Chapter 2 2

The wind in Manhattan was a physical assault. It whipped through the thin fabric of the stolen hoodie Dejah wore, biting into her skin with teeth of ice. She had found the clothes in a laundry bin near the nurses' station-a janitor's oversized grey sweatshirt and a pair of scrub pants that were too short for her legs.

She had used a bobby pin from the bedside table to shimmy the lock on the window restrictor. It had taken six seconds. The slide down the drainpipe had been harder. Her muscles were atrophied, her grip strength compromised. When she hit the alley floor, rolling to disperse the impact, fire had exploded in her knees.

But she was out.

Dejah kept her head down, blending into the shadows of the alleyway. The hospital loomed behind her, a fortress of white brick and misery. She needed distance. She needed food. She had zero dollars and zero cents.

She turned a corner into a narrower, darker alley, a shortcut that would spit her out near the subway lines. The smell of rotting garbage and stale urine was overwhelming.

"Hey, pretty thing."

The voice was wet, slurred. Dejah stopped.

Five men emerged from the shadows. They were street thugs, smelling of cheap liquor and aggression. They weren't professionals; their stances were sloppy, their centers of gravity high. But there were five of them, and Dejah was running on fumes.

"Nice bracelet," the leader said, pointing to the plastic hospital ID band still on her wrist. In the dim light, the silver holographic strip must have looked like jewelry. "Hand it over. And maybe the sweatshirt too."

He reached out, his hand grasping for Dejah's shoulder. His fingernails were black with grime.

At the mouth of the alley, where the streetlights bled into the darkness, a low rumble vibrated through the asphalt. A car had stopped at the red light. It was a Bugatti Veyron, painted a deep, blood red. The engine purred like a restrained beast.

Inside the car, the world was hermetically sealed. Casimir Vanderbilt sat in the driver's seat, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. He was bored. He was always bored. The city was a playground he had long since outgrown.

Next to him, his friend Nate was chewing on a burger, grease shining on his chin. Nate pointed a fry toward the alley. "Whoa. Look at that. Five on one. That girl is toast."

Casimir glanced over, his eyes barely flickering. "Not our problem."

"Should we call the cops?" Nate asked, though he didn't reach for his phone.

"Light's green in ten seconds," Casimir said, checking his watch.

In the alley, the leader's hand touched Dejah's shoulder.

The contact was the trigger.

Dejah's body moved, not with strength she didn't possess, but with the ruthless efficiency of physics. She couldn't overpower him, so she used his own structure against him. She grabbed his index and middle fingers, the weakest link in his grip.

Snap.

She twisted against the joint. The leverage required was minimal; the pain was catastrophic. The leader screamed, his knees buckling as he followed the pain down.

Dejah didn't stop. Every movement cost her precious glucose, her vision swimming with black spots. She used his falling body as a shield, pivoting on her left foot. The second man swung a clumsy haymaker. She ducked, the wind of the punch ruffling her hood. She didn't punch; her knuckles were too fragile. Instead, she drove the hard point of her elbow up, straight into his trachea. Soft tissue against bone. He gagged, clutching his neck, eyes bulging.

Casimir, who had been about to look away, froze. He sat up straighter in the leather seat.

The third man lunged. Dejah sidestepped, sweeping his leg at the exact moment he transferred his weight. It wasn't a powerful kick, just a perfectly timed disruption of balance. As he fell, she kicked him in the solar plexus. He curled into a fetal ball, gasping for air.

Two left. They hesitated. Fear is a powerful toxin; she could see it spreading in their eyes.

Dejah took a step forward, suppressing a shudder of exhaustion. They scrambled back, tripping over each other, dragging their fallen comrades away into the darkness.

It had taken seven seconds. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, warning her of imminent collapse.

She adjusted her hood, brushing a speck of dust from the sleeve. She leaned against the brick wall for a split second to steady herself. Physics was the great equalizer. Leverage, velocity, anatomy.

Dejah walked toward the mouth of the alley. The Bugatti was still there. The light had turned green, but the car hadn't moved.

As she passed the passenger window, she looked inside. The glass was tinted, but the streetlamp illuminated the interior.

Nate was staring at her, his burger forgotten in his lap. "Holy shit," he mouthed. "Was that Kung Fu?"

Dejah stopped. She turned her head and looked directly at him.

Her eyes scanned his face. The data flooded in. His skin was flushed a mottled red. His pupils were slightly dilated, but sluggish. There was a distinct swelling around the bridge of his nose-internal pressure.

She tapped on the glass.

Nate rolled the window down. "You... you're a ninja. That was insane."

Dejah ignored the compliment. "Your nasal mucosa is engorged," she said, her voice raspy. "You're breathing through your mouth because your septum is swollen. Your reaction time is lagging by at least 300 milliseconds due to the heavy carbohydrate digestion."

Nate blinked. He laughed, a nervous, barking sound. "What? Is that a threat? I'm sitting in a bulletproof car, sweetheart."

Dejah looked past him to the driver. Casimir Vanderbilt. Their eyes met. His were dark, intelligent, and utterly devoid of fear. He was studying her like she was a puzzle he wanted to take apart.

"It's not a threat," she said. "It's a probability. The intersection ahead has a blind spot caused by the renovation scaffolding. Given your delayed reflexes... bleeding is imminent."

Dejah turned and walked away, crossing the street against the light.

"Crazy chick," Nate muttered, reaching for the radio dial. "Did you hear that voodoo nonsense?"

Casimir didn't answer. He put the car in gear.

He accelerated.

Above them, on the side of a building undergoing renovation, a painter's scaffolding shifted in the wind. A heavy bucket of red industrial primer, left precariously on the edge, tipped.

It fell.

It slammed into the pavement directly in front of the Bugatti.

Casimir slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, the tires smoking. The deceleration force was immense.

Nate, who hadn't buckled his seatbelt after eating, flew forward. Physics took over. His face smashed into the leather dashboard.

He recoiled, throwing his head back. "Ow! Fuck!"

He pulled his hands away from his face. They were covered in bright crimson blood. It gushed from his nose, soaking his shirt.

"Blood!" Nate shrieked. "It's actually blood! Casimir! She's a witch! She cursed me!"

Casimir didn't look at Nate. He looked into the rearview mirror. He watched the small figure in the grey hoodie disappearing down the block.

A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator who had just found a new trail.

"Interesting," he whispered.

He spun the steering wheel, executing a perfect U-turn in the middle of the avenue.