cooperating, I barely moved a couple feet. As I glanced toward the car, I caught a glimpse of my own frightened stare, reflected in the chrome of the bumper. But in an instant it was gone, replaced by a blur of fender as the Crown Vic whizzed past, scant inches from my face. I collapsed backward onto the pavement. My chest heaved with every ragged breath as I stared, spent, at the gray morning sky. Two for two, I thought – not too shabby. I was out of gas, though, and I knew it. If they came at me a third time, I was toast, and this body was heading right back where I found it. I wondered queasily whether the docs would even recognize poor Jonah once that Crown Vic had its way. It wasn't a comforting line of thought.
But they didn't take another pass. Instead, the engine cut out. Four doors opened, and then slammed shut. Four sets of shoes clattered across the pavement. Three stopped well short of where I lay – they spoke in hushed tones, their words lost to me on the breeze. The fourth approached me, blotting out the morning sky as he hunched over my crumpled form. He was fuzzy, hard to see – as if lit from within. I was pretty sure that wasn't just because of the crack I took to the noggin. My breath caught in my chest. My vision dimmed. I tried in vain to stretch my consciousness, to find myself another vessel, but the effort was too great – all I got for my trouble was a searing pain between my temples and the copper scent of blood prickling in my sinuses. Sirens, faint as hope, echoed in the distance. In that moment, I didn't care I was a fugitive – I just prayed they'd be in time. Whatever these guys wanted with me, it wasn't good, and it's not like I was gonna go down swinging.
"Is it dead?" called one of the stragglers.
"No," replied the one above me. "It lives."
"Come, Ahadiel. We have to go. Perhaps next time, we will finish him."
And then, sirens drawing closer, they fled.
I woke by degrees. The first thing I was aware of was my leg, which throbbed in time with the beating of my heart. Next came the sirens. They were everywhere, reverberating off the walls around me. I opened my eyes. Light flooded in, and my head erupted in whitehot pain. I clenched them shut again and retched. That meant concussion. Explained the fuzziness.
Again I opened my eyes, slowly this time. My stomach clenched, but I didn't vomit. It was progress. I looked around. I was lying in a broad trash-strewn alley, tucked between a dumpster and a loading dock.
And I wasn't alone.
By instinct, I tried to find my feet, but my hip felt heavy and out of joint, and my leg couldn't take the weight. I got to one knee before collapsing to the ground with a scream.
"Quiet," said the young man who sat beside me, nodding toward the mouth of the alley – toward the source of the sirens. "They'll hear you."
He was a wiry kid of maybe twenty-three, in a tattered army surplus jacket and dirt-smeared jeans. His pallor was gray, his face gaunt, his black hair was longish and matted. His eyes darted this way and that, looking anywhere it seemed but at mine. His frame and clothes suggested homeless. His furtive gaze suggested crazy. In his hand he held a knife, matte brown with rust and filth.
Christ, I thought – this day keeps getting better and better.
"What makes you think I don't want them to hear?"
"You told me. In my head."
I eyed him, suspicious. "I did."
He nodded. "In my head, I heard you calling. Afraid. Trying to escape. So I came to help."
"Look, about that – I appreciate the help, but I really gotta go."
"You are not who you are."
My heart skipped a beat. "Come again?"
"You are not who you are," he repeated. "Your body – it fits you funny, like borrowed clothes. And the voice you used to call me is not the voice you use now."
The kid rocked back and forth as he spoke, and still his gaze avoided mine. It was clear he wasn't quite right
But they didn't take another pass. Instead, the engine cut out. Four doors opened, and then slammed shut. Four sets of shoes clattered across the pavement. Three stopped well short of where I lay – they spoke in hushed tones, their words lost to me on the breeze. The fourth approached me, blotting out the morning sky as he hunched over my crumpled form. He was fuzzy, hard to see – as if lit from within. I was pretty sure that wasn't just because of the crack I took to the noggin. My breath caught in my chest. My vision dimmed. I tried in vain to stretch my consciousness, to find myself another vessel, but the effort was too great – all I got for my trouble was a searing pain between my temples and the copper scent of blood prickling in my sinuses. Sirens, faint as hope, echoed in the distance. In that moment, I didn't care I was a fugitive – I just prayed they'd be in time. Whatever these guys wanted with me, it wasn't good, and it's not like I was gonna go down swinging.
"Is it dead?" called one of the stragglers.
"No," replied the one above me. "It lives."
"Come, Ahadiel. We have to go. Perhaps next time, we will finish him."
And then, sirens drawing closer, they fled.
I woke by degrees. The first thing I was aware of was my leg, which throbbed in time with the beating of my heart. Next came the sirens. They were everywhere, reverberating off the walls around me. I opened my eyes. Light flooded in, and my head erupted in whitehot pain. I clenched them shut again and retched. That meant concussion. Explained the fuzziness.
Again I opened my eyes, slowly this time. My stomach clenched, but I didn't vomit. It was progress. I looked around. I was lying in a broad trash-strewn alley, tucked between a dumpster and a loading dock.
And I wasn't alone.
By instinct, I tried to find my feet, but my hip felt heavy and out of joint, and my leg couldn't take the weight. I got to one knee before collapsing to the ground with a scream.
"Quiet," said the young man who sat beside me, nodding toward the mouth of the alley – toward the source of the sirens. "They'll hear you."
He was a wiry kid of maybe twenty-three, in a tattered army surplus jacket and dirt-smeared jeans. His pallor was gray, his face gaunt, his black hair was longish and matted. His eyes darted this way and that, looking anywhere it seemed but at mine. His frame and clothes suggested homeless. His furtive gaze suggested crazy. In his hand he held a knife, matte brown with rust and filth.
Christ, I thought – this day keeps getting better and better.
"What makes you think I don't want them to hear?"
"You told me. In my head."
I eyed him, suspicious. "I did."
He nodded. "In my head, I heard you calling. Afraid. Trying to escape. So I came to help."
"Look, about that – I appreciate the help, but I really gotta go."
"You are not who you are."
My heart skipped a beat. "Come again?"
"You are not who you are," he repeated. "Your body – it fits you funny, like borrowed clothes. And the voice you used to call me is not the voice you use now."
The kid rocked back and forth as he spoke, and still his gaze avoided mine. It was clear he wasn't quite right
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