The Shadows

The shower of bullets grew louder and louder as the shooters proceeded toward them. And so caught up were the slayers in their noisemaking and their pursuit, neither of them bothered to slow down as they came up to the cover that worked so well—and continued forward.

With unspoken agreement, Xcor took the one on the left whilst Balthazar trained in on the right.

Two bullets. Not two thousand.

Two very well-placed forty-millimeter bullets square in the backs pitched both of the shooters forward, face-first into the dirty pavement.

“I have them,” Balthazar barked, switching out his gun for his daggers.

Xcor would have argued, but he was beginning to feel the extent of his wounds.

Bali leaped out, his blades flashing. He hit the closest one first, a great explosion of light turning the alley into noontime. With nary a pause, he rolled off and stabbed the second shooter. Recoiling away during the second illumination, the soldier managed to reholster the daggers and grab both of the AKs before . . .

. . . that massive vehicle, the one that had hit Xcor, came barreling down the alley.

Balthazar ran back for cover, slamming his shoulders into the metal cube, and the two of them stared straight ahead, freezing in place as the thing left the area.

But the fun and games weren’t over quite yet.

Calm down.

They needed to calm . . .

. . . down . . .

Dematerializing out of downtown was the only way they were going to get out of here: Sirens from the humans’ police cars were growing louder and louder, and then headlights appeared down at the end of the alley, their brilliant illumination making shadows out of everything.

“Go,” Xcor ordered, knowing his soldier was in far better shape than he.

“Not on your life.”

“To tarry here with me may be on yours.”

“Then we shall die together.”

As Xcor inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to slow his heart rate and ease off his blood pressure, the smell of heated metal and gunpowder tingled in his nose along with the diesel fumes from that vehicle and the lingering nasty stench of the slayers’ sweat and incinerations.

His legs were killing him, both of them. At this rate, the pain was becoming such that he was going to have to sit down—or pass out.

Shit.

The police cars zoomed by, going at breakneck speed, one . . . two . . . three of them in quick succession, their noise and strobing lights going on a fade as they passed.

There would be more. And the next wave would be slower, in recon rather than pursuit mode.

“How badly are you hit?” Balthazar demanded.

He wanted to lie. “My legs are a problem. One is shot, the other likely broken.”

“When was the last time you fed. From a female, that is?”

Months and months. Since he had first met Layla. Her ultra-pure blood had sustained him for a record amount of time, and when the strength had finally begun to fade, he had taken the veins of deer he hunted in the forest without telling his males he had resorted to such.

But Bali knew. They all must have known.

“That long, indeed,” his soldier grumbled.

Xcor looked around, not about to take the conversation further. Across the way, there was a fire escape, but he lacked the strength to drag himself up there at a sufficient speed, and he would not be able to dematerialize.

“Go,” he said to Balthazar.

“You can do this.”

“I have not the strength to make it back to—”

Balthazar pointed up. “There. The roof. That is as far as you must go.”

Barking dogs. At least two of them. At the head of the alley.

Ah, yes, the humans had brought in noses worthy of a search. As opposed to the lame ones on their pitiful faces.

“You must,” Balthazar said. “Just that far. And no farther.”

Xcor traced the way up the fire escape, past the series of windows, up some fifteen floors. It could be worse, he supposed.

“Now.”

Closing his eyes, he knew it wasn’t going to work. “I want you to go. That is an order.”

“I shall not—”

Xcor raised a tired arm and slapped his soldier across the face. In a weary voice, he said, “The others need organization and tending to. You are it. Go—and take those guns with you. They are valuable. Go! Someone must lead them!”

Balthazar was still swearing as he disappeared . . . and the dogs came ever closer to Xcor’s position. With the fresh scent of his spilled and ever-welling blood, they would find him in a matter of seconds.

This time, as his lids lowered, it was from pure exhaustion, not from any kind of hope that he would dematerialize.

Except just before he was due to be captured, as he lifted his gun muzzle and knew that he was about to lose his life in a very bad gunfight . . .

The image of Layla came to him so clearly that it was as if she stood before him.

If he did not remove himself, he would die and ne’er set eyes upon her again.

As a profound sense of loss struck him in the center of the chest, it was then that he knew what he had been denying for some time.