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All four of them looked back at her, obviously not intimidated by the petite chick with blue hair. If only they knew the truth . . . Of course, I couldn't actually let them know the truth, so I fudged a little more.
"She's a death reaper."
"Bullshit," Joe said.
"Nah," said the guy who'd stood up to the bully, watching me closely. "She's - she's right. That girl is a death . . ."
"Reaper," I filled in, since he was obviously following my lead. I really did like this kid. "Death reaper. Talks to the dead, reanimates them if necessary, points out the evil men and women who don't deserve to live."
"And then what?" the quiet kid asked.
I answered with a gesture, a finger drawn across my neck like a blade.
"That is some serious bullshit," Joe said again, but he didn't sound nearly so convinced this time. "Girls can't really do that."
"That girl can," I said. I leaned forward and lowered my voice just a bit. "Have you ever been walking down the street at night, and you think you hear footsteps behind you? Maybe you walk a little bit longer while your heart beats like a timpani drum in your chest. You think you're imagining it, so you keep walking. But the footsteps start up again. Step by step by step. And you stop, and you turn around, and there's nothing there. No sign of anything in the street. Just lights and shadows. But you know, sure as you know anything, that you weren't out there alone."
They were frozen, eyes on me but glazed, as if they were remembering their own experiences. I pressed on.
"Or maybe you're home alone, and you talk to someone in the next room, because you saw their shadow pass. When they don't answer, you go look . . . and the room is empty. It had been empty the entire time. But in your spine, you can feel it. You know you weren't alone. And when you try to go to sleep, when you close your eyes, you can feel them - you can feel her - at the foot of your bed, watching you sleep."
Slowly, for maximum effect, I slid my gaze to Mallory. "She is the stuff nightmares are made of. She haunts the minds of the living and the dead, and she sees evil where it lurks. And now she knows who you are."
Because in this fictional telling of mine, Mallory was a Grim Reaper/Santa Claus mashup. That wasn't anywhere close to the truth, of course, but it was enough to change Joe's mind. He dropped the shirt over his gun again.
"You can't do this," Haircut said weakly, but the fight had gone out of him.
"I can, and I did," I reminded him. "I'm going to let you go, and I'll give you a ten-second head start. Because we like the chase," I added with a delectable whisper. "But remember - even if you don't see her, you'll feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise, and you'll know she's there."
I let go of Haircut's wrist. He jumped up and ran down the street, away from the rioters. Joe followed him without looking back.
For a moment, the kids and I stood there in silence.
"That stuff all true?" the talker tremulously asked.
I looked back at him. "Yes and no. The truth is much less scary, and much more scary at the same time. What's your name?"
"Aaron." He gestured toward his quieter friend. "That's Sam."
I nodded. "You said good stuff, Aaron. Honest stuff. You're one of the good ones. Don't ever let anyone tell you different, okay?"
Aaron nodded shyly.
"Merit!" Mallory said in a squeaking whisper from her corner, eyes darting to a threat I couldn't yet see. "They're coming. We need to go! Now!"
I closed my eyes to clear my head from adrenaline and silvering, then looked back at the boys when I was sure they were normal again. "You should get going. I gave the guys a scare, but I'm sure I didn't change their minds about vampires or the people who support them."
"Our car's right there," said Sam, his nervous gaze still on my mouth. I supposed the hint of fang had made an impression, and not one he was likely to forget any time soon.
"Then go," I said, and they took off. The boys ran up the block, then climbed into the smallest car I'd ever seen - clown cars would have marveled - and zoomed up the block with an engine that sounded like a vacuum cleaner.
My good deed done, I ran back to Mallory and peeked around the corner into the street.
It didn't look good.
The rioters had reached us, the world's worst parade.
I tried to put on a happy face, but there wasn't much point in it.
"Shall we haul ass?"
"Let's do it."
We popped back into the street and ran full out until we got to the car.
"Unlock it," Mallory said, jiggling the door handle on her side. As if that ever sped up the process.
"Working on it," I said, fumbling to get the keys into the door lock. But adrenaline and anticipation made me clumsy. We were so close. So close to zooming safely away, and to my getting Mallory safely home again without a magical incident.
But not close enough.
"Hey, ladies!" said a male voice behind us.
I glanced back. He was probably twenty-five, with pale skin, blond hair, and a skinny and mean demeanor. He carried a bowie knife in one hand and a hockey stick in the other.
We tried to ignore him, but he wouldn't be ignored.
"Hey, I'm talking to you! You good girls with us in our fight for human rights?"
His prejudices were so irrational he didn't even realize he was attempting to add supernaturals to his posse.
Mallory's eyes narrowed. Clearly, she itched to slap the stupid out of him.
"Human rights!" shouted two more humans nearby. "Down with fangs! Chicago doesn't need them, and Chicago sure as f**k doesn't want them!"
The guy looked at Mallory. "How about you, Blue? You on our side? Justice and truth and no more f**king vampires? Who needs 'em, right?"
His voice was teasing, his words flirty . . . and quite the wrong things to say. He reached out and put a wiry hand on the Volvo.
Mallory's eyes narrowed at the threat, and the air prickled around her. Her magic was rising.
"No more f**king vampires," I pleasantly agreed, then smiled at the guy, who was making himself at home on the hood of the car. Keeping my gaze on him, I made a blind effort with the key.
"You live around here?"
"Used to. Moved away." Finally, the key found home, and the lock clicked open. "Sorry, but we need to get going, so . . ."
He looked at me for a moment, eyes narrowing as he realized he'd been handily rejected. And because he couldn't fathom the possibility that anyone would reject him, he immediately decided there was something wrong with us.
