It was enough to make any man feel like tearing down a few brick walls to get at whatever had turned her into this.
Except he’d done a lot of it, by handling her in exactly the wrong way.
Her apartment spoke volumes. One armchair. A print of some painting that someone had probably taken pity on her with. One mattress and a pile of mismatched blankets, one pillow, five library books stacked next to the bed. Empty cupboards, two packages of ramen, four bags of frozen peas, one bag of bulk oatmeal. Nothing in her fridge but a quart of milk and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. There was some kind of froufrou scented candle on a small table next to the front door, half-burned and probably a gift, as well.
Five gray suits in her closet. A few pairs of sweats and one lone pair of jeans. He hadn’t gone poking through her underwear drawer, but he’d be willing to bet it was as empty as the rest of her apartment.
He knew what poverty and fear smelled like, and the sad little place reeked of it. There were two boxes of papers in her closet, neatly labeled in a round Palmer script, and he’d taken a peek at the one that said Divorce.
The bloodless language of the law almost managed to cover up something capable of making him sick.
With the beast screaming in his blood, he had handled her exactly, completely wrong. Time to start remedying that—if, of course, he could get her out of this death trap of an apartment building.
There was only one way to go, and it was up. He had to half carry her up the maintenance stairs, both because he was using inhuman speed and because her legs kept giving out. She was in a pair of black heels he’d be willing to bet were her second and last pair, since her first were in the van, and he hadn’t had time to get her into sneakers. God only knew where the outfit she’d had on a couple nights ago had come from.
Keep your mind on your problems, and not on her clothes. He paused, looking at an emergency exit and weighing his options. The building was five stories tall and they were on the fourth floor.
“God,” she whispered, right before she collapsed again and he hauled her up. “You lied to him.”
Duh. “Of course I did. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Is Zach really your name?”
Sharp girl. “It really is. The one I was born with, even.” Family name. We’ll get around to that.
“Why are the lights fuzzing out? And the…the things—” The only thing that alarmed him more than how pale she’d turned was the dreamy, disconnected way she was asking questions. “Like scarves.”
We hit the jackpot with you, honey, if you’re already seeing that. “You’re seeing the spirits, the majir. And the upir make the lights go. They prefer to hunt in darkness.”
“Hunt?”
“Us.”
“Oh.” She nodded, calmly enough, and drew a breath, as if to scream.
He couldn’t take the chance and shoved her against the wall, covering her mouth. The fine tremor running through her infected him, as well. His fist curled, and he stopped himself from ramming it through whatever paste was masquerading as walls around here just in time. “Listen.” A snarl ran under the words. Her throat-cut fear was teasing and taunting what little control he had left. “I need everything I’ve got to get us out of here. I’ll keep fighting as long as you stay with me. Right here.” He stared into her eyes, disregarding her glasses, pushed askew by his hand. “You stay with me. Understand?”
Something flared in her pupils. It was a spark, something struggling out from under the fear. He willed it to stay, but it was extinguished almost as soon as it came, and he heard the soft rotten drumming of their feet. More of them. Jesus, what’s going on here?
“Okay,” she whispered, when he peeled his fingers away. “Fine. Stay with you. All right.”
Relief warred with fresh rage inside his chest. She looked absolutely hopeless. “Good girl.” He did something he’d wanted to do since he’d seen her—leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, inhaled the smell of her hair. Clean, fresh, female—even with the sharp saw blade of fear underneath, it held the power to calm the animal inside him.
Goddammit, she smelled like she belonged to him, and he didn’t have time to take it easy, ease her along. The lights were dimming rapidly as the upir came up, floor by floor, a pressure like an approaching storm.
She blinked up at him, surprised, and some of the sense had come back into her pale eyes. “What did you do that for?”
Because I wanted to. “Come on.” Up the last flight of stairs, a locked door he kicked once and crumpled, metal tearing with a screech. Cold rainy air poured in as the lights failed completely, the night reaching into the building like spilled ink.
“They’re floating,” she whispered, in an awe-stricken little voice.
Oh, yeah. Hit the jackpot. She’s gonna be a live one if she’s seeing that so soon. Need to feed her and get her settled somewhere she can shaman-sleep. Wind cut across the rooftop, and he glanced out. The best bet was off across the flat expanse toward a likely corner. The three-story building over a narrow alley was the best route; it had cover and he’d be able to take that drop easily.
Still, he paused for a moment. There was nothing to be gained by running blindly. If he was hunting someone, he’d have a lookout on the roof.
There. A patch of foul-smelling shadow, drifting with the breeze, in the lee of an air-conditioning vent. Sophie shivered, actually moving closer to him and pulling her jacket close. He hadn’t even given her time to change her clothes.
Better start treating her nice, Zach. It’s your responsibility.
Yeah, sure, he told himself. First let’s get us out of here in one piece. Hard to treat her nice in the middle of a melee. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Okay?”
She nodded, curls falling in her face, and he had the urge to brush at them, see if they were as soft as they looked.
Then he dragged her out into the rain, deliberately stumbling as if he was drunk or wounded, and the lookout took the bait—just like he’d hoped. It came streaking out of the darkness, disturbing the flung silver pellets of icy rain, and Sophie didn’t even have time to scream before he shoved her down and away, grabbing two fistfuls of upir and letting the Change run inside him like glass daggers.
It answered one question, though. The blood-heavy parasite was a little older and more experienced than the rest, and it had come straight for Sophie, not even veering for Zach as the biggest threat.
They wanted her.
Its claws burned as it turned on itself, a rubbery snake of bloodlust; he took the hit without caring, low on the side, turning so it grated on ribs instead of opening up the vulnerable belly. In a normal fight this would be the time for noise, a roar to spur him on. But not now.
This was deadly serious, and deadly quiet, the only sounds Sophie’s hurt little cry and hitching breaths, the patter of rain, and the upir’s high shallow breathing, air whistling past shark-sharp teeth. Scuff of boot soles and whisper of fabric as they closed again, the Change roiling down his side in a tide of thorny oil, closing the rips and fueling speed and strength with the pain.