, now would be a good time.

  I didn’t. In a few seconds he was going to spring, I was going to do my best to stay out of his way, and I’d either be jumping to stay ahead of him—or very dead.

  Another snarl, this one low and incredibly loud. It came from behind me on a hot draft, thudding through my bones like a bass beat from big speakers. I never thought I’d be happy to hear that sound.

  Or feel a werwulf breathing in my hair.

  Of course Christophe would have let Ash loose. He was like that—always two steps ahead. As long as he was taking care of things, I didn’t need to worry.

  Much.

  The Broken werwulf slid a few steps to the side. His narrow head dipped, the silvery streak glowing just like the nosferat’s teeth. Even on all fours, his shoulders bulked and reached the lower curve of my ribs. His growl didn’t change in pitch, but it seemed to swell. Like his chest did. He got even bigger, bulking up.

  Graves would have started muttering about mass-conversion ratios and irrationality.

  That was the wrong thing to think. Because sick, furious heat welled up inside me. My hands, held loose and ready, turned into fists. The bloodhunger woke up, stroking the back of my palate. This was the other way to make the aspect come alive, with anger.

  No, not just anger.

  Rage.

  A thin thread of heat kissed my upper arm. I’d scraped hard against the pavement, and I was bleeding. There was another way to fuel the aspect.

  Bloodhunger. Why they call it that when it’s technically thirst, I don’t know.

  I lifted one fist, licked along the meat of my palm, a flicker of disgust quickly shelved. The red fluid coated my tongue, hit the back of my throat, and the nosferat jerked forward. He blurred into motion, and Ash grabbed the pavement and flung himself forward, too.

  But as fast as Ash was, I was faster. The aspect crackled into life, bloodhunger spurring me. I leapt, and I hung in the air for a long heaving second, the night turning soft, legs pulled up and left hand forward, the tips of my fingers tingling as my fingernails sharpened. My wrists ached, a sweet sharp pain.

  When I bloomed, I’d have claws.

  Someone crunched into me from the side. I tumbled through air, oddly weightless, and landed on something soft. We rolled, and I punched him twice before I realized it was a friendly.

  I gained my feet in a convulsive lunge, my boots scraping wet concrete. Beside me, the werwulf shrank, hair receding, and Shanks cursed as he grabbed my arm. His eyes were orange lamps. He flung his head back and howled as the change ran over him again, fur crawling fluidly over his skin and his bones crackling as he bulked up.

  I tore away from him. Out in the street, as if they were on a stage, Ash and the blond nosferat circled each other. The Broken werwulf moved with supple fluidity, the nosferat with jerky marionette grace. One of them would pause for a half-second, or twitch forward, and the other would counter with a quick movement.

  Another wulf cry, this one very close and high up. Probably a roofto
p; wulfen like to get some height while hunting. It meant the cavalry was coming up over the hill.

  Thank God. I might survive this after all.

  Shanks had dropped something with a clatter, two sharp wooden lengths. He’d been carrying malaika. Long, slightly-curved, hawthorn wood swords. Just the thing for killing a perky sucker.

  No way. I can’t be this lucky.

  Except I could. Because the wulfen were looking out for me.

  I was going to kiss Shanks—on the cheek—as soon as I got out of this. My hands closed around the hilts; I scooped them up and let out a short sharp cry. It hit a high soprano note, uncomfortably like a nosferat’s crystalline scream, and if I’d had time to think about it, that might have upset me.

  As if he’d read my mind, Ash dropped his shoulders and snaked in for the kill. The nosferat, as if sensing something amiss, actually hopped back like a frog. The malaika spun, sharp oiled wood cleaving air with a low sweet sound, and just before I landed, my left-hand blade sheared through undead flesh.

  Well, technically not undead, because they can procreate. But it sounds good.

  My feet hit pavement and I spun, right-hand blade flickering out like a snake’s tongue. He was quick, bending back like an impossibly boneless gymnast. I heard Christophe’s voice again.

  Faster, but precise. Precision in everything, little bird.

  To use malaika, you have to think in circles. More properly, you have to think about the disks the blades make when you spin them. Each blade is curved just a little, a slashing weapon, and they’re supposed to be both shield and weapon.

  Traditionally, a svetocha’s weapons.

  The nosferat darted in, claws chiming off my right-hand blade. The left sliced down, a pattern unreeling through my arms. You swing from the hip, just like in baseball. Not that I was any good with a bat except in the time-honored sport of home defense. That time with the zombies it’d been a baseball bat before Dad got to the ammo—