by Joss Ware
After she’d helped save their asses from the gangas. Why the bandanna’d one had taken her arrows, she didn’t know, but it pissed her off.
They weren’t easy to make, and she wanted them back.
What the hell did he need them for anyway? He and his friends had their loud, fancy explosives.
Then she saw the cluster of orange eyes approaching from another street. She counted at least a dozen more gangas. Perhaps as many as twenty, moving quickly if not awkwardly, around the building toward their comrades.
Shit. Hope those guys have more of those fancy explosives.
Just as the five men finished the last of the cluster of creatures, a second group of gangas surged onto the street in front of them.
Zoë heard a woman’s warning shouted from somewhere as she fitted an arrow into place. The group of men shifted quickly, scattering. She watched them with interest and grudging admiration even as she let the arrow whiz through the air. Bull’s eye.
Her quiver was feeling uncomfortably light, and Zoë swore again. But she grabbed another one and nocked it. She watched as the big black man whaled against one of the creatures with the broadside of a . . . what was that?
She peered down. One of those things they used to put money in for parking. Crap. The dark man was wielding a parking meter like a mace, slamming the heavy end up over his own head into ganga faces, splattering flesh and brains every which way.
The other four—no, three—including the one who wore the bandanna, were no slouches themselves when it came to fighting off the gray-skinned thugs. Whatever they could find, they used to beat off creatures nearly twice their size and strength. With surprising effect.
These men had speed on their side. Speed, strength and intelligence—and, in relation to the gangas, smaller frames. They ducked and spun so fast the gangas had no prayer of trying to follow them.
Zoë’s eyes narrowed as she continued to watch, and saw how the one with the bandanna swung out with her arrows, one in each hand, whipping and slicing, always aiming for the head. Once he actually jammed one through a ganga eye, clear through to the brain. And twisted. Score.
But he had his back to the others, and somehow three of the creatures had begun to edge him away.
He didn’t seem to realize it as he fought—or maybe he did—but the others were engaged in battle as well and couldn’t see what was happening. Then one of them smashed him from behind and his bandanna went flying, exposing his blond hair to the full-on beam of the moon and stars.
Oh shit.
The three gangas crowded him as he staggered against the wall, their deep croons more excited as they surged forward. Zoë didn’t hesitate; she sent her arrow down into the back of one of their skulls.
But it was too late. The other two had cornered the blond man, who, despite his stumble and obvious pain from the blow, still held her damned arrows, using them to stab and bash at his attackers. They’d moved beyond the crumbled corner of a collapsed building, and were out of sight of his companions, soon to be out of sight of her.
Fuck. She was not going to lose her arrows.
She might as well save him too.
Zoë rarely came down to ground-level when there were gangas around, but this time, she didn’t hesitate. Down and out of the opposite side of the building, she moved quickly and lightly, following her nose, which, like her ears, had become sharply attuned to the presence of the dead thugs.
What had been a very narrow alley had flooded decades ago and was now a shallow stream, dark with shadows from roofs that tilted in toward each other. Zoë could hear the splashes ahead and started off quickly, edging along the wall nearest her.
Grasses and reeds sprouted where water and brick met, and who knew what lived in the small canal, but she had sturdy boots (if a little too small) and determination. A rat scuttled past her, bumping her leg, and slid into the water. Zoë’s lip curled in revulsion. No matter how many of those rodents she saw, lived with, crawled with . . . they still disgusted her.
It wasn’t long before the narrow space ended, opening into a wider area lit by the moon. She saw the outline of the ganga who carried the bandanna-man, and froze against the mossy wall. Where was the second creature?
Zoë listened, sniffed, waited. But not for long, for she couldn’t let them get too far ahead of her in case the bounty hunter who sometimes rode with the gangas was waiting this time. Then there’d be no way she could help the blond one, or get her arrows back.
She sensed no other presence, saw no orange eyes, and, most telling of all, smelled nothing but the familiar scent of waterlogged vegetation and mildew. Picking up her speed, she hurried along, breaking out of the canal-alley and promptly stumbled into something at the edge of the water.
A ganga. With one of her arrows jammed into the back of his head.
Well, damn. At least he was putting them to good use.
Zoë couldn’t resist a smile. She yanked the arrow from steaming ganga brains and, with a sharp flick, flung away any clinging remnants, then swished it quickly into the water to rinse.
Two down, one to go.
Her hesitation had caused her to lose sight of them, but when she came to another crossway, she heard the shuffling, plodding creature. He wasn’t far ahead, and, although she didn’t like to climb through buildings she didn’t know—rotting floors, broken stairs, crushed roofs, animal lairs, and all—she slipped into a nearby doorway and sprinted along the ground floor of the structure, praying all the while that she wouldn’t go through the floor.
Making her way through slanted boards and around decaying furnishings, she got close enough to the ganga for a good aim.
He was coming toward her, and the man, who must have been struggling before when he slammed the arrow into the other thug’s head, wasn’t moving.
Didn’t bode well, though Zoë had never known of a ganga to attack a blond person.
She didn’t waste any further time, but fit the arrow and let that baby fly through a window.
