Jessa Slade: Forged of Shadows

“It’ll be locked,” Dee said. “We’ll be stuck on the roof.”

“Iz has his picks. Don’t you, Iz-kid?”

“What? And violate my parole?”

“We’ll discuss your punishment later.” And there would be a later. “Keep trying the cell.”

“We’re going,” Dee said over Iz’s plaintive, “But what about you, Jilly? You can’t run.”

True. She knew better than to stress her lung. Good thing she preferred to stand her ground.

She kept her ear cocked to the scuffle of the teens’ retreating footsteps. At the mouth of the alley, the hungry eyeshine of the monstrosities never flickered.

Monstrosities? She meant monsters. Unease roughened her breath to sandstone in her throat.

She winced at the rumble of a Dumpster across the concrete behind her. Apparently the kids hadn’t been able to reach the fire escape without a makeshift ladder. Despite the commotion, the trio ahead of her didn’t twitch.

Okay, a plan. She couldn’t ward them off forever with her don’t-fuck-with-me stare. Jackie Chan routinely took on dozens of opponents. Of course, he had a more optimistic sound track than the “Ride of Valkyries” doom tune that was now going through her head.

She cut a quick glance right and left. Damn, where was a ditched murder weapon when she needed one? There wasn’t even a loose bag of trash—just a pile of recyclables. Could she guilt them to death with packing peanuts?

Behind her, the rattle of the kids on the fire escape grew fainter. They must be near the top, out of the fray.

In her calmest, pre-saloon-brawl voice, she said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

Didn’t want, yet always seemed to find. The three monsters took a step in unison toward her.

Yeah, that line never worked in the movies either.

She should have been terrified, considering what had happened the last time she faced a monster like these. Well, not quite like these. Rico had been a plain old human monster with one gold tooth, not mandibles. Somehow, these actually seemed less scary. Her heartbeat ramped up, not with fear—or not only with fear—but with a savage glee so that the catch in her compromised breathing sounded as if it were eagerness. How sick was that?

She couldn’t hear the kids at all now. She was alone. Her pulse went semiautomatic fire in her ears, and her muscles burned as if a dozen police flares had been struck in her joints.

“Okay, then. Red rover, red rover, let Jilly come over.” She took three steps forward. Her bootheels rang hard on the pavement.

Then a fourth figure appeared, not so hulkingly broad as the first three, but every bit as tall.

The newcomer’s wings flared low—no, not wings; a duster. The monster Jilly’s eyes had conjured became just a man.

He paused there, bareheaded against the gusting wind that ran eager fingers through his shoulder-length dark hair. Some glint of neon caught in his eye, flaring violet as he turned toward them.

The newcomer twitched open his duster and withdrew a . . . a what-the-hell hammer. The haft extended almost too long to be hidden under his coat, even as tall as he was. The blunt business end was as big as her head.

“Now, that’s the murder weapon I was looking for,” she muttered. Too bad it was going to be used to murder her.

The man whirled the hammer in a broad arc. Above the hollow whistle, he shouted, “Jilly, get out of here.”

As the monster trio whirled to face him, he lowered his head and charged.

For a heartbeat, she froze. How had he known her name? Did she know him? She almost recognized the feral grace of him, as if the old comic books she’d once devoured had come to life. Thanks to the crappy alley light, he was cast in black and white and shades of gray—but he was every bit as strong and fearless and take-charge as the heroes of her fantasies.

Right, as if she were going to rely on anyone else to fight her battles ever again.

She dodged to one side of the alley. She’d seen a glint beside the neatly stacked boxes—right there. Yes! Someone had forgotten a box cutter.

She scrabbled at the cardboard, fingers closing around the narrow metal, sliding the tiny razor tooth out in the same motion. She spun back to the fight.

Despite her speedy weapon procurement, Thor already stood, legs braced, over one carcass. With another swing of his hammer he dispatched the second creature. He knocked its mandibled head right off its shoulders as if it were a meaty croquet ball. Jilly’s stomach heaved at the wet thud of the head thwacking into the brick wall.

The last monster—obviously smarter than Jilly herself—ran.

The man whirled, every line of his body poised to pursue. Jilly’s breath caught hard, this time in pure pleasure at the taut, precise flow of his moves. He seemed so familiar, like something she’d dreamed. Maybe as she’d fallen asleep in the middle of one of those gawd-awful CGIed action movies.

The monster-head stump oozed black scum, and she swallowed hard at the blunt reminder; this hammer-wielding superhero was no faker.

Since when had she forgotten she wasn’t impressed by superheroes anymore? They were all fakers, by their nature. She scoffed to herself. As if he’d heard her, the man wheeled back around. The heavy oiled-canvas hem of the duster swirled above the pull straps of his boots. Her bravado withered at the stark expression that drew down the otherwise sensuous lines of his full mouth.

“Just what the hell were you going to do with that little thing?”

The lilt of his Irish accent captivated her for a moment, so she didn’t pay attention to the words. Then she was insulted. She wasn’t that short.

Finally she noted his focus on the box cutter in her hand. “Defend your honor?”

The grim set of his mouth softened, just barely. “Defend me?” He let the hammer swing down into a slow, mesmerizing ticktock. “Did I look like I needed defending?”

The hint of amused arrogance in his voice made her lift her chin in defiance. “Maybe a little. It’s a very small knife anyway.” She clutched it tight as he strode toward her.

Her gaze locked on the bold tattoo that rayed across his left temple to brush the corner of his blue eye. God, that must’ve hurt—needles nicking that rugged cheekbone for hours.

She snapped upright. “Now I remember. You were at that homeless outreach we did in the park last weekend.” She stiffened even more as realization crept over her. “You know my name. You’ve been following me.”

The final tock of the hammer pointed at the headless corpse. “Good thing, huh?”

She didn’t want to think about it. “I have to make sure Iz and Dee are okay.”

“They made it to the roof. I’ll have someone escort them down.”

Jilly narrowed her eyes. “Someone, who?”

“One of my people.”

“Your people, who? Never mind. Dee was supposed to call 911.”

“The call couldn’t get through the interference. That’s typical with these attacks lately. Besides, what are you going to tell the authorities?”

Yeah, she knew how the authorities dealt with monstrosities, even the purely human kind. “I want to see the kids.”

“My people will take them back to the halfway house. They’ll be fine without you.” His voice dropped, the brogue’s cadences waxing again. “They’ll have to be from now on.”

Jilly gripped the box cutter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, don’t you, that it’s too late?”

“Too late for what?”

“I didn’t understand the restlessness, or I didn’t want to listen. It’s too late to give you a chance.”

Her voice rose with annoyance. And the first touch of unadulterated fear. “Too late for what?”