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Artemis briefly wondered what Penelope considered promising.
Three large men reeled out of the hovel and started their way.
“Penelope,” Artemis hissed. “Turn around. Turn around right now.”
“Whyever should I turn—” Penelope began, but it was already too late.
One of the men raised his head, saw them, and stilled. Artemis had once watched an old tomcat freeze in the exact same way.
Right before the cat tore apart a sparrow.
The men started for them, shoulders bunched, strides bold.
The lane was closed. There were only two ways in or out, and the men advancing on them blocked one.
“Run!” Artemis muttered to her cousin, gesturing with an outstretched arm for Penelope to come with her. She couldn’t leave Penelope alone. She simply couldn’t.
Penelope screamed, loud and shrill.
The men were almost on them. Running would buy them only seconds.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.
Artemis began to reach for her boot.
And then salvation fell from above.
Salvation was a big, frightening man, who landed in a crouch. He stood, an easy, athletic uncoiling of muscle, and as he straightened she saw his mask: it was black, covering his face from upper lip to hairline, the nose horribly huge, lines of scars twisting along the cheeks. Dark eyes glittered behind the eyeholes, intelligent and alive.
Before her stood the Ghost of St. Giles.
