Angel Slayer. Michele Hauf

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       Thunk.

      The man landed on the trunk of the car on all fours, as if an animal had dropped from above.

      “Holy crap,” the cabbie said, and rolled through the green light. “That is a mite dangerous.”

      “Shake him off,” Eden warbled nervously. She slid her hand along her thigh, feeling for the small blade she kept strapped there. “He’s climbing onto the top of the cab.”

      “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” the cabbie protested.

      A sudden right turn resulted in a clatter across the top of the vehicle. Eden saw the punk land on the asphalt—on two feet. Not like he’d been whipped off the car and couldn’t catch his bearings. He was agile and determined. One glowing blue eye remained focused on the cab.

      “Unbetievable,” the cabbie said. “There’s a short tunnel ahead. We’ll lose him in there.”

      “Go for it!”

      The punk stood in the middle of the road, right on the yellow no-pass center line. Arms curved out in a fierce stance, he stomped one booted foot and snarled.

      Eden couldn’t comprehend this.

      He must be on drugs to have survived being thrown from the top of the car, and then to stand as if nothing had happened. Now he ran after the cab like some indestructible robot from a sci-fi movie.

      “Drive faster!”

      The cab interior went dark. The red lights lining the inner walls of the tunnel flashed intermittently. The cab slowed.

      “What are you doing? Traffic is going faster than this. Keep up!”

      “It’s … an … angel … “ the cabbie said in a wondrous tone.

      “What?” Eden leaned over the front seat, dodging her head down to see around the rearview mirror. “I’m the only nut who ever thinks she sees an—I don’t see anything. You have a clear lane. Keep driving!”

      She snapped her fingers next to the cabbie’s ear. He shook his head as if snapping out of a trance.

      Daylight burst into the cab as the car cruised out of the tunnel. Ahead, a four-way stop did not slow the cab. Eden gripped the driver’s-seat headrest and twisted her body to scan out the side and rear windows. No sign of the punk.

      Then the cab turned left—into oncoming traffic—and Eden’s body was thrown from the back of the cab into the front. Her head plunged toward the passenger side floor. Impact thudded her shoulder. Metallic blood trickled across her tongue.

      The vehicle’s tires left the tarmac. The cab flipped and landed upside-down, spinning twice before slamming into a street signal pole. Glass shattered. Iron bent.

      Eden blacked out.

      * * *

      Her eyelids fluttered.

      The smell of gasoline mixed with the sweet odor of blood. Her chin was shoved down to her chest and her legs felt higher than her shoulders.

      Trapped.

      Blinking rapidly, Eden grasped for what had happened. The accident. They’d run a stop sign. Because the punk with the eye patch had tracked them across the city—on foot!

      She eased herself out through the open door and landed on the street on her knees. Safety glass littered the ground, but she avoided it. Peering into the taxi, she spied the cabbie, his head on the steering wheel. There was no visible blood, and he was groaning.

      “Not dead, thank goodness.”

      A constant honking car horn effectively cleared her foggy brain. Other vehicles had been involved in the crash—two more, she saw from her kneeling position.

      Fore in Eden’s mind remained the strange man. He’d literally been hell-bent on getting to her. Was he still in pursuit? Had he been hit by one of the cars that had collided in the accident?

      She slid shaky fingers along her forearm. It itched where he had licked her. She scratched, but a drop of blood on the seat distracted her. Where had that—? She touched her head. A gash across her eyebrow bled. Didn’t feel deep. It didn’t hurt at all, which could be a good thing, or very bad.

      A slide of fingers under her skirt and along her thigh verified the small blade still there. She could have been poked with it. She’d been fortunate.

      “Have to …” If the punk found her what would he do? Heart racing toward a cliff, she couldn’t think beyond the insanity her pursuer had instilled in her. “Hide.”

      Shuffling backward, Eden scrambled along the curb until she stopped at a spinning tire attached to a battered SUV. The radio inside the car blasted a Jimmy Hendrix tune.

      Bent over, she crept-walked around the front of the SUV and spied a magazine stand on the sidewalk. She dove to the ground behind the wooden rack, her position hidden from the accident scene.

      The sound of a new crash, like rubber-soled boots landing on a trunk, set her rigid. Already her heart beat maniacally. She couldn’t get more alert or tense.

      “Here, pretty, pretty.”

      It was the punk. Clasping her arms about her legs, she winced when her forearm crushed another cut below her knee. She would not cry. She must not make noise.

      What would a man who had followed her through traffic, been thrown off a moving vehicle and was sorting through the scene of a wreckage want with her? No answer was good.

      And any answer tested the boundaries of what was real and what could only be supernatural. Eden believed in beings not like herself. She had to, because she believed in angels.

      The boots stomped the sidewalk not twenty feet from where Eden hid. She heard a snorting noise, like some kind of animal. He was … sniffing. It was as if he were a wild cat stalking its prey.

      She didn’t like thinking that word—prey. Her gut clenched and she tried to stifle the uncontrollable need to sob.

      Boot steps slowly approached. They paused and she heard a sniffing sound, as if he were testing the air. Then the boots jumped onto a vehicle and she heard metal crunch beneath them.

      In the distance an ambulance siren wailed. Eden realized people from nearby shops had begun to step out and were gathering near the crashed cars.

      “Not here,” the punk growled under his breath. “Bitch got away.” He landed on the asphalt. It sounded like he was walking away.

      The back of Eden’s head fell against the boards behind her. She could be injured but she didn’t care. It was a relief to know the creep had given up. Finally.

      She scratched the itch on her forearm. As if a wasp sting, it burned worse СКАЧАТЬ