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“Westvane, where’s Eastbrook? Maybe —”
Latching onto her wrist, he yanked her behind him. Gaze moving over the crowd, he sliced between a light pole and a throng of idiots throwing beer bottles at a store front. Glass shattered. A shout went up. Westvane veered right, then left, knocking people out of his way.
She heard complaints rise around her. Each complaint died an easy death. Understandable. One look at Westvane and, drunk or not, everyone scurried out of the way. A hole opened in front of him, only to close in his wake. Open, then close. Ebb and flow. The human wave felt like a living organism, the reaction of molecules being pushed aside, only to reassemble into proper formation when the disturbance left.
“Tuck in,” Westvane growled, rounding a burning SUV in the middle of the street. “Head down.”
Truly pressed closer, trying to do as ordered, but couldn’t look away. Walnut Street looked like a war zone. Battle credos rose from everywhere. People stood on top of cars, yelling. Others hung from the sides of lamp posts, shouting. More than one group chanted, waving signs — some masterful, others homemade — creating visual scramble, mesmerizing with color. The sound of breaking glass and the smell of smoke joined the chaos, rippling through the normally peaceful neighborhood.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, grabbing the back of Westvane’s jacket. She tugged, fighting the hold he had on her wrist. His grip tightened. Pressure compressed over her bones. Ignoring the sting, she yanked again. “Let go, Westvane. You need both of your hands free.”
“Stay close.” Shoving a group aside one-handed, he released his hold on her. “Don’t let go.”
In answer, she fisted both hands in his coat.
He didn’t slow, towing her through the crowd, moving obstacles when needed, heading for the flash of greenery at the end of the clogged avenue. She saw treetops through the smoke and angry mob, standing tall on the edge of Rittenhouse Square.
Clinging to him with her dominant hand, Truly let go with the other. She pointed at the trees and yelled over the noise, “The square!”
He nodded, and weaving between cars, headed for the corner of Walnut and Rittenhouse Square. Jammed with protestors facing off with police in riot gear, the intersection seemed like a bad place to go. Westvane plowed straight through, shoving people aside, walking around the police barricades, over the sidewalk, right into the park.
The officers didn’t blink an eye… or break formation.
A few greeted Westvane with chin lifts as he walked past.
“You know them?” Truly knew it was a stupid question. Of course, Westvane didn’t know the police. How could he? He’d spent limited time in Earth Realm, and none of it hanging out with Philadelphia PD.
“No,” he said, humoring her momentary lack of mental acuity. “But they don’t need to know me to know they don’t want any part of me.”
Drawing her in front of him, shielding her from the bump of streaming bodies, he stopped at the edge of the park. His nostrils flared as he scented the air. A growl rumbled from deep inside his chest. Citrine shimmer sparked in his dark eyes as he tipped his chin down and stared at something. A strange stillness overtook him. His cheekbones sharpened, taking on predatory edges.
Watching the change, Truly swallowed, but otherwise stayed perfectly still. Distracting him didn’t seem like a good idea. Neither did making herself the subject of such rapt focus.
“Remember what I said,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he grew more focused on the center of Rittenhouse Square.
His hands flexed around her upper arms. Something dragged at her jacket, pricking her biceps. She glanced down and caught her breath. His fingernails, normally round and buff, had grown into sharp, short claws. Staring at the proof of his Assenta heritage, she struggled to draw full breaths.
Westvane shook her gently, then released her. “Remember it to the letter, princess.”
“Wait,” she said, grasping at his lapel. “I…”
“What?” he snapped, his gaze on the crowd… and his target.
“I won’t be able to keep up.” Feeling like an asthmatic, she drew one shallow breath after another. “You’re too fast. I’m assuming the Wendigo is too, so once you take off, I’ll never be able — "
Black eyes glinting yellow cut to her.
Truly flinched, but held steady, determined to stand tall in the face of an Assenta warrior on the hunt.
With a nod, he scanned the crowd. His gaze flickered. Lightning quick, he reached out, snagged a cyclist zipping by, and yanked. The speed bike came to an abrupt halt. The rider flew over the handle bars. Westvane didn’t wait for him to land. Manhandling the bicycle, he spun it toward her. She grabbed the seat to hold the Cervélo upright, cringing as the man hit solid concrete.
Sounded awful. Absolutely brutal given the groan the guy expelled.
The pain he caused didn’t faze Westvane. Dark eyes focused on her, he growled, “Now, do as you’re told. Stay down range, keep up.”
Under normal circumstances, Truly would’ve bristled at his tone. She didn’t enjoy being ordered around — or snarled at for that matter. But as she watched him run into the park, footspeed freakishly fast, she didn’t waste her energy on anger. She threw her leg over, set her foot on the pedal and, saying a silent apology to guy spread like a broken starfish on the sidewalk, tore after him. She’d rip a strip off Westvane later. Right now, she had a bicycle to ride and an Assenta warrior to catch.
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