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She squeezed the brakes. Rubber squealed. Her boot sole touched down, bumping along cracked asphalt as she rolled to a stop. Alert and focused, senses firing like pistons, she scanned the buildings, both sides of the avenue, the thinning crowd, trying to decide.
Go left.
Turn right.
She studied the clusters of people. In groups of three or four. Walking instead of running, talking at normal levels instead of shouting, most headed away from Rittenhouse Square instead of toward it.
No one screaming in terror.
Nothing exploding in the immediate vicinity.
Or pools of blood on broken concrete left by an Assenta who didn’t care whom he hurt. Nary a sign of Westvane.
“Great.” Frustration about to boil over, she looked skyward.
Shadowed, barely visible above the city glow, she saw a black blur.
She set her other foot on the ground and, straddling the crossbar, angled backward, her gaze fixed between two buildings. A black bird crested the top of a high rise, banked left, and circled back.
Eastbrook in a holding pattern.
She huffed in satisfaction. Got him. Westvane wasn’t far. Her guess? Somewhere near Schuylkill River and one of the bridges crossing it.
Flipping the back tire around, Truly took off in that direction. She stood on the pedals and jumped the curb. Air held her suspended a moment. Her tires slammed down. Pedestrians leapt out of her way, yelling at her to slow down. She didn’t listen. Darting down an alley, she sped past dumpsters and piles of trash to reach Market Street.
Hands clenched around twin grips, she checked the sky.
Eastbrook swung into another rotation.
Truly turned right onto the JFK Boulevard and zipped across the bridge. Lit up in the dark, 30thStreet Station shone like a beacon in the dark. Massive Corinthian columns stood sentry, protecting the entrance, welcoming good-intentioned travelers through its doors. Running a red light, she zipped across the avenue and rode into the portico.
Eastbrook landed on the huge clock standing between the columns behind her. Cocking his head, he hopped from talon to talon, head bobbing.
“In there?” she asked, attention moving between Eastbrook and entrance. “Did he go in —”
Screaming rushed from behind glass doors.
A roar shook the tall panes in their steel frames. Running for their lives, a stampede of people followed. Doors banged open and travelers streamed out, pushing, shoving, tripping over one another. The human wave swarmed around, then past her.
Truly dropped the bike, and leaping over the front tire, elbowed a straggler aside to reach one of the doors. Another roar. More snarling. The sound of shattering glass. The building shook on its foundation. Chunks of rock and wooden debris exploded out the front doors. The concussive wave picked her up, throwing her backward. She slammed spine-first into one of the columns. Dazed by the blow, she sat unmoving, ears ringing, blood trickling down her cheek.
Blinking, Truly swiped at it as a band of pressure squeezed her ribcage. Her chest hitched, hiccupping like an old car engine, then caught. She sucked in dusty air and coughed, but managed to drag in a shuddered breath.
Eastbrook landed on her thigh.
He chuffed, nudging her with his beak. She drew in another lungful and nodded. Right. Okay. She needed to get up. Find her feet. Move forward. She couldn’t sit beneath the portico while Westvane battled the Wendigo.
Truly didn’t care what he said. She refused to let him face the carnage alone.
Pressing her hand into the ground, she levered herself upright. Chucks of concrete and glass bit into her palm. She ignored the sting. A couple more scrapes wouldn’t kill her. Eastbrook agreed, hopping to her shoulder as she wiped blood off her cheek and rushed to one of the doors, ignoring Westvane’s instruction by running toward the fight instead of away.
46
WHAT ARE YOU?
For a large structure, the train station seemed too small. Despite the high ceilings and wide main hall, Westvane needed more room to maneuver… and fewer things for the Wendigo to throw. Particularly since the beast had shed its human skin.
Now, it stood twelve feet tall. Thick, hooked horns spiraled from the sides of the beast’s head. All six eyes trained on him, its flat nose flared. Jagged teeth flashed as it snarled, causing the venomous snake tipping its tail to rise into strike formation above the Wendigo’s shoulder.
