Lou quickly sized up the two hunters closing in on him.
In the thick, spirit-clogged air of the Black Market, everyone was a predator, and right now, he looked like easy prey.
He didn't need a Seer's vision to know he was outmatched.
Judging by the pulse of their signatures, the bald man was a Grade Five, likely a brawler and the raven-haired woman was a Grade Four.
The math didn't look good.
Lou was still stuck in the observer phase, he could see the visions, but he hadn't learned the trick to burning his spirit energy for those superhuman physical buffs Edith was using.
He was a writer with a pen in a swordfight.
I just need to buy some time, Lou thought, his mind racing through tactical options. If I can figure out how Edith ignited her energy, I might stand a chance. Until then, it's run, hide, and pray this flintlock doesn't misfire.
He glanced back. Edith was still dominating Russ, the old man desperately shifting the earth to avoid her violet-charged fists. She was too busy to bail him out.
Lou didn't wait for the thugs to make the first move.
He ducked his shoulder and forced his way into the thickest part of the crowd, using the wall of bodies as a temporary shield. The shouting and the smell of unwashed spirits nearly choked him, but he kept moving.
"Get back here, you little shit!" the woman hissed.
Lou could hear the heavy thud of the bald man's boots and the sharp, rhythmic clicking of the woman's heels behind him as they plowed through the onlookers like a pair of sharks through a school of fish.
Once he broke through the cluster of people into a slightly clearer alleyway, Lou didn't hold back.
He bolted.
As he ran, he reached into his coat and gripped the cold, heavy handle of the flintlock William had given him. He pulled it out, the polished barrel catching the dim, ghostly light of the market.
Maybe with some luck, I can put a hole in the Grade Four before they realize I'm a rookie, he thought, his thumb hovering over the hammer.
He didn't want to kill.
Not really, but in a world that had already tried to hang him once and promised to vaporize him in three years, Lou was starting to realize that "merciful" was just another word for "dead."
The alley narrowed, the mist clinging to his clothes.
He turned back for a split second, leveled the gun at the approaching silhouettes, and kept running.
Klaus's body was proving to be a better vessel than Lou had expected. The kid was slim, wiry, and naturally athletic. He moved with a lightness that felt almost like gliding.
But "light on his feet" wasn't going to cut it against a Grade Five powerhouse.
The bald guy was closing the gap with terrifying speed, his boots thundering against the stone.
Lou veered left, his hand darting out to grab the support beam of a small stall.
With a grunt of effort, he yanked it with all his might, sending the entire structure and its contents, mostly jars of preserved spirit-eyes, crashing into the man's path.
That should buy me a second, Lou thought.
But the man didn't slow down as he skipped over the fallen stall.
Lou hit a stack of crates and launched himself into the air, jumping higher than any normal human should be able to. Mid-air, he twisted his body, leveled the flintlock, and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer dropped. The flash-pan ignited with a sharp crack, and the lead ball tore through the mist.
It was a perfect shot, aimed right for the big man's skull.
But the bullet never hit. A flicker of something oily and black intercepted the projectile mid-flight, swallowing the momentum whole.
What the hell?
Lou's stomach dropped. He'd seen that move before. It was a shadow shield, identical in texture to the shadow bullets Debra had used back at the cottage.
The raven-haired woman, Lou realized as his feet hit the ground. She's a shadow manipulator. Great. Just great.
"Thanks for the save," the bald man grunted, barely breaking his stride.
"Perhaps you should return the favor," the woman replied, her green eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light.
Lou scrambled back, his mind racing. 1700s guns are officially useless. Times like this, I'd trade my soul for an Uzi. One shot and then you're holding a very expensive club.
He pocketed the empty weapon. He knew the rules now: if he ran anywhere near a deep shadow, the woman would have him.
The only saving grace was the thick mist, which diffused the light and kept the shadows blurred and weak.
"More importantly... what is Baldy doing?" Lou muttered.
The big man had stopped by a massive, reinforced merchant stall. He ignored the spilling elixirs and gripped the heavy oak legs with both hands, his muscles bulging until his veins looked like they were going to pop.
No way he's gonna—
"Hope this returns the favor!" the man bellowed. With a primal roar, he ripped the entire stall off its foundations and hurled it toward Lou like a giant, wooden frisbee.
"Shit!"
Lou dived. He felt the wind of the massive object whistle over his head before it smashed into a stone pillar behind him, splintering into a thousand pieces.
He landed hard on his right shoulder, the impact sending a sickening crunch through his frame. He ignored the stars in his eyes and forced himself into a roll, coming up in a shaky crouch.
Pain flared through his arm, hot and white.
I have no time to worry about a dislocated shoulder, he groaned, clutching his arm to his chest as he scrambled back to his feet.
He didn't even have time to look for the flintlock he'd dropped in the dirt.
"The little rat dodged it," the woman said, her voice dripping with malice as she stepped over the rubble. "But he's leaking energy and he's injured. Move in. We finish this now."
Come on, Lou. Think, he told himself, backing away into the mist. If I can't fight them with lead or muscle, I need to figure out that spirit-burn trick. Now would be a really good time for a 'main character' moment.
The bald man was practically breathing down his neck now, the thud of his boots echoing like a drumbeat of approaching doom.
How did Edith do it? Lou's mind screamed, searching for the logic behind the magic. The old man said she was burning spirit energy. But how do you ignite something you can't even touch yet?
He could feel the heat radiating off the Grade Five brawler behind him. He was only a few feet away.
I can't be caught by these lowly cult maniacs. I'm not dying in some damp, misty hole.
That much he was sure of. According to his vision, he was scheduled to die on May 1, 1776. Three years from now. If the future was set in stone, then there had to be a way out of this. He wasn't supposed to end here.
So move, damn it! Move!
But the universe didn't care about his timeline.
Something sharp, cold, and impossibly fast tore through the air. It didn't whistle like lead. Instead it hissed like a dying breath.
The shadow bullet ripped through his left calf with surgical cruelty.
Lou's leg gave out instantly. He collapsed, sliding across the grit and landing hard on his belly.
He let out a strangled cry, clutching his leg as a white-hot flare of agony blinded him. When he looked down, his stomach turned.
There was a hole and the edges of the wound were weeping a dark, wispy smoke.
The thing is deadlier than a flintlock.
"I shot him, so I'm the one who gets to finish it!" the woman shouted, her voice closer now, dripping with a sick kind of pride.
The bald man slowed his pace, standing over Lou like a mountain of tanned leather and muscle. "Whatever. Just make it quick. We've caused enough of a scene."
"Quick?" The raven-haired woman stepped into Lou's line of sight, her green eyes shimmering with fanaticism. She looked down at him as if he were a particularly interesting insect. "No. The boy will make a splendid sacrifice for the Lord of Shadows."
Lou gritted his teeth, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth. Sacrifice?I'm not some damn appetizer on a cultist's menu....