Score.
The ganga froze, staggered, then gave a horrible grimace of pain and crashed to the ground. Its burden hit the ground, too, his head bouncing enough to make Zoë wince.
She waited for a few breaths, but everything was quiet. So she slipped out of the building, the hair rising at the back of her neck, feeling as though she was completely exposed.
She walked quietly toward the two unmoving figures.
Chapter 4
Jade peered down from the window, watching the battle below. Dred—no, Elliott—and his companions had all rushed down and out to fight off the small group of gangas. She would have followed, but Elliott turned and said, “Stay with the rest of them.”
“I’m staying here with them,” she told him, so he understood it was her own decision and not that she was letting him tell her what to do. The last thing they needed was for the other kids to get spooked and rush blindly out.
Or, if the worst happened—which, by the looks of the battle below, was unlikely—and Elliott and his friends didn’t return, at least Jade would be there to help the kids.
What the hell had Geoff been thinking anyway? First, leaving the city—and now this? She was going to murder him for messing up her plans if she finally got him back to Envy. Maybe even before.
And how had she and Elliott missed seeing or hearing him, unless he went out of the decrepit building a different way? So was he purposely sneaking out, trying not to get caught—or had it simply been a half-sleepy young man looking for a place to relieve himself?
Hah. She didn’t think that for a minute, though she was certain he’d try and sell it that way. Geoff might lack some common sense, but he wasn’t a complete fool. In fact, the kid was pretty smart, even if he had a misplaced sense of immortality.
The other youngsters had awakened by now, and crowded around Jade, watching the battle below. Just as the last ganga found himself engaged by the tall black-skinned friend of Elliott, Jade caught sight of the figures, lurchi
ng from around a shadowy corner onto the overgrown street below.
Oh God. More gangas. There were at least fifteen of them . . . maybe more.
Wishing she had something to throw, some weapon, Jade leaned forward, half out the window, and screamed, “Elliott! Behind you!” But her shout was lost in the sudden swarm of confrontation, and she found herself gripping the rotted edge of a wooden windowsill in fear. Suddenly, it didn’t look quite as likely that they’d walk away the victors. Five men versus fifteen—no, twenty!—gangas?
But as she watched them scatter and turn to face the onslaught of a small ganga platoon, Jade relaxed her grip—just a bit—on the windowsill. No panic, no desperation . . . just capable, fierce intensity as the band of men fought back against the moaning creatures.
They possessed speed and agility, strength, and an innate skill that seemed to lead them through the confrontation. She’d never seen anything like it—the way a single man could take on three or four of the gangas, half again his size, stunning and beating them off, holding his own as they staggered back for more. The weakness of the gangas was that they were too big and awkward for more than one to get close at a time, or to coordinate their attacks, so the men were able to keep them at a distance by beating them back, one by one. And occasionally stabbing or crushing the skull to kill them.
Jade noticed that all five of them—no, four . . . she didn’t see Quent, the bandanna’d one—had grace and strength, but it was Elliott who drew her attention, who had her lungs filling and catching, her heart pounding. Even from above and in jinky light, despite the fact that he was crowded in by the large creatures, she could easily identify him . . . and couldn’t look away.
Her fingers began to uncurl slowly, loosening with optimism as she watched Elliott spin around with power and grace. She even forgot to shout suggestions to him, she was so caught up in the view. He held some long pole, thicker than her wrist, that he used like a baseball bat, then like a sword, then like a battering ram, shoving, slamming, whipping it at his attackers.
Just because watching him fight—all those muscles and that speed and wow, the way he whipped that pole around and sent ganga brains flying—made her all flushed and warm didn’t mean he was a good guy. Nope.
And . . . oh, my, a desperate ganga had torn his shirt. As it fell away in tatters, Jade could see the fluid slide of his pecs and shoulder muscles outlined in the moonlight. And she could tell that, once and for all, he had no crystals.
A blossom of relief washed over her. He wasn’t a Stranger.
Now she really wanted to get back to Envy as quickly as possible. Not only to make her gig and confirm that Theo was all right, but also to tell him and Lou about Elliott and his friends.
If there was anyone who would be able to help them in their fight against the Strangers, it might just be Elliott and his equally fascinating friends.
Quent felt something touching his face. A hand, warm and alive. Gentle. Scented with dirt and something organic that he couldn’t identify. He turned his face, and the hand slid away.
He opened his eyes to find someone bending over him. Shadowed by the moonlight from above, the face left only the impression of large eyes, an outline of short, ragged hair, a high, curving cheekbone.
“You’ll be fine.” The voice, dusky and rough, sounded as if it wasn’t often used. “Now, will you give me back my arrows?”
Quent tried to look closer at the warm, wiry figure crouched next to him, but his head hurt like a bitch and everything was all shadowy.
“Thank you,” he said, knowing it was this person—male or female, but he was leaning toward female based on a sort of crackling awareness shooting through him—who’d helped stop the ganga. After he’d smashed one of his captors’ brains, the other one had cracked him across the face with a massive, cold hand . . . and that was the last he knew until now.
