Strange Angels sa-1
Page 26
We jolted and swam for a long time; then Christophe made a quick inquiring movement with his head. The blond highlights had slid back through his hair, little bits of them visible through clotted, drying blood. He didn’t seem too bruised, though. “Ah.” He let off the gas, and the truck rolled to a stop. “That should be transport now. Get out and wait for them.”
“Here?” Graves didn’t think much of the idea. “You’re going to leave us in the middle of a snowstorm?”
Oh God, don’t argue. I pulled at his coat. “Yeah. Sure.” I reached for the door handle, pulled it. The door swung open with a protesting creak, and snow puffed in on an arctic breath. The temperature was dropping. My nose was full, but I didn’t want to think of what. “Whatever you say, Christophe.”
I didn’t mean it to sound snarky. Really, I didn’t.
And besides, I could hear what Christophe could. A thwopping, thudding sound I’ve heard on a lot of TV shows late at night.
“Dru.” Christophe leaned over the seat, his mouth twisting down. I couldn’t smell apple pie now, and part of me was vaguely glad about that. “I’m sorry. I—”
I didn’t want to hear it. He hadn’t told me everything, but I’d left him for dead. I guess we were about even, especially after he took on something so old and so powerful. Something that wanted to kill me.
Something that would have killed me.
What do you say when someone takes on a really badass, murdering sucker for you? There just aren’t words for that.
“See you around, Chris.” I pulled at Graves; he slid out behind me without protesting. It was like agony to stand upright again, my hamstrings and glutes singing in pain, my neck like a solid bar of crying steel. I grabbed my bag, too. Half my body groaned in protest when our feet sank into knee-high snow, and I slammed the truck door on whatever Christophe wanted to say next.
The truck idled, and the thopping sound got closer. It hovered into view—a red-and-white helicopter, the only blot of color in the wasteland around us. The stone wall was in the distance, swallowed up in white, and the snow was coming down so heavily even the city in the distance, or the houses a few blocks away, wasn’t visible. Fierce cold swallowed my sneakers and stung my calves.
White spray fumed up as the helicopter hovered for about twenty seconds, its downdraft scraping snow away before it touched down. I gingerly ducked through my bag’s strap, held up an arm to shield my eyes, and almost missed it when a hatch opened on the side and a figure leaped down, bent over, and scuttled for us.
The truck pulled away. I still had the gun in one hand. For the life of me I couldn’t remember if I’d clicked the safety on. I looked down to check, found it was on, and the scuttling figure reached us.
It was a brown-eyed kid in an orange parka, a thatch of curly brown hair filling up with snow because he’d shoved the fleecy hood back. “Holy shit!” he yelled over the sound of the ’copter. “You’d better give me that.”
Whatever you say. I handed the gun over. He checked it expertly and made it vanish under his parka. “Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. Come on, we don’t have much time.” He waved, way up over his head, at the retreating truck, and then reached out to grab my arm.
I twitched, Graves stiffened, and Orange Parka’s hand stopped in midair. He turned it into a beckoning motion, like a mama duck trying to pull recalcitrant ducklings along.
“Sorry about that. We just got scrambled half an hour ago; I’m all excited. Come on.” His voice broke, reedy against the onslaught of the helicopter’s noise, and we trudged through the snow after him, bending almost double when he did. My hair tried to lift up and strangle me in the downdraft, and the hatch on the side of the ’copter opened again. There was a step. I put my foot on it, grabbed the handles, and Graves boosted me. I almost creamed my head a good one against the top of the hatch, and wondered if the rotor blades would grab my hair.
The space was cramped and full of weird angles, but it was warmer than outside. I wedged myself in a part-bench seat that looked like it was made for a third-grader, and Graves piled in, wedging his taller frame beside me. The pilot didn’t even look at us, and the hands on the controls were bigger and thicker than mine, though they looked young and smooth-skinned.
Jesus, how many teenagers are doing this sort of thing? I strangled a tired, half-hysterical snort-giggle—my nose was still full. Graves reached over and grabbed my hand, and the curly-headed kid hopped in and closed the hatch. The noise dropped, but not by much. He reached up and whapped the pilot twice on the shoulder, and the helicopter immediately lifted, whining.
My stomach turned over, hard.
“Hi,” the curly-headed kid called, dropping into the little jump seat behind the pilot’s chair. His hands moved with ease and familiarity, buckling himself in like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had a snub nose, freckles, and a wide innocent grin. “I’m Cory. Welcome to the Order. You must be Dru Anderson. We’re really excited to meet you.”
I closed my eyes, collapsed against a porthole showing the white earth receding like a bad dream, and cried. Graves clutched at my hand, his palm sweating, and he didn’t let go.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 199f4b53-51a5-4eab-be05-c595a8ae6bb7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 03 December 2009
Created using: FB Editor v2.0, FB Editor v2.3 software
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