Spellcaster. Cara Shultz Lynn

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СКАЧАТЬ running through the trees, back to the path, the panic building as I stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain. The last time I had to run for my life, it was right after the winter formal, when Anthony chased me through Central Park. But then, I knew the area. I knew the park. This time, I was racing through Fort Tryon blind.

       I sprinted back toward where I thought the path to the Cloisters were, weaving my way through the landscape. I had no idea how close the hooded figure was. I just knew I had to get away.

       My shoes skidded on the rain-dampened blades of grass. I pitched forward, my palms outstretched as I stumbled into the trunk of a nearby tree, the slick soles of my Mary Janes slipping on the wet ground. I whipped my head around, looking for the hooded figure. I didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. He could be behind me.

       He could be Anthony.

       The thought was like an injection of ice water into my heart, pumping the chilling fear through my body as I pushed myself off the mossy tree trunk. I whirled around, seeing nothing but trees.

       I heard a car horn in the distance and headed off after it. The West Side Highway—the Cloisters sat high above the busy thoroughfare. I could flag someone down—someone would see me.

       I pumped my arms, trying to force momentum as I slammed each foot into the ground. I weaved through the trees, skidding a few more times on the slick grass until I stumbled forward. My left knee plowed into a splintered tree branch, a casualty from last night’s storm. I cried aloud at the sharp jolt in my knee, as the broken-off wood ripped into my skin, stinging my jagged, torn skin. I shook it off, forcing my hands to push myself off the muddy ground.

       Then a different kind of pain—blunt, dull pain against my shoulder blades, as I was shoved. I stumbled forward, my hands outstretched and taking the brunt of the blow, protecting me as someone tried to slam my face into the trunk of a tree. My head jerked back as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking Ashley’s clip and some of my hair out. I instinctively jabbed my right elbow behind me, catching my assailant in the ribs.

       I heard a muffled grunt and his grip disappeared altogether.

       I whirled around and, crouching slightly, put my fists up in the self-defense pose Brendan and kickboxing had taught me.

       Standing a few feet away from me was the hooded figure, his right hand resting slightly on his abdomen, his shoulders rising as he panted from the struggle. He—or she, it was hard to tell—was shorter than I had first noticed. Definitely wasn’t Anthony, whose massive size eclipsed Brendan’s six-foot frame. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t behind this.

       The thin figure had some kind of black silk mask covering his face underneath a nondescript, bulky black pullover hoodie. A silver pentagram and another charm I didn’t recognize peeked from under the blackout mask, hanging from a thin, roped band. Baggy black jeans and black leather lace-up boots completed the look. I almost expected cloven hooves. The normal attire—and the fact that his hand hovered over his abdomen, where I had elbowed him—were almost comforting; at least I knew this monster was human. That I could hurt him. That I did hurt him.

       “What do you want?” I growled, trying to make my voice sound menacing in spite of my terror. I searched the black figure for some kind of identifying mark. Some telltale sign. Hell, even just knowing what gender would have been helpful.

       “What do you want?” I shouted again, taking a threatening step forward as I cocked my right fist back, searching the black hole where a face should be for a target. As I advanced, he stepped back a little, and I felt emboldened.

       I reared my fist back and slammed it into what I assumed was the right side of the face. The head snapped back and black-gloved hands flew up as he—I assume a he—staggered back a few steps. I took a step forward—push him, Emma. Just knock him down and then run—but he reached his right hand behind him to quickly pull something from the back of his belt.

       The hooded figure shook his head back and forth, slowly, like he was shaming me. He raised his shaky right hand high, and the sun glinted on what he held through the dappled light.

       I knew how to throw a punch. I knew how to dodge a punch.

       But I had no idea what to do with the silver blade that the shadowy figure held above his head. His shoulders raised up and down with exertion as his black-gloved hand flipped the handle so the blade now faced downward. The better to stab you with, my dear.

       “This doesn’t have to be so hard,” a muffled voice said, and I gasped at how, well, human it sounded. And oddly false, like it was deliberately brought down a pitch. Almost…female? No…

       “Just let me cut you once, Emma.”

       I fought my body’s urge to lock in fear that this psycho knew my name. And said it with such disgust. Instead I screamed loudly, trying to attract attention as I shuffled a few paces back, but my hooded assailant mirrored my movements.

       “Don’t make it worse for yourself, bitch,” the voice said, more a growl this time than anything. It’s got more hate…

      My eyes quickly searched the ground around me, looking for a rock or some other weapon. And then I realized something.

       I could be a weapon. And it might be the only thing to save me.

       I took a deep breath, letting my rage and fear saturate into every pore as I kept my fists up in defense. My palms got hot, and that burning heat raced up my skin, taking over my body as the edges of my vision seemed to get a little sharper. Just as the hooded psycho pulled back the knife, charging forward, I lifted my knee, extending my leg with all the force I could muster. As the bottom of my foot smashed into his stomach, I extended my palm, screaming out, “Emoveo!”

       It was the spell Angelique had managed to make work—but had always failed for me. Until now. The figure blasted back several yards—farther than ever would have been possible by the force of my kick alone. He flew backward, feet kicking uselessly in the air, his body emitting a heat-wave-style ripple around him until he crashed into a tree about eight feet off the ground. My attacker slid down the length of the trunk, shredded fragments of bark falling around him as he collapsed at the base.

       The hooded head jerked up, a blank black hole facing me. I didn’t need to see his face to know that we both wore matching expressions of shock. He jumped up—my muddy footprint front-and-center on the black sweatshirt—and raced away, deeper into the park, limping slightly.

       At first, I was too in awe to move from where I stood, my fists still held up in their defensive pose. I didn’t know whether to cry or cheer or yell, “Yeah, I thought so!” after my attacker. I briefly entertained the thought of chasing him down—but disappearing farther into the park didn’t seem like such a bright idea. I pulled my backpack from my shoulders, digging in it until my fingers closed on the small pump of pepper spray Brendan had given me. I slipped it in my sweatshirt pocket—I didn’t know if it would work against someone in a mask, but better to have it—right as I noticed something glinting in the grass near where the hooded psycho had fallen. It had to be Ashley’s hair clip…about twenty feet away. Impressive. I looked down at the foot that kicked him, expecting it to glow or shoot lasers out of the toes. Instead my shoe was just a little muddy.

       I bent down at the spot where the figure had landed to examine the shiny piece of metal. It wasn’t the hair clip. What it was set my stomach to churning again, as I squatted in the wet grass, staring at the very intricate, very fancy, very demonic- and evil-looking knife. This wasn’t just some kitchen knife, conveniently grabbed to mug СКАЧАТЬ