“My arrows,” the voice said again, then, as if realizing how rude that sounded, added, “Can you sit up?”
Quent could and did, though his head pounded like hell. He grasped the figure’s arm. Smooth, muscular, but delicate. Exposed by a sleeveless shirt, skin a shade darker than his own.
He caught a profile. Definitely a woman. If a boy had such feminine features, it’d be a pity—not to mention a danger for the poor sod.
And then there were the sleek curves of her torso. The strap from what must be a quiver cut diagonally between two plum-sized breasts.
Definitely a she.
And definitely the owner of the arrow he’d been holding earlier, the one that gave him murky images and memories, laced with impatience and anger . . . and determination. Loneliness.
“You’re alone,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like a bloody rapist. But he had a feeling she was the kind of woman who could take care of herself.
She sat back on her haunches, and he saw wide dark eyes in a face darkened by shadows. “I like it that way. My arrows. Please.”
“You saved me,” he said. “Thank you.”
She eased back, and he realized she’d closed her fingers around the arrows. “That’s what I do.” The darkness swallowed her.
“Wait,” he said, scrambling to his feet, embarrassingly unsteady. His head pounded harder now, and he felt more than a bit shaky and nauseated from the close proximity to the gangas.
“It’ll go away,” she said from the shadows in that low, husky voice. “The dizziness and weakness. And you’d best use this.”
Something whuffed out of the darkness and he had the wherewithal to snatch it out of the air. His bandanna. “Where do you live? In Envy?”
Silence. Quent peered into the shadows, taking a step toward the place from where his bandanna had come flying as he tied it back into place.
“Come with us,” he said. “We could use you.”
“No.”
He heard a soft trickle-like sound of lapping water and knew she was gone. Quent thought about following her, and even started in the direction where she’d disappeared . . . but then he remembered something. “I still have one of your arrows.” He made sure his voice carried, certain she’d not gone too far. “You can have it whenever you want. Your arrow.”
He waited, heard nothing but the soft splash of water, and the scamper of small rodent feet. “We’re taking those kids back home. To a place called Envy.”
“What the hell’re you doing? Giving the gangas our fucking itinerary?”
Quent whirled to see Simon standing there. Despite the edge to his words, there was a glimmer of dark humor in his handsome, chiseled face. “Not that they could follow it, dumb wanks. And where the hell did you come from?”
Simon shrugged, and Quent saw that he carried a two-by-four-sized branch as a weapon. Something steaming and rank still clumped on the far corner.
“I saw you were missing. Got one, but not before he swiped at me.” Simon gestured to his arm, which had a deep gash that would match the one on his leg from earlier in the day. “Fucking nails on those bastards are sharp. You okay?”
“That archer, the one who shot a couple gangas when Wyatt and I were checking out the van, saved me,” Quent told him as his friend gestured in the proper direction for them to walk. Bloody good thing, as he’d been out cold for part of his trip and didn’t know which way to go. “Wanted the arrows back.” It wasn’t like him to drop pronouns. Interesting. Quent tickled that around in his mind as they started back.
Simon, who wore his shoulder-length dark hair in a low ponytail, walked alongside him with long strides, though he still limped a bit. Quent didn’t know him that well, but, he supposed, when your life changes the way his had—all of theirs had—you get to know a man pretty bloody quickly when you’ve got all that to deal with. And what he’d gotten to know about Simon was that, though quiet and private, and stinging at times, he was brave and fought tenaciously. He was trustworthy and intelligent.
“You give them back to him?”
“Yes.”
Except the one in his hand
. He was keeping that one . . . until she came back for it.
The gangas were gone, Geoff had fled back into the safety of the building, and Elliott and his friends had sustained little in the way of injury. Even Wyatt had resisted the urge to lecture Geoff, who claimed he’d left simply to find a place to piss, and got turned around in a dark and unfamiliar place.
As soon as he reached the top of the rope ladder, Elliott found himself looking for Jade. Sweaty, exhilarated from the adrenaline rush of battle, and pissed that one of his few shirts had been ruined, he saw her talking to Linda and another of the teen girls. She cast a quick glance toward him, but didn’t break off her conversation.
That was fine with Elliott. He had some patching up to do on Simon, who’d taken a nasty hit by a set of ganga claws, and some serious thinking ahead.
At least he knew the answer to one question, sort of. After the battle with the gangas, he’d been unable to avoid Wyatt clasping his hand in a victory shake. Nothing had happened.
At least, so far.
It could mean that once he’d “transferred” the injury to someone, it couldn’t or wouldn’t be transferred again—hell, he hadn’t even been able to heal Linda after he’d given it to her.
Or maybe it meant that the ability to transfer it had worn off after a while. Or maybe he had to be thinking or concentrating about it when he absorbed the injury and then transferred it.
The implications were enough to keep his mind on that labyrinthine trail for a while. There was also the possibility that it had been something about Jade herself that had caused him to take on her injury and transfer it to himself, and then to Linda.
He glanced over at the woman in question and happened to find her looking at him. She looked away quickly, but it was too late. He couldn’t hold back a smile of delight and a rush of attraction.