Every time, Davy thought groggily. The dead didn’t breathe, but his tentacles still alwaystriedfor a strangle. It did make it difficult for the Hound to get at him with those teeth, so he let it be.
A yank made the Hound howl. Even sheltered in Hill’s meat, Davyfeltit hit him, an atavistic jolt of fear that went from the back of his skull down to clench his balls. The rest of its pack would hear it too.
It would still take them too long to get here.
That was what passed for Davy’s plan, anyhow.
He twisted his tentacle down farther into the Hound’s ear, stretching it out as thin and wiry as it would go. The labyrinth of the inner ear was clammy and sticky with wax as he drilled down. The eardrum popped like a balloon as he jabbed it.
The Hound writhed and threw its head back as it realized what he was doing. It grabbed hold of his tentacles and yanked, twisting them around its forearms like rope as it tried to pop him out of Hill like a mussel out of its shell.
That was a new sort of pain. Davy didn’t even know what to do with it. It was like hitting his funny bone with a hammer made of acid, only all over.
If nothing else, it helped fight the sluggish exhaustion from whatever still pinned him to the ground. He jammed his tentacle into the corner of the Hound’s eye until he felt something give—wet and slick—and he could hook the end of it around the edge of the socket.
“Down, boy,” he grunted as he yanked as hard as he could.
For a beat nothing happened. His heart dropped into his boots in dismay and his brain scrabbled for another plan, only to come up blank. Before he could try anything desperate, he yanked again, and this time the muzzle gave. It slid free with a wet ripping sound, like skin being peeled off. The Hound howled again, only for it to choke off into a human shout of pain.
The muzzle in Davy’s grip was suddenly lighter and colder, just bone and teeth instead of hair and muscle. He tossed it blindly at what was probably a wall. The Hound in his grip wasn’t done yet, though. He stamped on whatever it was that nailed Davy’stentacle to the ground. The pain read as pins jammed up under all of Davy’s fingernails at once, and he retched, bile splattering from between clenched teeth and out his nose.
Someone in a pair of nice leather boots took a quick step to the side and then quick-stepped past him. At this point, “someone who’s fine” had clearly left the building. The best he could hope for was that he looked more like someone who needed a paramedic than a cop.
Then it all stopped.
Well, most of it. The dull, chewed-rib throb of the skewer in his tentacle persisted.
Davy spat out a mouthful of hollandaise and lifted his head.
Hill, a dented length of metal gripped in one hand, stood over what, when Davy squinted, he assumed was the Hound. His face looked even paler than usual.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
Davy shrugged an answer to that. It feltoddinside Hill, but he had no context to decide if it was going to be a problem or not.
He got his elbow under him.
“Vultures anywhere?” he asked.
Hill looked up at the sky. Fair enough, Davy supposed. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed hard. “Scavengers. Bad men with knives and forks come to clear the plate.”
Someone touched his shoulder.
He swung on them out of instinct before the “Are you all right?” sank in. The woman fell back with a startled cry, one gloved hand up to her face. Blood splattered over the back of the cream leather.
Fuck. That was the cops, then.
“Yeah,” Hill said nervously as he looked around. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent against the line of his throat. “A couple. Should I…stop…them?”
He had the good sense to sound like he wasn’t sure that was going to work.
Good Samaritans had pulled the woman that Davy had cold-cocked away. She had tissues pressed to her nose and older women clucking over her. The less nurturing among them went for dragging Davy to his feet and slamming him against a car.
“You think ’cause the solstice is past, you don’t have to worry about payback?” the ruddy-faced man in a mid-tier suit demanded as he hoisted Davy up onto his toes. Pain tore through Davy as his tentacle stretched out, ripping around the Hound’s skewer. He let the other tentacles fumble with it—the handle stung like nettles as he gripped it—and work it out of the ground. The man gave Davy a shake. “The spirits aren’t the only ones who can hurt you.”
Huh. Looked like he’d get that fight after all.
Davy spat out the last of the sick in his mouth. It splattered over the man’s jacket, and instinct made him draw back.
