The hail doesn’t reach the lower levels. Heat leaks through windows and pipes. Swallows the pellets before they land. By the time I reach the bottom of the ladder, I feel incredibly warm. A feeling that vanishes at the first sound of his voice.
“I was wondering when you were gonna come down.”
My fingers freeze around the final rung. Stuck. Every muscle in my back clenches tight.
“No big kid and his gun to protect you now, you little shit. He’s long gone.” I hear the sneer in Kuen’s voice. It drips from every word. “’S just you an’ us.”
Kuen’s lackey must have run back. Told him where to find me.
I turn and jump at the same moment. Land in a crouch. Like a spider flung from its web.
He’s right. It’s just us on the street: me and Kuen. Blood still crusts his face. Days old and dark. It looks like a dragon tattoo. Curling and twisting around his swelling purple nose. His mouth is the only thing that isn’t puffy and bruised. It’s still snarled. Teeth shiny and yellow.
But then I see what’s in his arms and I forget all about his ugly face.
Chma is fighting—a mess of gray fur and squirm. Kuen’s elbows crush tighter. My cat growls. The sound is low. All over. I hear it and my stomach drops like a stone.
“Let him go.” As soon as I say these words, I wish I hadn’t. They shiver through the street. Betray my weakness for everyone to hear.
Kuen spits a word that sounds like vermin. Seizes Chma by the scruff. My cat howls, claws, and writhes, but Kuen holds him far out. Like a sack of garbage. His free hand grabs the blade by his waist. A clear, silvery threat.
I start to move, but I’m too far away. I can’t reach him in time.
Kuen’s knife is fast. Flashing. Chma’s angry growls turn into something too close to a human scream. It shreds the air, punches my chest.
I have no chance. I’m small and alone. There are probably dozens of his followers, more knives, hiding in the dark. But I don’t stop.
Kuen must’ve expected me to slow or turn. He isn’t ready when our bodies collide. My weight barrels him over. Drags us both to the hard ground. Even though I charged, I’m not really ready. I’m anger and impulse. Thrashing, hitting fists. But my knuckles are no match for Kuen’s knife.
And, like most boys, he’s stronger.
Kuen grunts and rolls to the side. I fall off his chest. My right shoulder slams hard into concrete. Somewhere in the chaos I hear Chma’s screaming. He’s still alive. Alive, but in agony.
Then Kuen is on top of me—muscle and violet-splotched flesh. From the corner of my eye I see the glint of his blade. Trimmed red with Chma’s blood. It’s falling, slicing through the air between us. Right down to my throat.
Years of being under my father’s mad fists taught me how to dodge. Avoid the worst blows. I twist. The metal draws a thin line of fire down my neck. Pain bursts like boiling water across my skin. My left fist flies up. Catches the street boy’s broken tender puff nose.
Kuen screeches, falls off me. I scramble away as far as I can. Stumble to the end of the street.
Other boys appear. I expect them to be jeering and angry, but the wrath I saw in Kuen isn’t there. My eyes flick fast through them, searching for Bon. He’s nowhere to be found. The rest look anxious, almost scared, as they watch their leader spring to his feet. He comes at me with a beastly roar.
The cut on my neck throbs. Clears my head of the anger haze. I leap to the side. Somewhere in the middle of jumps and pain-crafted curses, I find Chma. He’s curled by a pile of trash. His beautiful, downy fur is soaked with red. I can’t spot the wound, but then he moves and I see.
His long, sweeping tail is gone. Just a bloodied stump.
My first thought: He’ll live. My first action: pulling out my knife.
There’s no dodging Kuen the second time. He’s reined in his wild rage, harnessed the pain into focus. His arms stretch wide. There’s no side to step into, and I’m very aware of his followers at my back. All escapes are gone.
My calf muscles coil and spring. My body is a feather, light and spinning. Everything passes slowly. I see every detail of this filthy street. The chip on Kuen’s second tooth. Limp, wet cigarette butts stewed with syringes and shattered bottles. Roaches skittering over mildewed walls. Chma, limp as a discarded scarf, eyes glowing yellow with pain.
Then all of it’s gone. Blurred by my landing. Kuen’s chest is bulky, hard as a board. I hit him. He shudders and steps back. His ankle catches on something, tugs him back to the ground.
There are sharp jabs of pain as we fall: glass, jolts, and fingernails. My knife is thrashing, trying to hit whatever it can. His blade is flashing, too. It whistles through the air. Sings of death.
There’s an explosion of heat in my side, searing. Too much for silence. I open my mouth and scream, scream, scream.
It’s over. For a moment that’s all I can think. Kuen’s knife is in me, sawing sinew and bone. Carving a path for my blood. The pain is awful. Everywhere. I wait for it to leave. I want my opponent to rip the metal out and stab again. End it.
But the new pain doesn’t come. The old wound stays: a flower of flame and pain just under my arm. My vision flickers: blurry, sharp, blurry. If I could make my scream into words, I would beg. Why hasn’t he pulled it out?
Kuen lies next to me. Mouth red-bright, eyes open. They’re rigid, so still. My knife is deep in his chest. Only the hilt shows.
My sight mists over. Colors bleed into one another. Red, gray, black. They swirl. Spinning around and around. Until only shadows are left. The black becomes everything. And then it’s all gone. Even the pain…