Page 153 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘You’re not my friend.’

Zachary pulls a face. ‘Don’t make this difficult.’ One of the men has a gun aimed at Riley. ‘Ya sam, blyad’, razberus’. Podozhdi!’ he barks at him, but the man keeps his aim. The gun looks wrong, its barrel too long and thick, with no slide or magazine and a tiny pressure gauge set into the rear. ‘Riley, don’t be afraid.’

‘You’re lying to me.’

‘I’m just following orders. Artem, do not shoot!’

‘Libo vyrubi yego, libo day mne vsadit’ v nego drotik. Ya ne sobirayus’ lishit’sya pal’tsa iz-za etoy beshenoy tvari!’ the man named Artem barks.

Riley can smell his fear.

They’re afraid of him.

‘No one is losing any fingers!’ Zachary insists, inching closer to Riley. ‘I’m getting you out of here, kid. No one’s gonna hurt you if you behave.’

The lie is sour in the air between them.

‘I wanted you to be my friend,’ Riley whispers.

Zachary nods, face blank. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Riley breaks into a run.

He can move fast, hit high speeds, but he’s barely put any distance between them when something sharp hits his back, sinks in. Riley keeps on running; doesn’t let it stop him. Another hits the back of his thigh.

He skids gracelessly around a corner, has to shake himself.

Something is in his blood.

Slowing him, draining him. Pulling them out doesn’t help.

His body tries to burn through it, something wild in his blood surging like the sea, cresting high to successfully crush this chemical manipulation, but it takes control in other ways too. The part of Riley that longs for violence, for the spill of blood beneath the force of his bite, for victory over all those who have enslaved, imprisoned, humiliated and hurt him.

Zachary and the other two are chasing him in the van, but it screeches to a stop when Riley slams sideways into an alley, his shoulder scraping hard against the bricks. They chase him down on foot, boots smacking against the hard ground like fists. Riley’s body burns through the poison that tried to slow him, but his mind is frantic like a trapped bird trying to fly into cage bars. He can’t think straight, can only lean into his instincts and hope… fucking hope just this once that they lead him somewhere good.

The alley leads to a space behind a warehouse. Broken glass digs into the arches of his feet as he runs, desperate to get ahead, get away, get free, but it’s a dead end. High walls, no way back, no way out.

‘Fuck,’ he gasps, hands on the walls. He’s about to try and climb when Zachary barks in that unfamiliar language again from right behind him.

Riley turns.

The animal in him bares its teeth, vows not to die without a fight, a fight, oh God how he wants that more than anything, more than freedom even.

The three men are all aiming guns at him, real ones this time around.

‘Get on your knees,’ Zachary tells him. ‘Now!’

‘No,’ Riley says as his vision shifts into black, white and red.

Focus forms sharply.

All his formerly useless senses come together.

They combine to show him the world as it bends to him.

Time moves slower, every single movement is telegraphed whole seconds in advance, scents blossom with ripe fear. He hears breaths snatched and held before the earth-shattering explosion of a gun firing.

Riley moves aside before it can touch him. He tastes second-hand fear; it’s mouth-watering on his tongue, exciting, encouraging.