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We were screwed, in short. Probably super screwed.
The Fuck-Tons were great hostesses, keeping us plied with more tea, some trays of cookies – biscuits, as Imperial called them – and even some finger sandwiches. Where the Leather Glovebox kept such tasty treats stocked at night, I’ll never know, but I wasn’t about to complain.
I pulled my jacket around myself, shrugging off the chill of the city as we stepped out of the Glovebox, as I reached for my phone to book a car to take us home. Cool air hit us straight in the face as we walked back out into Valero.
Something else hit Sterling in the face, too.
He choked and grunted, spitting out blood and saliva. Damn it. The stalker was back.
“Break,” Gil shouted.
I knew exactly what he meant. We raced from the sidewalk clear to the other side of the street despite the busy traffic, in some hope of throwing off our attacker. We hit the opposite sidewalk safely even as cars honked at us, as motorists yelled and cussed us out as drunks.
I panted, grabbing my knees as I watched the street. “Did we lose him?” I said. “Did anyone hear any thumping noises? Maybe he got hit by a car on the way here.”
“Nope,” a voice said directly in my ear. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
I grunted as a fist socked me upside the chin, and again, how lucky I was that my tongue happened to be out of the way when the blow landed. Stars spun in my vision as a deep, bone-numb ache spread through my jaw. I clutched my chin, cursing, whirling in place, prepared to set the fucker on fire. I was okay with burning my clothes clean off my body, too. Whoever this shithead was, I wanted him dead.
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nbsp; But this time it looked like the Lorica stalker was content to attack someone else. Sterling spun in place, smacking at his shoulders and his back. This invisible little bastard was pulling the same trick. I readied a ball of flame in the palm of my hand, prepared to launch it at Sterling’s back. If I hit home, the stalker was in for a world of hurt. If I missed, though, or if he leapt away at the last moment, I’d have to explain to Carver exactly why I murdered my coworker by frying him to a crisp.
Plus there was that very small problem of us being right on a public sidewalk. The streets were busy. Vanitas thrashed inside my backpack, sensing danger, his telepathic voice reaching through the ethers, commanding me to release him.
“Let me at him,” he snarled, the anger in his voice crossing dimensions. “Let me chop him to pieces.”
And all the while Banjo kept barking, attracting even more attention. We were only lucky that he hadn’t exploded someone’s head off yet.
“Sterling,” I shouted. “Let’s take this down an alley.”
“Gladly,” he shouted back. “I’ll slam this fucker off my back, break his spine.”
He was livid. I don’t think I’d ever seen Sterling so mad until that night. I never thought that I’d ever be able to say that I could relate to him, but between the two of us, we’d beaten gods in combat, bested the Eldest themselves. Being brought low by something as pitiful as a human being must have especially stung for Sterling, someone who considered himself an apex predator.
We dashed into an alley, Sterling still beating at himself, as close to privacy as we’d ever get out in the city. I had to beat at my backpack too, struggling to keep Vanitas in place. But Gil didn’t run in with us.
“Not taking any chances this time,” Gil snarled. He picked Banjo up, cradling him between his arms. He threw his head back, then began to scream.
Oh no.
Gil never needed the full moon to go full dog. That was what Carver had taught him especially, a way to transform partially if he needed to, but also a way of bypassing lunar cycles, calling on his wolf whenever he wanted. Gil had mentioned many times how the transformation was agonizing either way. That explained the screams.
But it didn’t explain why he’d chosen to go full dog, exactly. I watched in barely contained terror as his wolf muzzle burst through his human face, as his limbs warped and elongated, his legs breaking and rebuilding themselves into the shape of a wolf’s hind quarters. The whole time Banjo barked at him playfully, like nothing completely scarring and mind-numbing was happening right before his little eyes.
Gil was gone. In his place was a shaggy man-wolf with fur the same black as Gilberto Ramirez’s hair, eyes glinting with red menace. Its gaze locked with mine, and I flinched, my body instinctively reaching for the safety of the Dark Room. That’s right, I thought. No escape.
Wolf-Gil bared his teeth at me, their sharp edges dripping with saliva – but Banjo scrabbled up his chest, nuzzling against his face. My heart clenched. It’d take a single bite for Gil to snap Banjo’s head right off his tiny corgi body, and maybe two bites max to eat the rest of him. But Gil and Banjo locked gazes, and the rage left the wolf’s eyes.
“No,” I screamed, as Gil parted his jaws and brought Banjo closer to his horrifying rows of razor teeth.
He didn’t eat Banjo, instead snapping his teeth across the corgi’s scruff, as a way of gently handling him. Banjo looked around himself, unperturbed, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Gil fell on all fours, growling, then sped off down into the alley, and into the night.
“Don’t eat Banjo,” I shouted.
They vanished from view in bare seconds, Gil’s wolf legs working hard and fast.
“Get the fuck off me,” Sterling shouted, running backwards and slamming himself into a brick wall. Each time he did, I heard the voice of someone grunting. It was only a matter of time until Sterling broke the stalker to pieces, or the stalker came to his senses and retrieved another phial of bottled sunlight.
