Free DarkWalker by John Urbancik Page B

interruption. “There was nothing then. No one. Everything pretended you weren’t there. Moved aside, even. It was hard to stay with you then. Now…now, I don’t want to go. I’m drawn to you.”
    “Why?”
    “The snapping thing. The clicking thing.”
    “The imp,” Jack said.
    She shivered. Jack felt it as a vibration through the chill around him. “It was awful,” she said. “I hated to be near it.”
    If she was right, if the imp had changed things . . . Jack had done it to himself. He’d interrupted, protecting Lisa. He’d made himself a target. Whatever immunity he’d had, he surrendered it up the moment he interfered.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    1.
     
    Clouds gathered. They obscured the stars, veiled the moon and threatened. The weatherman had said they’d come, and that early Friday they’d bring rain.
    But the moon still shone through. They were in thin layers as yet, the clouds, but building.
    One step. Jack Harlow took only one step onto the path, toward Lisa’s apartment building, and a huge man stepped out of the dark. Not an ounce of fat. Bulging arms, tattoos up and down the sides—and across the chest, beneath an open leather vest. A yellow-toothed grin. One eyebrow lower than the other and no other hair on his head. Silver through his nose, lining his earlobes, studs under his lip. Around his neck, he wore a black dog collar with inch long spikes; more were grafted onto the knuckles of his left fist like claws. Black leather pants and heavy boots.
    He inhaled, expanding his broad chest, raising his shoulders and lifting his hands to fight. “Nice night, ain’t it?”
    Normally, Jack could walk right past him, brush by, exchange a few words if absolutely necessary. But tonight, Jack wasn’t sure it’d be so easy. There wasn’t anyone else to be this thing’s victim, only Jack.
    “So, you watch,” the man said, lifting the higher eyebrow and narrowing the other. “And they think I’m the freak.”
    “What do you want?” Jack asked.
    The thing—ogre—laughed humorlessly. He reached up, grasped one of his tattoos—a dagger—and pulled it from his skin. The dagger was real, not ink, and came away with a sticky slapping sound. It was twice as long as the tat had been.
    On his other arm, a fanged snake twisted around his thick bicep. He pulled the snake free. It writhed around his hand, black, hissing, venom dripping from its mouth, eyes intent on Jack.
    It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “Like you need those.”
    The ogre shrugged. “Likes my toys, I do.” He pulled the snake-arm back, swung it forward, and shot the end of the snake like a whip.
    Jack stepped aside as it snapped, teeth striking exactly where he’d been standing. The snake returned to the ogre’s hand, but its eyes never left Jack.
    “I eat punks like you,” the ogre said. “Pick the gristle from my teeth with your bones.”
    “Appetizing,” Jack said.
    The ogre swung the snake-whip again, closer, almost getting him. His grin widened as Jack almost stumbled.
    Jack couldn’t fight it. The man was easily two feet taller and two feet broader, and could probably lift Jack with his pinky finger. And there were more weapon-tattoos for him to grab: skulls, dragons, demonic faces.
    It was fight or flight. Jack had only one real option. He ran.
    He took off to the left, away from Lake Eola and toward the street. He hopped a low hedge, trampled some flowers, and ran between the trees. It wasn’t forest-thick here, mostly open spaces near the edge of downtown, so he couldn’t hide. Jack hoped whatever the ogre had gained in muscle, it lost in speed. When he glanced back, as he reached the street, the ogre lumbered after him.
    Not slowly enough.
    Magnolia Avenue was ahead. There, the trees and houses gave way to buildings and alleys. He’d put a good amount of space between him and the ogre and halved the distance to the other street. This was three lanes, one way, and very few cars drove past.
    “ Wanna party?” a woman