The truck hesitates, then roars forward as Dynamo floors it. I twist around to see if the car behind us is going to ram us again. They’re gaining, the lights growing as they come up so close I’m temporarily blinded before they disappear behind the tailgate. I’m bracing for impact when we hit a small dip in the road at an intersection and suddenly, the lights are gone, spinning in an arc toward the side of a building. We race through the intersection, and I’m left staring back at the hulking black SUV that just T-boned the smaller car. The road behind us stretches longer, empty now as we leave them behind.
“What just happened?” I cry, whipping around, my heart in my throat. “That car came out of nowhere! They didn’t even have their lights on.”
The window on the back of the cab slides open, and Hemingway sticks her head and arms in, working her way through the narrow opening until her whole body slides onto the back seat. She shakes her dark hair back and holds up a handful of white packages. “Let’s get you bandaged up.”
“What the hell,” I breathe.
“I called my dad,” she says, shrugging. “He doesn’t like people messing with his little girl.”
As she leans over the seat to bandage my stitches, I remember Annabel Lee saying her family was something like the Addam’s family. After tonight, that is not at all how I’d describe them. Though I always knew the Norths were gangsters, experiencing it firsthand is shocking. I only met Angel’s dad ahandful of times in all the years we hung out. I barely know his siblings’ names. Before this year, I’m not sure I’d ever actually talked to any of his cousins except to maybe say hello in passing if they were over when we swung by to pick up Angel.
I remember him telling me how violence could bring up a lot of emotion. At the time, I was thinking how silly it was for him to lecture me, though of course he didn’t know how much violence I’ve experienced. He’d never guess I fight at the Slaughterpen.
Still, no matter how few rules an organized fight has, it’s still organized. It’s planned for in advance, agreed to. That violence is sanctioned in some way. I sign up to fight because I want to. I know what I’m getting into, even if a knife isn’t usually part of the equation.
Gangs pulling up to ambush a place with guns is on a different level.
“Does this kind of thing happen a lot?” I ask Hemingway.
“I wouldn’t saya lot,” she says. “But it happens.”
“Where we taking you?” Dynamo asks, turning onto the main street past campus. “And don’t tell me to drop you off on the edge of campus, because that’s not happening. Normally, sure. I know you can take care of yourself. But when you’re injured, and the Disciples might be coming after you? Not a chance.”
I start to argue, but it turns out I don’t have to. As soon as he turns into Thorncrown, we spot a group of guys already waiting for us. All twelve Hellhounds are out tonight, with my three guys at the front of the group, looking ready to finish the job that fighter started with her knife.
I only have seconds left before we’re close enough for them to see me, so I make a split-second decision. Dynamo knows who I am already, and I’d rather Hemingway see me than the guys, especially since there are nine others with them. Wordgets around fast on campus, but it wouldn’t stay contained. Hemingway is so young she probably doesn’t talk to many people in my circle, and I pray she doesn’t remember me from all those years ago, if she ever even saw me back then. If I keep my face forward, she won’t see anything but my hair anyway.
I dive down, peel off the mask and hood, then wrench the suit down over my shoulders and arms. It’s torn anyway. I manage to peel it off to my waist before Dynamo pulls up to the curb.
“Looks like you’ve got an escort after all,” he says.
I’m too busy kicking off the tights and pulling on the flannel to answer. I offer him a quick thank you and shove the bloodied clothes under the seat. Saint is already yanking on the door handle so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t flown off.
“You good?” Dynamo asks.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening. “I’m good. Thanks again for—everything.”
I unlock the door, and my brother rips it open so hard the entire truck rocks. He grabs my arm and drags me down from the seat, his face a mask of fury. “What the fuck are you doing?”
ten
The Angel
“Yeah,” I say, echoing Saint’s words as I take in Mercy’s flat hair and oversized men’s shirt. I can’t tell if she’s wearing anything under it. “Where the fuck you been,loca?”
Heath scowls at me. “Really?” he mutters.
I crack a grin, happy someone caught the reference. I was trying to lighten the mood, but Saint is too pissed to register anything else.
“Want to explain yourself?” he grinds out.
“Want to let go of me?” Mercy asks, wincing and tugging at her arm.
“Yeah, man,” says the guy in the truck. “You really shouldn’t be handling her like that.”
That was the wrong thing to say to Saint right now. He puffs up and turns about three shades redder, looking like a bull about to charge. “You want to tell me again how to handle my sister?”
“Okay, let’s all calm down and take a breath,” I say, clamping a hand on Saint’s shoulder before he can jump up in the truck and beat the shit out of Dynamo just because the guy never learns when to shut up. Usually Saint’s the one reining us in, but he has no chill when it comes to Mercy.
