Page 66 of Under a Wicked Moon
A bullet headed his way. He ducked in time to dodge it as it tore through flowers.
Head needed to be in the game.
His mind wouldn’t focus. Too much worrying about losing Vivi, protecting the relics, and insecurity over escape routes. He could die here. But the relics…
He removed a handgun from his jacket. He could do this and protect the bag. Couldn’t he?
When had he ever second-guessed himself? Never.
He picked up on the bullet one second too late as it tore into his right forearm, his dominant shooting arm.
He was going to die.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the midst of the chaos, a new shooter engaged, one not aiming at Ky, but instead targeting the others. Someone helping him? Who? A random do-gooder? Gerard perhaps? No, Gerard was crap at shooting. Plus, he’d said minutes ago getting into the action wasn’t his job.
Maybe Antonio? Nah, it was daytime. Even if the vampire was exploring his benevolent side, he wouldn’t risk his life against daylight.
Perhaps God listened and sent one of his angels? Those guys were moody, but deadly. They also didn’t like crowds. So unlikely.
Three more isolated suppressed shots. Then nothing.
Thank you, God.He meant it, not in a taking-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain way, but in actual gratitude.
Police whistles heralded the impending arrival of a human complication he wished to avoid.
A hand came into his view, offering to help him to a stand. A tattoo of a stylized solar cross in black ink decorated the top of the strong right hand. The powerful protective symbol invoked the energy and magic of the sun in order to rid oneself of negative energy and shadows.
That tattoo…
He shook his head back and forth in denial as a dizzy numbness settled into him. He collapsed onto his butt.
“Slate’s minions are dead. You’re leaking out of at least twoholes and look like you’ve survived on rice cakes for a month. Do you need to be carried?” The guy wore aviator glasses, a backward baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.
“Who the…? What the…?” He shuffled backward, distrustful of the should-be deceased brother standing in front of him, seeming very much alive. “Is that really you? Shane?” He shook his head to clear his vision. “Fucking impossible. Are you a ghost?”
“Let’s go.” The lycan who seemed solid and not ethereal neither confirmed nor denied his identity. If this was his youngest brother, he looked gruffer than he remembered with a scruffy jaw and blond hair that had grayed around the edges. Lycans didn’t gray unless one experienced profound stress. This guy was lycan—smelled lycan, but Ky couldn’t see his eyes behind the aviator glasses. He had Shane’s white but not ultra-white toothy smile, and the movie-star handsomeness that allowed him to get away with murder in whatever circles he found himself.
The new lycan glanced behind him. “We must be gone before the authorities arrive. If you’re not up in two seconds, I’m carrying you.”
“Where have you been?” Ky’s voice cracked. He stared at the hand still being offered. “How do I know it’s you and not someone or something wearing a Shane suit? Or that you’re not some sort of reincarnated necromancer puppet or zombie?” This was impossible. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and took the offered hand.
“Excellent questions. Smart to ask. Just not right now.” The newcomer yanked him to his feet and propelled him in front of him.
Ky needed to see if the guy had Shane’s eyes. No one else had eyes so blue; they couldn’t hide the wholesome, almost painful sincerity that came direct from Shane’s soul. Both Shaneand Roman shared the same ultra-straight moral compass that allowed for very few gray zones. Shane was the kind of guy that if teams were picked, you wanted him on yours. Because he’d never stab you in the back. He’d always do what was in your best interest, and at the same time what was right. He was a hard worker and a harder fighter with integrity rammed up his ass so tight it was often annoying.
Ky might be imagining this. This could be a hallucination, a delayed side effect from whatever they shot him up with in prison.
Trembling started in his hands and traveled up his arms. Pain blasted through the right side of his skull, causing him to hunch over at the waist and grab his head with his free hand.
“Are you having a panic attack?” Possibly-Shane asked.
“I… I…” Breathing became hard. “Can’t tell what’s real. Everything’s foggy.”
He felt the guy pulling him through the crowd by his arm. “Keep moving. Police are coming. Keep it together.”
“Roman thought you might’ve survived, but… My head’s been messed up as hell about a lot right now. How do I know I’m not hallucinating this?” He put on the brakes.
