Striding to the back of the store, I grab a bottle of rosé from the cooler, tucking it into my purse. Then I head for the door, gathering every snackwithin reach and shoving them first into my bag and then under my cashmere sweater like a squirrel stuffing his cheeks with nuts for the winter. By the time I reach the door, M&M's are spilling out the neck of my shirt.
Hank finally notices my vengeful act and moves for the locked gate. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
“Go ahead and call the cops, asshole!”
Cradling my goods like a pregnant belly, I shoulder through the door, then notice a jug of motor oil. I hook my only free hand through the handle of the 10W-30 and high-tail it out of there. Hank is right on my heels. I’m mere feet from the tailgate of my Jeep when my head snaps back, and I drop, hard. All my muscles brace and I manage to keep my head from slapping the pavement, but bolts of pain shoot through my backside and scalp where Hank still has me by the hair.
“Fucking cunt!”
I scream as he lifts my head as if he plans to crack my skull on the asphalt.
But before he has a chance, a massive hand wraps around Hank’s throat. “Release her.”
Hank abruptly lets me go, but the back of my head taps the pavement anyway.
“Oww.” I rub the spot.
Damien flashes me a withering gaze. Then he turns his attention back to Hank.
Like a dark wind, Damien’s shadow form sweeps the cashier off his feet and toward the mobile station, slamming his back into the side of the building hard enough to knock chunks of concrete off the wall. For a second, Hank’s widened eyes register pure terror, and then Damien lifts him straight up. All I see is a blur of black and then Damien is standing on the roof, dangling Hank over the edge by histhroat. The advocate's eyes glow silver in the darkness, and his rage is a palpable thing that seems to silence the other noises of the night. The man doesn't cry out, and I’m not sure if it’s because Damien's grip on his throat is too tight to allow a scream or if his neck is already broken. Before I can make a sound of protest, Damien releases him. Hank drops like a brick, landing face-first in the parking lot, his limbs splayed at odd angles. Blood pools near his head.
Oh my God.
Sound turns back on again. The whir of fluorescent lights. The songs of insects and mating frogs chirp from the woods around us.
Damien funnels his smoky form to my side, reaches down, and helps me up. “You're not bleeding.” A statement. Not a question.
“You killed that man,” I say breathlessly. My thoughts race too fast to say anything more. Damien is not harmless. When Maeve called him a monster, this is what she meant. He’s a cold-blooded killer who dropped a man off a roof without hesitation.
“No. Not dead. Very badly injured, though. This would be a good time for us to depart.” Damien loads the oil and my purse into the back of the Jeep, then helps me into the front.
Hank groans from the asphalt.
“Wait.” I realize he’s put me in the passenger side as he closes the door and rounds the Jeep to climb behind the wheel. “What are you doing? Do you even have a license?”
Hank's groans are loud enough I can hear them through the ragtop. Damien takes off at a speed that makes the Jeep's engine growl. I reach for my seatbelt and clipmyself in. “Fuck! Easy!”
“Is there a reason you have Funyuns spilling out of your bra?” His gaze darts in my direction.
I glance down and see the small bag sticking out of the scoop neck of my sweater. I toss it into the backseat, along with all the other boxes and bags I've stashed in my shirt. I keep a sleeve of Reese's Peanut Butter cups and tear off the end of the package. “Hank stole my change.”
Damien shoots me a sideways glance, then laughs darkly, his entire body rocking from his amusement. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen the monster laugh like this.
“What? It’s forty dollars! I need that money.”
Still laughing, he eyes the wine and motor oil in the backseat. “Looks like you came out ahead.”
I run my hand through my hair, still tangled from Hank's fist, and rub the spot on my scalp where my skull tapped the pavement. “I think we're even, considering the loss of hair and the bruises I'm going to have tomorrow. Fuck, that hurt.” I catch myself. “Of course, not as bad as he must be hurting right now. Shit, Damien. You threw the man off the roof.”
Damien grins wide enough to show his fangs. “But the inside of your skull isn't oozing onto the pavement.”
He has a point. My attention catches on the wine and Twizzlers sticking out of my Coach tote and my mouth fills with bile. What have we done? I fish my phone from my bag and dial 911 as guilt snakes around my chest and squeezes. “Hi, I was just driving by the Mobil station on Highway 17, and I think I saw a man jump off the roof. Can you send an ambulance?” When the dispatcher asks for my name, I hang up, feeling not at all better about myself or the monster at my side.
17
Gold Weaver
DAMIEN
