Lilith Saintcrow - Redemption Alley

He responded with all the valor of discretion. “Well, that’s not 51-friendly, over there. Put that bandana away.”

We crossed out of 51 territory in ten minutes, and I had a mounting sense of unease, precognition not specific enough to really mean anything. About twelve blocks later I realized the popping, pinging sounds were someone shooting at my car. By then a lucky shot had taken out a tire and the entire contraption—tons of metal—was jigging and jiving like a hellbreed jacked full of silver.

Oh no. No. Skidding, skipping, a flapping noise as the tire gave up the ghost and I struggled against the sudden drag on the steering wheel, time slowing down as if dipped in cold molasses. The engine leapt, straining against inertia, and things got very interesting.

I steered into the skid, mashing the accelerator to the floor to get us out of the firezone if possible, and heard Theron’s coughing roar as the car bucked once more and lifted, physics taking her revenge in a big way. The silvery crinkle of glass shattering married to the crunch of metal folding in ways it didn’t want to. The world blanked out, down was up and up was down, for a long moment. I was picked up, shaken, tossed a few different ways at once, and thrown into that blank spot between normal life and disaster for an endless moment of disorienting darkness—and roared out on the other side in an explosion of too-bright color and sharp pain.

The edged reek of spilled gasoline burst in my sensitive nose. I blinked something wet and warm out of my eyes.

At least I’m right-side-up. Or am I?

It took me a second to figure out which way gravity was dragging, the blood in my eyes streaking in fat globules down my cheeks. Must be a head wound, they’re messy. Bleed a lot.

More pinging and popping sounds, my body moving instinctively, seeking what cover it could, that’s gas I smell, move, Jill, get the fuck out of here, Theron, where’s Theron?

Broken glass littered the seats. The Were was gone. I tore myself free of the seat belt and squirmed around the gearshift, its head ripped free of the shaft. The red fuzzy dice Galina had given me had disappeared and the car had rolled, coming to rest right-side-up. Goddamn. I’m still alive. Again. Go figure.

I braced my shoulders against the seat and kicked. The jolt slammed my shoulders deeper into glass-strewn upholstery. No dice—the entire car was crumpled, I couldn’t bust the door open.

The passenger-side window had been rolled down and was now an irregular hole. Stink of flammable fluid rose gagging-thick. Get out of here, Jill. All it takes is a spark.

I wormed my way toward the window. The pings and whines of bullets still smacked the side of the car. More glass broke. It was a regular fusillade. Jesus wept. What NOW?

The choice was to stay where I was and possibly roast if the car went up, or get shot as I wriggled out the window. I froze, half a precious second trickling away through molasses as the body, idiot meat that it is, expressed in the strongest possible terms that it didn’t want to get shot again, thank you.

MOVE!

My arms shot out, fingers closing around the edges of the hole, jagged metal slicing deep. I didn’t care, hauling myself free, a high keening sound I realized was my own voice, yelling filthy obscenities I probably would have blushed at a few years ago—before I was a hunter.

Now I know how toothpaste feels when it’s pushed free of the tube. It’s a good thing I’m skinny. I worked my way free while the crackling sounds receded from the forefront of my consciousness. Black smoke belched and the unholy reek of vinyl burning scoured hot water from my eyes. My coat got stuck, was sliced, I wriggled free and fell on concrete, fetching my head a stunning blow. Rolling, trained reflex bringing me up to my feet just as my baby, my beautiful Impala I’d bought from a junkyard and nursed to apple-pie order, exploded.

The shockwave flung me flat, leather scraping the pitted surface of the road and my head snapping back, bouncing as I hit again. I scrambled away from the car, already going in the direction the blast had pushed me.

I picked myself up. My ears were bleeding, thin trickles of evaporating coolness down my neck.

Goddamn. My car.

The rest of the world returned in a rush of diluted noise. A woman was screaming in Spanish, high-pitched babble. Kids were yelling. Oh God did I hit someone? Hope not. Cover, find cover —I rolled, heading for the far side of the street, my back wrenching in a quick burst of red pain.

They were still shooting at me, but the bulk of the burning car shielded me from view. It was a small mercy, and as soon as the smoke thinned a little they would have a clear field of fire.

There were acres of cracked sunstruck pavement and no cover. Then Theron landed gracefully, his fingers tented on the concrete as bullets spattered. He grabbed me, shifting his weight, and I pushed with the long muscles in my legs, uncoiling in a leap as awkward as it was effective. My back wrenched again, and the scar woke, prickling and roiling as I pulled blindly on etheric force, a completely nonphysical movement that nevertheless echoed in the physical world, adding lift.

The alley opened up like a gift, swallowed us whole, shadows sharp in the flood of sunshine. “Car!” I gasped, and Theron’s hand closed on the collar of my coat. He hauled me back as I tried to reverse direction and take off.

“Goddammit they’re still shooting! ” he yelled as I lunged again for the mouth of the alley. More bullets pinged against adobe and brick, puffs of dust turning gold. Black smoke belched up—my car was absolutely totaled, a twisted wreck at the end of three loops of black rubber smeared on patched, cracked pavement.

My baby. Gone in a heartbeat.

Theron yanked at me again, so hard my head bobbled. “Jesus Christ! ”

I seconded that emotion. “They blew up my car! ”

“Woman, you’re lucky they didn’t fill you full of lead again. This is getting ridiculous.” His hair was wildly mussed, two spots of high color standing out on his cheeks.

“They blew up my car! ” I sounded like they’d pissed in my Cheerios. Blood dripped salt-warm and stinging in my eyes. “Goddammit, you fucking Were, do something useful! ”

“What am I supposed to do?” He dragged me further into the alley, swearing under his breath. “Jesus Christ. Who wants you dead this bad, Jill?”

“How the hell should I know? It’s someone different every fucking week.” I had to suck in breath, burning muscles starved for oxygen and complaining.

Shadows moved at the mouth of the alley. Theron pulled me behind a dumpster and shoved me down. We both crouched there, my ribs flickering with deep hard breaths and the hot explosive reek of garbage climbing down my throat. “Where are we?”

“Shush.” He waved a hand and cocked his head, a cat’s inquiring movement. His eyes glowed orange, swords of sunlight piercing the high blank wall of a ratty old tenement across the alley. There were still screams and spatters of gunfire and a low harsh tearing sound—my car, burning.

Oh, my God, I swear I am going to kill whoever is responsible for this. I softened my breathing, drawing silence over myself. More movement at the mouth of the alley. A fire-escape jagged up on our side further back, but it looked rickety and rusted; both of us were probably too heavy for it. It’s the price you pay for heavier muscle and bone—less vulnerability, but more mass in the ass.

Still, if they come through we’ll either have to kill or flee. There’s no third option, we can’t vanish here. And it’s the middle of the goddamn day.