Free The Night Itself by Zoe Marriott Page B

a frightened cat. The severed limbs on the pavement and the splotches of blood bubbled, running back towards the monster’s body in black rivulets.
    “I will return,” it hissed. “And you will surrender the sword then – or die!”
    The creature’s front limbs sprang up towards the top of the house next to the red-brick building, its body stretching out into an impossibly thin, black bridge. Then, like a rubber band snapping, the back limbs left the ground and the rest of it shot up, disappearing over the edge of the building.
    Roof tiles cascaded down into the alley. The boy spun, scooping me up with one arm and pushing me back against the wall. All around us tiles shattered on the pavement with a noise like gunfire, but he was between me and them, sheltering me with his body. A chunk of broken ceramic bounced off his shoulder. He grunted with pain and I heard the katana rattle on the concrete as he dropped it.
    “Are you all right?” I gasped out.
    He shook his head wordlessly. Silky strands of his hair brushed my check. They smelled of pine trees and smoke. My nose nudged his chin. I wanted to look up into his face, but my own tangled hair was in my eyes. I tried to blow it out of the way. He made a tiny sound that could have been a laugh – choked and rusty – and suddenly gentle hands were combing back the unruly strands, deftly tucking them behind my ear. The movement was so natural, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. His fingers lingered there, just brushing the skin beneath my ear, making it tingle.
    Now I could see him. The darkness of his almond-shaped eyes was filled with blue-grey curls, shapes like rising smoke, or the reflection of storm clouds moving over water. Didn’t I know those shapes? The singing was rising up inside me, a true, golden note – telling me that I knew those eyes. I was conscious of a crazy urge to grab his face and hold it still so that I could keep staring at him until I figured it out. Only I didn’t need to, because he was already holding still, staring back at me, searching my face for something – maybe for the same something I was looking for in him. Something … something…
    There was a hoarse groan behind me. The boy jerked back, his hand falling away from my face as if he’d only just noticed we were touching. Shock and uncertainty flared in his eyes, cutting off whatever fragile thing had been starting to grow between us. For a split second I actually thought I was going to burst into tears.
    And then I realized: that was Jack groaning.
    I cursed and pushed away from the wall, snatching up the katana and its saya from the ground and flying across the street to where Jack lay half-hidden under a pile of motorcycles. I shoved the sheathed blade through the belt loop on my jeans, then grabbed hold of one of the toppled bikes by the wheel, trying to figure out how to heave it off her.
    “Wait!” the boy said, appearing next to me. “Let me help you.”
    By some miracle of luck, several of the motorbikes had got tangled up with one another as they fell, forming a cage around Jack rather than landing on her and crushing her. I couldn’t see any blood, but years of watching
Casualty
and
CSI
told me that didn’t necessarily mean she was fine. As the boy pulled the last bike off I dropped to my knees beside her, not daring to move her or even touch her, in case she had hurt her back.
    “Jack. Jack, can you hear me?”
    Her eyes stayed closed. Now I knew exactly how she had felt after seeing that car hit me the night before, and why she had been so angry that I hadn’t put the damn katana away.
This is my fault. This is all my fault. Oh God, Jack. What if she’s really hurt?
    The boy knelt next to me, took Jack’s wrist in a careful grasp and laid the fingers of his other hand over the top. “Do not fear. She is alive,” he said gently. “Her heart is beating strongly.”
    Jack groaned again and suddenly tried to roll over onto her side. I put my hand