What is that?
Scarred Cheek stops moving. His hand falls from my throat. With a dull clank, the knife clatters to the ground.
A crimson bloom appears on his chest, spreading wet and fast through his shirt. He folds in half, dragging me down under his weight before I have a chance to escape.
I fall hard and awkward, his massive body on top of mine and digging into my sternum. The scent of iron and gunpowder wafts over me.
The second man scrambles for the weapon at his belt. Far too slow.
After two morephuts, he flies backward, dark blood oozing from his gunshot wounds.
At the alley’s mouth, the van screeches off, tires screaming in a steadytak-tak-takas holes appear in the sides. The abandoned lookouts race for cover.
Kirill materializes from behind them while tucking a silenced gun into his holster.
His face stays smooth, rigid, and unreadable, his eyes cold, flat, and indifferent. Not anger or satisfaction, only lethal intent.
A shark narrowing in on prey.
The fear that froze me just moments ago cracks and splinters, replaced with almost sob-inducing relief.
I struggle beneath the body caging me. Kirill’s here, but I can’t just depend on him for everything.
I can get out of this myself.
Across the pavement, Kirill is liquid grace, gliding in a way even my mother would approve of. With two quick teleportation-like movements, he’s closed the gap between himself and his slower assailant.
With no warning and no words—just a flicker of motion—Kirill’s elbow shoots up and out.
His leg kicks forward, then back.
A shout rings out as the first lookout crumples and Kirill spins toward the second.
This time, Kirill sprints. When he gets close enough, his hand whips out.
A flash of light glints off a blade.
The fleeing man gargles a strangled noise, blowing bloody bubbles from his throat. He collapses as red ooze pours from his mouth.
I shudder, my battle against dead weight forgotten.
What sort of demon did I manifest?
Kirill heads back to me. He pauses next to the first lookout, who’s face down on the ground and struggling to breathe. His heel comes down on the back of the guy’s head.
I close my eyes but can’t keep the squelch of a popping watermelon out of my ears.
Hot, acidic bile rises in my throat.
I’m never going to be able to eat watermelon again. Or any kind of melon.
But…
Kirill saved me.
Why?
Because he hasn’t gotten any answers out of me. Obviously.
