“Gotta knife, boys,” he said, in case they hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t remember, sometimes, how much he’d been able to see in the darkness before the blade had found him. “Gotta helluva left hook. And you need to return this gentleman’s money.”
The older man looked up from the ground in disbelief—the blade sucked that up, too—and moved away by inches as he groped for the emptied wallet.
“And his gear,” Mac added, nodding at the ragged satchel.
The young man holding the satchel threw it at his victim without looking. “This,” he said, grinning at Mac, “is more like it.”
He’d been bored, beating on the Pueblo man. Now he saw opportunity for more savage satisfaction.
The blade told Mac as much.
But Mac needed no warning. Not after so many confrontations like this one. The young men gave themselves away with a glance, a shift of weight, a sneer of lip. They rushed him without finesse, without training or style.
Bullies too used to their own strength and so highly aware of their own balls.
—hurt them scare them do it do it—
“I don’t think so,” Mac muttered—but he stayed quick with the blade, ducking, whirling, slashing lightly down an arm, jabbing sharp and fast into the back of the hand that snagged him on the other side. It was only a warning: This is what I can do.
Faster than anyone ought to be, the blade sharper, the moves more precise.
This is what I will do.
They cried out almost as one; they turned in fury. They had nothing but fists and boots, weapons for use on the weak.
—fear fear leap of hope ESCAPE!—
The older man ran for it—his satchel snagged, his empty wallet in his hand. Lurching in the darkness, hurting and bruised but safe.
And that, after all, had been the point.
“Hey,” Mac said, stepping back and opening his arms, a peacemaking gesture even with the blade in one hand. “We can rethink this.”
—fury humiliation pain mine mine mine—
Mac winced at the onslaught from the blade...pushed it away. But it left him ready for their two-pronged attack—a combined rush of brute force, this time wary of the blade. A duck, a feint, another slash—the thin blade so preternaturally sharp.
Deeper this time.
“Seriously,” Mac said, his body balanced and ready, his breathing still light and his voice casual. “I’ve got what I want. And your fun is way over—”
Until the blade spasmed, heat in his hand; a sudden glare in the night, hot metal invading his mind.
Inexplicable emotion surged up through the metal to reach Mac, an incomprehensible swamp of pure black tarry hatred slamming into him with vengeance. He grunted; he staggered back.
The men struck.
First with fists and then after he went down—staggered not by their blows but by a retching malaise—they added booted feet. He took the hits, rolling with the impact—over dusty desert ground, over the flat pad of a young prickly pear.
The young men who’d seen and wanted the blade now scrambled for it. Mac had just enough presence of mind to palm the thing—an old Barlow pocket knife now, changed in a swift retreat and with only the briefest strobe of light.
In the end, the change saved him. They thought him down—they looked for the trade knife they expected to find.
They forgot to look for him.
Mac knew better than to stay down. Even striking blindly, even staggering from the assault on his body and soul—hell, yes, he knew better. He came up swinging. No finesse, no holds barred—the blade flaring to life with its own sparking fury.
Steel and leather, fighting back—a wash of flickering energy and light and suddenly an old cavalry saber filled the sweep of Mac’s movement. For the moment, making a team of them.
Metal, tasting flesh. That sharp blade barely hesitated in its arc—but it left a scream in its wake.
“Son of a motherfu—” The voice grew muffled, the two men grappling as one tried to support the other. “—bitch!”
“Seriously,” Mac said—back on his feet now, wavering in a wide stance but still full of snarl. “How about you just call the night over?”
They staggered away, one supporting the other—clumsy enough to ram right into the side of the truck and slide along until they reached the passenger door. The white guy stuffed the Latino inside and threw himself into the driver’s side, spinning dirt and gravel until the tires grabbed pavement and squealed around in a tight U-turn back toward the interstate.
Mac thumped down to his knees in the darkness, letting the blade rest against dirt. The surging hate had faded, lapping around them in sticky waves of harsh pain. Fading hate that had fueled the initial assault; fading hate that had then driven it far past first blood. “What,” he asked bluntly, “the fuck was that?”
But the blade was silent.
* * *
Choosing the hotel went just like the rest of Gwen’s trip. Following her nose without realizing it, finding herself where she knew she needed to be. Salmon, swimming upstream.
Clueless salmon at that.
She slung her teardrop back-saver bag over her shoulder and pushed the Beetle’s door closed, double-checking the lock before she headed for the hotel entrance. They would, she hoped, have a vacancy. It was a weekday; it wasn’t any particular tourist season. Just early spring in Albuquerque.
She stopped short just beneath the lighted entry. Like so many other moments lately, without thinking much about it. Just doing it. To stare.
Like a complete idiot.
At a stranger.
At first glance, he was all distracted grey eyes, a faint frown between dark brows, tension along high cheekbones and lean jaw and with a mouth that looked as though it was crafted to carry a wry smile. Glossy dark hair was as scruffed as the rest of him, his one shoulder carried slightly higher than the other, with his movement not quite even and yet still full of its own strength.
On second glance, she saw his torn jeans and the scruffy ribbed crew-neck shirt, the dust-smeared jacket with sporadic dark splatters and stains that could only be blood. But by second glance, he’d seen her.
In point of fact, he was trying to get past her in this limited space—if only she hadn’t stopped to fill the space between the oversize potted shrubs flanking the entry walk.
But she had.
He glanced at her, and his polite distraction vanished; everything in those grey eyes focused in on her—targeted her. His shoulders straightened; his tired posture transformed into something more alert. Something more powerful.
Her mouth went dry.
His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
She’d lived her life with the uncanny ability to see through people, to anticipate them. To ignore the jerks and beware the bullies and step slowly back from the crazies.
From him, she felt nothing.
No, not true. She felt that which she couldn’t unravel—only a discordant and tangled duality, a slow humming throb that both called to her and terrified her.
“Who—” he said.
“I don’t know you,” she snapped, suddenly breaking free of that spell. “I want you to stay back, please.” Blunt words, straight to the point. She’d learned that, too, over the years. To listen to the voice that whispered within her—and to act on it.
She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t, wandering the highways on her walkabout. Amazing how much trouble her young self had gotten into, reacting to the sudden awareness of another’s bad intention.