There again—strange faces swirled within the crowd. Unearthly faces that came straight from the depths of a nightmare. Yet they vanished before she could verify whether they were real or products of wild imagination.
Leo tugged her forward, carving a route for them both to the doors. Closer and closer they crept, their progress impeded by the hundreds of others all fighting to also get free. There were too many people trying to get through too small a space. Someone cried out as he was trampled in the doorway.
Leo encircled Anne with his arms. His heart beat hard against hers. “Hold tight to me,” he said.
She wrapped her own arms around his waist. Felt the solidness and heat of him through his damp clothing. And she clung to him as he barreled through the door. His arms served as a protective cage, keeping her from being crushed.
Then, at last, they were out. Yet here was little better than inside, for the riot had spread into the streets, drawing in those who had not been in the theater. Those within spilled onto the street in every direction, and those on the outside met them in a fierce clash.
Another surge of people shoved against her and Leo. Her grasp around his waist broke. Suddenly she was alone in the mob. She was caught on a tide of humanity, noise and pandemonium on every side. Perhaps those strange creatures she had thought she saw were truly part of the throng, were moving closer to her. Though she fought against it, shouting for Leo, the flood was too strong. She was borne away, deeper into the storm.
Chapter 11
He had to find her. Everywhere was noise, anarchy. Windows shattered and voices shouted. Leo had seen mobs, knew what they were capable of, the sudden violence that razed buildings and caused men to turn to animals. It never took much in London to incite a riot.
Add demons to the mix, and what followed was inevitable.
Demons. Damn him. Demons. Real, and inciting the crowds to violence. He had seen the creatures in the pit. Things with horns and fangs. Yet they were disguised somehow, wearing the clothing of ordinary humans. No one else had noticed, but Leo recognized the beasts for what they were. Part of his bonds with the Devil, he could only assume. It did not matter how he knew the things for what they were. What mattered was getting Anne out of the theater—yet he had been too late.
Now some of the city’s most esteemed residents were brawling in the streets like Saint Giles rowdies, and on the cobbles lay a few insensate people, trampled by the feet of hundreds. Having broken the chain about its neck, humanity went wild.
Leo shoved through the crowd, searching for Anne. He roared her name. The noise was too great to hear if she responded.
Fear unlike anything he’d experienced throbbed through him. Demons were out there. Creatures of darkest magic. They might have her. She could be hurt, or worse ...
No. No. He would find her.
But where the hell was she? He scanned the mob massed on Russell Street outside the theater. There. He caught a flash of light brown hair and ruby silk, before it disappeared into the crowd spilling into other streets.
He plowed through anyone in his path, his gaze fixed on where he’d last seen her. As he did, he cursed his useless gift of foresight, which showed him only financial disasters but could not help him in this, his greatest moment of need.
Nearing where he had spotted her, the rioters still thick around him, he finally heard her, calling his name. He shouted back to her, but could not catch her response or if she even knew he was nearby. But it gave him a sense of where she might be. Off Russell Street, and into the twisting, dark lanes surrounding the theater.
He moved into a narrow, shadowed street, where the crowd thinned. At the farther end of the street, he saw her at last. Three men had her, pulling on her arms as she struggled to break free. They tugged her into an alley.
Rage blackened thought. He bolted down the street, shouldering aside anyone in his way, seeing nothing but where Anne had been a moment ago. He did not pause at the entrance to the alley. It was almost pitch black, and stank of rotting mutton, but he plunged in.
Four darker shapes revealed where Anne battled against her captors. Judging by the sounds of struggle, she was putting up an admirable fight.
“Filthy rogues,” she snarled. “Swine.”
He could not see, but so long as she kept talking, he knew where she was. And his presence had not been noticed by the bastards who had her. That gave him one advantage. His other advantage lay in his coat pocket, but he had only one shot, and in dark, close quarters, he could not run the risk of missing and accidentally hitting her.
He merged with the shadows, slipping forward unseen. Then, at the precise moment, he launched himself into the fray.
Tackling one of the men, Leo grappled with the assailant, getting a sense of the man’s size, his position. Leo rammed his fist into the man’s face, and his opponent went down with a groan.
Anne cried out a warning as two others rushed him. Darkness helped and hindered as he repulsed their attack. He grunted as one man’s fist connected with his shoulder, but Leo knew the ways of street fighting. Long before he began training at the boxing salon, he had been a hot-tempered young man in countless brawls.
He wrestled now with the attackers in rough, ugly combat. No art here, only the desire to hurt, and survive. In the darkness, they fought, threw punches, kicked. But the assailants did not have Leo’s motivation, for he fought not just for himself, but Anne. He punched one of the men in the side of the head. The attacker formed a dark lump as he crumpled to the ground.
Leaving Leo with two remaining opponents. He heard Anne’s angry curses as she continued to fight against one of the men.
He could not wait for the next attack. His hand brushed against a broken board lying on the pavement, and he grabbed it. Noting the sounds of his adversary’s shoes on the cobbles, he shot forward, swinging the board. It must have connected with the man’s stomach, for he made retching sounds. Using the noise as guidance, Leo struck the gagging man under the chin, knocking him backward. The board broke in Leo’s hands as the man groaned. He did not rise again.
Only one bastard left. The son of a bitch who had Anne. But Leo could not attack—he might hurt her in the process.
“Don’t know who you are, bloke,” the man sneered. “But I’m taking this here piece.”
“I’m the piece’s husband.” Leo’s old, coarse accent had returned but he did not give a damn.
The man chuckled. “Tonight she gets a new man.”
“No she bloody won’t,” Anne spat.
“Anne, with your free hand, grab his little finger,” commanded Leo.
By the sounds of the man’s grunting, Leo understood she had done what he asked.
“Now pull back. Hard.”
Her attacker yelped. “No—”
Anne did not hesitate. A sharp cracking sound filled the alley, followed immediately by the man’s scream.
“Get to the wall,” Leo directed.
“I’m there,” she said a moment later.
As soon as the words left her mouth, Leo attacked. He threw himself toward where he suspected the man would be. And he was not wrong. Finding him in the darkness, Leo rained punches down on him, mercilessly hammering at Anne’s would-be attacker. The injury to the man’s hand made him reckless and angry, and while his punches weren’t accurate, they packed a great deal of power. Leo lost his breath as he took a fist to the chest. He recovered, gasping, his own fury blazing.