think I’m dead.” Surely they had given up. “I’d like to see this Isabelle, too. Only from a distance, of course. No reason to scare the woman with a face like mine.” He led Taurean up the ladder. “Charisma seemed so sure Isabelle would rush to her side, and she said she was a healer. So, a doctor, I guess. If Charisma hadn’t gone back to sleep, I would have had her write a note, because what kind of doctor would follow either one of us under the city?” He threw back the hatch. He stepped out into the enclosed garbage area for the museum, and reflected briefly that his first breath of fresh air smelled of rotting leftovers from the cafeteria. He reached down for Taurean’s hand—and something scraped against the building, and an alien odor touched his senses.
Men. Humans. Police. Nearby.
And
them
.
“Run!” he shouted at Taurean.
With a gasp, she vanished down the rungs.
Floodlights flashed on, illuminating him, baring his hideous form to the whole world.
A man’s shocked voice said, “Holy shit, what is that?”
In one bound, Guardian jumped halfway back down the ladder. In another, he reached bottom.
Taurean was nowhere in sight.
So Guardian kept his promise. He ran.
Behind him, he heard shouts. The creak of wood as men poured down the ladder. Pounding feet.
Spotlights blasted through the stark night of the tunnels.
Gunshots roared and echoed along the stone walls.
He dropped flat to the ground.
A man’s voice yelled, “Aim carefully. I want him alive!”
Terror froze Guardian in place.
He knew that voice. He knew that man.
He feared that man.
Someone screamed at him.
Run!
Or maybe it was his own mind he heard.
He didn’t care if he was shot. He had to
run
!
Rising onto all fours, he used his hands and feet to gain a speed these humans could never emulate.
Behind him, a flash of light. A blast and an unearthly high whistle. Screams of surprise.
His underground friends did not allow trespassers—and they would protect Guardian, their Warrior, who protected them.
Another explosion; the reverberation rolled down the tunnel, shaking the ground, overtaking him, passing him.
Smoke tickled his nose.
He took the first passage to the left. He rushed along another corridor, down another stairway, plunging deeper into the secret places beneath the city, where night clung eternally to the walls and only a creature like him, deformed, mutilated, outcast, could find his way back.
He ran until his heart wanted to burst and his lungs burned, until he smelled no other creature, heard no sound other than his own breathing. Until he was alone, as he would always be.
But somewhere in the passages above, a man—and a woman—hunted him. He remembered them.
Lifting his head to a sky he would never again see, he howled out his fear and rage.
And the demons cowered.
Chapter 9
T aurean waited until the number six subway rumbled past, then crawled out of the underground onto the tracks. She walked a hundred feet to the 103rd Street station, climbed up on the platform, and headed for the exit, talking to herself all the way.
No one said anything to her about how she’d arrived and the way she departed. She was homeless and crazy. So she might as well be a ghost.
She headed south on Third Avenue, toward the Upper East Side. Outside, the city was as quiet as it would ever be; the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, but already it turned the sky a light tan. As she trekked along toward Irving’s house, she said, “See that color? That means there’s an air stagnation warning. Again. I remember when the wind off the sea used to blow the smog away occasionally. Now it seems every day it gets thicker and harder to breathe. Glad I don’t have asthma.”
Outside a corner bakery, a short, chubby guy who was sweeping the front walk glanced at her and backed up toward his door.
She told him, “Of course, I also remember a time when I was an art historian, when I was welcome at homes like
Men. Humans. Police. Nearby.
And
them
.
“Run!” he shouted at Taurean.
With a gasp, she vanished down the rungs.
Floodlights flashed on, illuminating him, baring his hideous form to the whole world.
A man’s shocked voice said, “Holy shit, what is that?”
In one bound, Guardian jumped halfway back down the ladder. In another, he reached bottom.
Taurean was nowhere in sight.
So Guardian kept his promise. He ran.
Behind him, he heard shouts. The creak of wood as men poured down the ladder. Pounding feet.
Spotlights blasted through the stark night of the tunnels.
Gunshots roared and echoed along the stone walls.
He dropped flat to the ground.
A man’s voice yelled, “Aim carefully. I want him alive!”
Terror froze Guardian in place.
He knew that voice. He knew that man.
He feared that man.
Someone screamed at him.
Run!
Or maybe it was his own mind he heard.
He didn’t care if he was shot. He had to
run
!
Rising onto all fours, he used his hands and feet to gain a speed these humans could never emulate.
Behind him, a flash of light. A blast and an unearthly high whistle. Screams of surprise.
His underground friends did not allow trespassers—and they would protect Guardian, their Warrior, who protected them.
Another explosion; the reverberation rolled down the tunnel, shaking the ground, overtaking him, passing him.
Smoke tickled his nose.
He took the first passage to the left. He rushed along another corridor, down another stairway, plunging deeper into the secret places beneath the city, where night clung eternally to the walls and only a creature like him, deformed, mutilated, outcast, could find his way back.
He ran until his heart wanted to burst and his lungs burned, until he smelled no other creature, heard no sound other than his own breathing. Until he was alone, as he would always be.
But somewhere in the passages above, a man—and a woman—hunted him. He remembered them.
Lifting his head to a sky he would never again see, he howled out his fear and rage.
And the demons cowered.
Chapter 9
T aurean waited until the number six subway rumbled past, then crawled out of the underground onto the tracks. She walked a hundred feet to the 103rd Street station, climbed up on the platform, and headed for the exit, talking to herself all the way.
No one said anything to her about how she’d arrived and the way she departed. She was homeless and crazy. So she might as well be a ghost.
She headed south on Third Avenue, toward the Upper East Side. Outside, the city was as quiet as it would ever be; the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, but already it turned the sky a light tan. As she trekked along toward Irving’s house, she said, “See that color? That means there’s an air stagnation warning. Again. I remember when the wind off the sea used to blow the smog away occasionally. Now it seems every day it gets thicker and harder to breathe. Glad I don’t have asthma.”
Outside a corner bakery, a short, chubby guy who was sweeping the front walk glanced at her and backed up toward his door.
She told him, “Of course, I also remember a time when I was an art historian, when I was welcome at homes like
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