The Lost Saint
Page 34

The scream sounded again but suddenly cut off, like someone had covered the woman’s mouth. My muscles flared.
“There’s no time.” Talbot grabbed my wrist. “The police can’t help her, but you can.”
“Me?”
Talbot let go of my arm. “I’m going.” He tossed the van keys at me. “Lock yourself in the van if you’re too afraid.” He took off jogging in the direction of the scream.
“Stop!” I shouted after him. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”
“Not if you’ve got my back,” he yelled.
What the hell did he mean by that? I glanced down at the keys in my hand. I’d caught them midair without even realizing it. When I looked up again, Talbot had already disappeared around the corner.
“Crap, he is going to get killed,” I said to myself. The tension in my muscles coursed like fire. My body wanted to do something, even if my better judgment screamed at me to stay put. Then an explosive bang rattled the sky. A gunshot!
Go! a foreign voice shouted in my head. I took off running before I could even stop myself. In a matter of seconds, I rounded the corner where Talbot had turned, and ran smack into a woman who was running the opposite way. Tears streamed down her face, and she held her torn shirt closed in front of her chest.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I tried to grab her arm, but she pulled away from my touch.
“Get away,” she cried, and kept running.
But I couldn’t leave without Talbot. I took a few more steps and stopped dead at the scene in front of me. Three guys. Two dressed in black with bright red ski masks. I could tell by their slight build that they were probably teenagers. The third person was Talbot. One of the ski-masked guys had him pushed up against a cement wall, a gun pressed to his head—the muzzle lost in the mop of Talbot’s hat-head hair.
I tried not to scream. I really did. I choked it back as hard as I could, but a high-pitched squawk escaped from my throat. I threw my hands over my mouth.
The guy pushed his hand against Talbot’s sternum, pressing him into the wall. He gestured in my direction. “We’ve got company.”
The second guy turned toward me. He had no face other than the two dark eyes that glared at me through the holes in the red ski mask.
“Bring her here,” the gunman ordered.
The other guy took a step toward me.
“Do something, Grace,” Talbot said.
The guy took a second and a third step.
Do what? Run? But I was frozen to that spot. Except, I wasn’t technically frozen, since every cell in my body seared like Fourth of July sparklers under my skin.
The man had only half a dozen more steps to take to close the gap between us, but I still couldn’t move. My stomach clenched into a fiery knot.
“Damn it, Grace!” Talbot shouted. “Do something. I know you can.”
“Do what?” I shouted back.
“That feeling in your stomach? That’s anger. That’s power. Grab on to it and kick that guy’s ass!”
How would he know …?
“Shut up.” The gunman smacked Talbot on the head with the gun. A trickle of red ran down his forehead. “Grab the girl, now!” he ordered his crony.
Talbot was right. That knot in my stomach had become a flaming rage. Daniel would tell me to push it away. Find balance. But as the large masked thug reached for me, I let that rage wash over me, and my fists went flying. I socked him in the gut, and he went sailing back several feet. I’d had no idea I was capable of hitting that hard.
He hit the brick wall of the adjacent building, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He caught himself and charged in my direction. I countered out of his way, but then he swung around and snatched at my shirt. One of his fists had tattoos of the letters S and K between his knuckles. This guy reeked, and the smell—like two-month-old milk—only aggravated me more. I grabbed his hands and twisted them away from me, then pulled his body down closer as I kneed him in the groin. He grunted with pain. His tongue lolled out of his mouth. I pushed him, and he stumbled back. I kicked him in the left kneecap while he was unstable, and he buckled under his own weight and fell to the ground. I glared down at him, my hands up in fists.
“Hey!” the gunman shouted. “You’ll pay for that.”
Watch out! I heard inside my head, and I looked up just in time to stare down the barrel of a gun.
“No!” Talbot shouted, and in a lightning-quick move, he wrenched himself out of the guy’s hold and then had the man’s gun-wielding hand in his. Talbot slammed the guy’s arm down and against his knee. I swear I heard the cracking of bones.
The guy dropped the gun and pulled his arm in against his chest, moaning. He took a wild swing at Talbot with his uninjured arm. Talbot blocked the blow and smashed the palm of his hand into the guy’s ski mask, presumably where his nose would be. The guy sputtered and coughed.
“What the hell, man?” He gasped and pulled at his ski mask, but before he could even yank it off, Talbot took a running leap, bounced off the cement wall like it was a springboard, and sent a flying kick right into the guy’s chest.
The gunman crumpled to the ground. Talbot landed in a crouching position next to him. There was just enough light left in the dim alley to glint off his green eyes, making them look like dazzling emeralds.
I gasped. “You’re a … You’re a …”
“An Urbat.” Talbot straightened up. He crossed the alley between us, then placed his warm, callused hand against my arm. “Just like you.”
BACK AT THE VAN
The thug I’d knocked down got away during the skirmish, and Talbot wanted to make sure the other one didn’t escape when he regained full consciousness. I couldn’t help watching the large muscles in Talbot’s forearms ripple as he used his belt to hog-tie the gunman next to the Dumpster. He did it with such ease I pictured him roping a calf on whatever farm he presumably came from. Talbot then emptied the gun of its bullets and tucked them into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Then he wiped the gun clean with his shirttail and tossed it next to the semiconscious guy’s head. “For evidence,” he said.
“Should I call the police now?” I pulled out my phone.
“Let me do it,” Talbot said. “My phone’s a prepaid, so they won’t be able to trace it.”