“All right, Reaper, you sensing anything?” Jack waited for us to catch up, then fell in on my other side.
Aric cocked his helmeted head. “A threat around the next corner.”
“You want to backtrack, you?”
“Once you’ve seen me in a real combat, you’ll know never to ask me that again.”
And the cutthroat competition continued!
“I said I’d sensed a threat, not an army,” Aric added, lowering his visor. “But if you’re anxious . . .”
“Just try to keep up, you.”
As we made our way around the corner, I peered into the murk. Something large loomed ahead. Had a tanker toppled over?
Electric spotlights flooded on, spearing the fog, paining my eyes. When my vision adjusted, I saw a bus parked across the road, sheet metal covering its sides. The words HUMAN TOLL were painted in red along the length of it. Atop it? A homemade gun turret. Someone had taken half of an old satellite dish, then carved out a slot for a really big gun.
Was that what Selena had called a fifty-cal? If one of those could eat into a mountain, it could cut us in two.
“Black hat chokepoint,” Jack muttered. “Fuckin’ slavers.”
A trio of them manned the top, one behind the turret and two more popping up their heads from behind a shield of corrugated steel. I couldn’t see the turret guy, but the others resembled each other with their freckled faces and long red hair sticking out from their caps. Had to be brothers.
The bus didn’t stretch all the way to the sides of the ravine, so the slavers had strung rows of razor wire, coiled as high as my shoulders. Escape-proofing their chokepoint.
“Hands where we can see ’em, all of you!” Turret Guy called, swiveling that gun. “This here’s a toll booth. You wanna live, then you’ll do what we say.”
I raised my hands, frowning at Jack. When had he ridden so close to the bus?
Aric raised his hands as well. “We want no trouble.” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
The slavers’ attention was focused on him, a stranger dressed in full armor. “Where’d you get that suit?” Turret Guy asked. “Raid a museum?” He peeked over the satellite dish for a better look, revealing his lengthy beard and caterpillar eyebrows.
In a resonant voice, Aric explained, “A death deity sent me a vision, directing me to an ossuary, a bone crypt.” Was he stalling for Jack? To do what? “I found this armor on the body of a notorious warrior, the design ages ahead of its time, with the metal already steeped in death. A good sign for one like me.”
Turret Guy shared a look with his companions. “’Nother one round the bend. Your horse sick or something?”
Now might be a good time to invoke the red witch. Would the men notice if I pierced my raised hands for blood?
But seeding vines would take too long—
One of those lights shone on me, glaring so brightly I could feel its heat from here.
“You, the boy in the back! Take off your hood.”
I shielded my eyes. What’s happening, Aric? Jack looked like a shadow figure.
—Your mortal’s about to attack. Show them something distracting.—
I reached for my hood, easing it back, inch by inch, as they stared rapt.
Turret Guy sucked in a breath. “Christ on a cracker! A girl! Dibs on seconds!”
One of the redheads said, “A teen. Fine as the night is long. Call up to the house.” Was the other one fumbling for a radio?
In the next instant, Jack was standing on his saddle, bow in hand.
“What the hell?” Turret Guy rotated the gun toward him, but it would only turn so far.
Jack leapt for the bus, the toe of one of his boots meeting the metal siding; he caught the railing above with his free hand, then vaulted onto the roof.
“No, Jack!” There were too many!
Death flung his sword, skewering one of the brothers. Jack fired his bow at the other one.
The redheads dropped, but not before a gunshot sounded.
Why was Jack staggering back? He clutched his chest!
Shot.
“NO!”
“The mortal wears his own armor, Empress,” Aric said.
When Jack recovered and charged forward, I choked out a relieved breath. The vest!
Didn’t mean I wouldn’t kill him for being so reckless. Only one of us could die from a bullet—him!
He aimed the bow at Turret Guy, waving him closer. When Jack motioned down, the man obediently went to his knees.
“How many are up at the house?”
“We never meant no harm, sonny! I wouldn’t have hurt her.”
“How many? Or I do this real slow, me.”
“You’ll lemme go if I tell you?”
“We’ll see. Four. Three. Two. One—”
“Th-there’s our boss and fourteen others.”
“Weapons?”
“Armed to the teeth. They’re the ones you should go after! They would’ve had their way with your girl,” said the man who’d called dibs.
“You got any females for sale?”
Turret Guy smiled, no doubt thinking he’d been handed a lifeline. He had no idea he was digging his grave. If he admitted to hurting women . . .
“Not here, sonny, but we got a batch of young ones coming in.” He stroked his beard with a sly look. “Sweetest pieces of ass you ever saw. Trained and everything. Hell, I’d let you sample for free—”
Jack shot the man between the eyes. “Fuckin’ hate slavers.” He collected his arrows.
The radio blared a moment later: “I heard that gunshot earlier, you assholes. I ain’t gonna tell you again—no wasting bullets on straggler Bagmen. Do you dipshits copy?”
Jack lifted his gaze. Toward the slaver’s house? The one packed with fifteen armed men?
“Jack . . . what are you doing?”
He’d already dropped off the other side of the bus.
“Your mortal’s storming the slaver den.” Aric’s tone was half-amused, half-approving. “I’m hereby inviting myself on his incursion.” Eyes lively, he spurred his horse up to the razor wire—and didn’t stop.
Like a bulldozer, Thanatos barreled through, catching the wire on its own armor, dragging the snarl free. Barricade destroyed, Aric charged after Jack. I followed.
The slaver boss lived in a sprawling two-story farmhouse that was lit up like a home from before the Flash. Off to the side, gas-guzzling generators hummed. His business must be flourishing.
Aric galloped past Jack to the front entrance. Jack cussed him in French, sprinting on foot to catch up.