Broken (Otherworld 6)

I blinked and realized I was still seeing sparks because there were still sparks, on the ground, coming from a power line that had fallen from the exploding transformer...and landed right about where we'd been standing.

The line sputtered, then went dark...as did everything around it. I waited for my night vision to kick in, but the moon had disappeared behind cloud cover and I could only make out shapes.

"Whatever that was, I didn't do it," Clay said as he got to his feet.

Jeremy shushed him and motioned for him to stay still. Again, I followed Jeremy's gaze. Again, I saw nothing. Then, twenty or so feet away, a shadow moved. I squinted, and could make out a dim figure crouched in the middle of the street.

I tried to move forward, but Jeremy's hand clamped around my arm. I caught a whiff of something--the smell was downwind, but strong enough to carry. It was the stench of an unwashed body, mingled with the faint "off" smell of sickness. My brain jumped to the closest approximation it knew--a homeless person.

When I looked back at Jeremy, his eyes were trained on the shape, squinting, that same furrow between his brows. Something in his expression sent a chill through me. Without even looking my way, he patted my hand. Then he motioned for me to stay put, shifted into a stooped hunch and started forward.

I glanced at Clay. He was already moving toward Jeremy, but Jeremy shook his head. When Clay hesitated, Jeremy lifted his hand and firmly waved him down. A soft growl rippled through the air, cut short as Clay swallowed his protest.

Jeremy didn't head straight for the figure, but circled to the left, trying to get downwind. I watched him, my gaze flicking between his dark shape and the other. It looked like a man, with an oddly shaped head, crouched on the road. His head moved, and I realized he was wearing a hat--a black bowler.

The man grunted. Then he pushed to his feet. A sharp grating sound, then the flare of a lit match. The light illuminated the bottom half of a man's swarthy face. Thick lips, dark whiskers, a missing front tooth. The match sputtered out. Another strike of a match, then a snap as it broke and a tap-tap as the broken end hit and rebounded off the asphalt. Another grunt. Then the sound of hands rustling over fabric. Searching his pockets for more matches.

"Bloody 'ell," he muttered in a thick English accent.

I could make out the pale moon of his face as he looked around.

"Huh," he grunted.

A screen door slapped shut and a beam of light ping-ponged around us. I ducked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man in the street freeze.

"You there!" someone shouted.

The man wheeled and ran.

"Jeremy?" Clay hissed.

"Go," Jeremy said.

I pushed to my feet and dashed after Clay. Jeremy called after me, as loudly as he dared. I knew I hadn'

t been included in his command, but if I didn't hear him expressly tell me to stop, then I didn't have to obey. That was the rule. Or my interpretation of it.

When I caught up, Clay just glanced over at me and nodded, then turned his attention back to his prey. The man was heading north, moving at a slow jog. He veered out to cross the road...and ran smack into the side of a parked minivan.

The man stumbled and swore, the oath ringing down the empty street. A quick look around, to see whether he'd been heard. Clay and I stopped, frozen in place. We were both dressed in jeans and dark shirts, and the man's gaze passed right over us.

He turned back to the minivan and put both hands out, palms first. He touched the side of the van and jerked back with a grunt, as if expecting to touch a wall of brick or wood, not steel. He looked up and down the street, his body tense, eager to be off, and yet...

He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the minivan door. His hands moved across the panel, hit the handle and stopped. His fingers traced the outline of the door handle, and he bent for a closer look but only grunted, making no move to open it. Then he straightened. His hands resumed their exploration of the door. When they reached the window, he looked closer, peering through it. Then he backpedaled, sending up another too-loud oath.

Breath tickled the top of my head and I wheeled to see Jeremy behind me.

"What should we do?" I whispered.

He hesitated, eyes on the figure, about twenty feet from us.

"Clay? Take him. Carefully, and before he reaches the main road. Elena?" He paused, then said, "Help Clay. Make sure you stay back--"

The screech of tires cut him short as a car ripped around the corner. Headlights flooded the darkened street. The man let out a wail of absolute terror and threw himself to the ground--in the middle of the road. At the last moment, the car veered around him. Someone shouted from the open passenger window.

"Go," Jeremy hissed. "Now. Quickly."

Clay bolted for the man, with me jogging behind. The man was still on the road, his face pressed against the asphalt. We made it halfway to him, then a second carful of teens careened around the corner. This time, the man didn't cower in the street and wait to be mowed down. He leapt to his feet and raced for the side of the road.