Page 129 of Tracking Snow

The scream that tears out of The Seven comes from my mouth.

"Brexley, stop!" I shout.

The other Snow buckles, white hair flickering black, then brown, then white again. My face warps across his features like a reflection slapped by rain.

The van door slides open.

Three men pour out in dark tactical gear.

Not HAM jackets. Not drunk assholes looking for someone to hurt.

Professionals.

Their boots hit pavement in a synchronized rush, and every one of them heads straight for Red.

Oh hell no.

I throw myself into the first man before he clears the curb. My shoulder slams into his ribs. He grunts, but he stays on his feet. A baton cracks against my wrist before my dagger reaches his thigh.

Pain bursts up my arm.

My dagger skitters over the wet pavement.

The second man moves past me.

I hook my foot around his ankle and yank. He hits the ground hard enough to make his teeth click. The third one steps over him, eyes locked on Red.

Behind them, Brexley snarls through a mouthful of The Seven’s arm.

The illusion drops.

My face disappears.

The Seven staggers into himself, green eyes flashing bright red, fire lighting them from within.

Four.

His mouth opens on a ragged sound as Brexley’s teeth sink deeper.

"Let go," Four snarls.

Brexley’s answer is a violent shake of his massive head.

Blood spatters the pavement.

Fire blooms along Four’s bitten arm.

Flames crawl over Brexley’s muzzle. Silver fur blackens. The smell of burned hair and meat punches through the diesel and wet street.

"No!" Red screams.

Still, Brexley does not let go.

I drive my elbow into one man’s throat and spin, but a hand grabs my hair from behind. My scalp lights up. I throw myself backward, skull cracking into a face. Cartilage crunches. The grip releases.

Red staggers toward Brexley, hands out.

Wind sweeps down the narrow street.