It’s like he’s enjoying this.
He dives into a forward roll, then lunges upward, biting down on a metal chain around another guard’s neck. As he straightens, the ear is gone. In his mouth dangles a set of keys and an ID badge.
Amazing.
“Just shoot the fucker!” the driver screams, his voice cracking with panic.
The bearded guard stumbles forward, drawing his sidearm. Time seems to slow as the barrel levels at the wanna-be-escapee’s back.
Fuck.
So I scream.
“BEHIND YOU! GUN!”
I beat my bloody hands against the reinforced glass, leaving smeared, red palm-prints in my wake as the convict lurches to one side.
The bullet must miss him by millimeters.
Yes!
Now he has the keys. He has the opening. “RUN!” I yell again. “RUN, YOU IDIOT!”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he stops, twisting around to look at the bus.
At me.
Two glowing green eyes meet mine through the glass. The corner of his mouth twitches into a grin, and then, he fucking winks.
Winks.
What is he doing?
The fool is dropping to his knees now. My heart sinks as he spits the keys into the dirt and puts his shackled hands behind his head, a wide, manic grin splitting his face.
A skinny guard with glasses hobbles over and lights him up with the taser. The electricity crackles, his spine snaps rigid, and he collapses, head bouncing hard on the parking lot.
“Did you see that?” Julian’s voice is trembling a little. “He had the keys and then he just… he gave up. It looked like he was smiling atyou.Do you know that madman?”
“Of course not,” I snap, pulling my bloody hands away from the glass.
I don’t know him, but for a second there, it felt like I should.
The guards drag the fighter into the van, adding heavy leg irons and a thick choke-chain to his unconscious body. I twist around to stare at him. He’s slumped over, his chest heaving under a jumpsuit torn in several places, exposing pale, bruised skin and a strange tattoo. It’s a series of red ink digits—like a telephone number or the bottom of a bar code. His long hair is matted with parking lot grit, blood and… is that Tony’s ear?
The driver slams the door, and the engine roars to life.
“Magicals should not be transported withdesperate humans,” Julian hisses, his eyes darting at the man behind us. “I’m going to talk to the Guild about this.”
“You do that,” I mutter under my breath.
The Guild.
My father allowed me a few newspapers and magazines to “keep up with current events”. Last year I read a feature about gang culture at Quo Reformare. Basically, there are two rival groups: The Guild—made up of witches used to the privileges of their bloodlines—and the Diggers.
Short for Gravediggers.
