Page 183 of Ashborne: Defiance

But I was in a blind panic. Running on pure instinct. Until her voice rang in the night air.

“Voski!” she screamed. “Drop!”

The part of my chest that was her punched out from between my ribs. Her voice echoed between the buildings, and sang in my soul. My body refused to be deaf to her, and threw me to the damp cobblestones.

I tumbled to the ground, rolling instinctively, confused and bitter—in the same second a telltale thunk echoed in the dark, and Grace gasped, her light footsteps pattering on the stones behind me.

I’d rolled to hands and feet on the wet cobbles, hadn’t even turned my head yet, when the thud of a great weight hitting the ground vibrated through the stones under my palms and I froze, my nose just inches from the wide, startled eyes of a man.

White eyes.

Dirty hand.

Red, red blood.

Black hood over his head. Black scarf around his neck. Black clothes swathing every inch of his body.

He quivered and jerked, choking, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, stubby, calloused fingers clawing at the hilt of the blade buried in his throat.

“Voski!” Grace shrieked.

Shit. Shit!

I shoved to my feet as she reached me, kicking away the blade that he’d dropped and catching her around the middle as she slid to a halt, scrabbling like an animal turning in the hunt, as her eyes—white all the way around—locked on the dying man and a terrible noise broke in her throat.

Her jaw dropped and I clapped a hand over her mouth, whipping her aside, pinning her against that wall again. But she didn’t stare at me. She couldn’t see anything except him.

Her first kill.

“Grace,” I whispered urgently.

Her whole body shuddered. She blinked rapidly, over and over, leaning to peer past me, prying at my hands, instinctively fighting for release.

“H-have to help him. He’s b-bleeding.”

“Grace, look at me.”

“He’s going to die, Voski, let me go.”

“No.”

“Stop holding me.”

“No. Stop. Assess—did he throw? Hurt you? Breathe.”

“I can’t—you can’t! Let me go!” she hissed through her teeth.

Trembling, I curled myself around her, held her as tightly as I dared and pressed my lips next to her ear. She struggled like a cat, twisting, clawing, but I was too strong.

“Listen to me,” I whispered. “I know you can hear me. You have to listen. He’s dead, Grace.”

“No!”

“You did good. You did right. He had a knife. He would have—”

“No! We have to help him.”

“Grace—”