He grabbed her left wrist. “Hold, Sera.”
“Oh sure, stop the fight when you’re losing. Again.” He’d walked away quick enough last time.
His lips twisted, amusement or annoyance, she wasn’t sure. “Your shoulder.”
As soon as he spoke, the radiating pain made her gasp. She glanced down at the unnatural wrench of her arm.
“Out of joint,” Zane said. “You got her?”
“Wait,” she said.
Archer reeled her in. Zane took her elbow in one hand and held her upper arm with the other. “Take a deep breath and let it out while I count down. Three. Two . . .”
In one steady pull, he slid her shoulder back into place.
She yelped and rocketed away. Her flight carried her halfway across the room. Her gaze locked on the mounted machine gun a long moment before she turned to glare at the men.
“Now, Sera.” Zane held up both hands.
She rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t even.”
Zane slanted a glance at Archer.“We could’ve worked on the left side tomorrow.”
“And if she met another feralis tonight? I tell you, she encounters them with unnerving frequency.”
She bristled. “I’ve walked away fine from every encounter. Except when I’m fighting you.”
She caught a glimpse of regret in the half-mast of his dark eyes before he turned back to Zane. “Make her work both sides every time. No sense setting her up for failure.”
“Standing right here.” She waved. “And not deaf.”
“Just a newbie on the fight scene,” Zane said soothingly.
She scowled. “Not so new. One malice dispatch and three feralis assists.”
Archer rolled his eyes. “And learning fast.”
“You’re not the only teacher around,” she shot back.
“But I’ll be one of them.” He made it sound like a threat.
Zane brightened. “You’re sticking close for a while? Jonah said I should ask you for some pointers.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to get back to the bat cave?” Sera muttered.
Archer didn’t even glance in her direction. “I want to go through some archives.”
Zane pursed his lips. “Those old things? Looking for something in particular?”
Archer shrugged.
Sera stifled her own spurt of curiosity. Whatever he did was his business. He’d made that clear enough. “Ready to try again, Zane? I think I’m starting to feel my demon ascend.”
Archer shook his head. “You need a chance to heal. You and I will go a round tonight.” Before she could protest, he said to Zane, “Shall we spar while I wait for Bookie?”
Zane’s face lit up. She figured as playmates went, she fell somewhere below frogs and mud pies when the big boys showed up. With a huff, she turned to go.
“Sera.” A rueful note in Archer’s voice stopped her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve known you wouldn’t accept the demonstration meekly.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Thanks.”
He frowned. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Wasn’t much of an apology either.”
His scowl deepened. “I wasn’t apologizing. I told you before I’d do what it takes to keep you alive.”
He’d walked away, saying she’d be better off without him. And he’d really meant he’d be better off without her. Oh, but he did admit he regretted it. Too damn bad—for both of them.
“Then I’ll return the favor. Zane, when Archer attacks, he overcommits and goes too far. So long as he’s faster and stronger, his strategy wins. But he holds nothing back for the next step. I suppose an annihilation-class demon doesn’t think it needs a next step, what with the annihilation and all.” Archer’s half-lidded stare weighed on her. “Maybe you can help him with that.”
Zane nodded eagerly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She contemplated sneaking up to the balcony to watch. But she doubted Zane was the fighter to adjust that Archer attitude. And she knew he’d know she was up there. She didn’t want to guess what motivation he’d ascribe to her staying.
She wasn’t sure she knew herself.
The subtle shift of air when he leaned toward her as she walked past all but drew sparks along her skin and shivered down the marking over her spine and thighs.
Maybe the demon wanted that rematch now. Unresolved tension settled deep, making her bones itch.
She paced in the lobby, staring out at the hazy daylight, unwilling to do anything stupid, such as make herself a target, just because she feared she would jump her drill instructor’s bones—and not in the approved gutter-fighting sense.
Still, hours remained before the deeper dangers of night. What was the worst that could happen? Despite the gruesome answers that kaleidoscoped through her mind, the twisting inside her drove her outside.
The chill sunk into her core and lulled the edgy demon. Or maybe it was just distance from Archer. When a sharp rumble attracted her attention, she hopped the next train to wherever.
The city flashed by—like her life lately, zipping past at half-blurred speed. She’d been possessed by a demon, slept with a man who should’ve been dead, been rejected as a bad bet by a should’ve-been-dead man possessed by a demon. . . . No, that was unfair. Rejection implied far more emotional connection than he allowed.
She’d had rejection enough to last a lifetime the day her mother left. Mom coming back had only sealed the deal. Her therapy studies had convinced her, intellectually, her mother’s abandonment had nothing to do with her. But that didn’t change the fact she’d been left alone to care for four angry brothers and a devastated father.
And then her mother had returned. In a broken whisper barely louder than the car engine, she’d told how the voices in her head had driven her away, how they were driving her now thirteen-year-old daughter in tow, toward the river. Her cry had risen, in counterpoint to the straining engine as they roared up the bridge. “Now they won’t get us,” she’d screamed, just as the car smashed the concrete railing into gray dust.
Sera steeled herself against the memory. She was just brooding because her father, through no fault of his own, and Archer, definitely to be faulted, had each come to the same conclusion about her: Not worth holding on to.
At least Mom had wanted her around, at the end.
Her own wallowing drove her out of her seat. When the train doors opened, she followed the wave of exiting commuters.
The wave broke around a thin man in the center of the platform. Only the thatch of his muddy brown hair was visible as he hunched over, shaking a glass vial urgently over his hand, though nothing came out.
“Ah, it hurts again,” he murmured. “It hurts.”
Sera, carried past him by the crowd, turned at the chiming tinkle of breaking glass. The man stood in a pool of shards, his body slumped, as if he’d dropped something precious, but he didn’t bend down to retrieve any pieces.
She frowned, remembering the kids at the dance club, popping pills. No wonder Betsy was complaining about the drug’s potency if people jonesed this bad.
She swung around a cement column, avoiding the last commuters, but when she took a few steps back along her path, the man was gone. Only the glittering circle of glass remained.
She looked in all directions. A wind swept past, ruffling posters taped to the column. Her gaze locked on the glossy neon blue of one flyer.
Tent revival. Faith healing.
She almost laughed. See what thinking of a preacher father and demon-ridden lover predisposed the eye to notice? If only she could’ve taken the poor addict.
She started back toward the platform, then stopped. She considered the street name of the train stop and returned to the flyer. The revival was only a few blocks up.
No other place to be, she reminded herself.