The Nine Lives of Chloe King (17 page)

Chloe steadfastedly refused Marisol’s proffered taxi money this time, claiming she was just going down the street to the deli to wait for her mom to pick her up. As soon as Marisol was safely out of her line of sight, however, Chloe leapt up a bench, then a tree, and then onto a roof, determined to make it as close to home as she could without coming down.

One!
she counted, making a running leap onto the roof of a nice, long attached condo. It was good for about a hundred feet.
Two!
She leapt off the side onto another house, which was much shorter and farther down than she expected, causing her to roll to break her momentum and keep her legs from breaking. She sprang up at the end, though, making an Olympic-style landing—except for the crouching, catlike, all-fours aspect.

Three!
With barely a pause she straight jumped onto the garage of the next house …

… when she felt a sting on her left leg and felt something rip. She pitched forward, but instinct took over and she cradled her leg as she fell, missing the roof completely and landing on the sidewalk. She looked down and saw ropes of blood stream along her skin to the ground and a cold, sharp metal object with a tip buried in her flesh. She pulled it out, biting her lip at the pain, and held it up to the moonlight.

A throwing star,
she realized with disbelief.
Like in ninja movies.
This one had ten points, five large ones, one of which was covered in blood and bits of skin, and five smaller ones in between these, either for decoration or to help it spin. There was something written on it, but before she could get a good look, Chloe heard a faint whir. She dropped her head to the ground against her arms—if she’d had ears like a cat, Chloe would have flattened them. Another shuriken flew by and embedded itself in a tire.
Sssssssht
went the air as it slowly deflated.

Chloe leapt up, flipped, and landed on top of the car.

“Excellent moves,” said a voice from the shadows. “I can see someone has finally been training you.”

“Who are you? Come out!” Streetlight glittered on glass and metal pebbles in the road. All the houses were dark or the shades pulled so tightly they might as well have been empty. Holes that might have once had trees and bushes in them were filled with beer cans and old toys. This was, as her mother would say, a bad area. A figure hid behind a car so rusted and old, it probably could just have been torn out of the boot that was locked to its right front tire.

A breeze stirred and Chloe sniffed it; this was
not
the cat person from the other night. For some reason she shivered. What was going on?

There was another, near-silent whoosh. Chloe crouched just in time to avoid another throwing star, this one aimed at her neck. She wondered wildly how many he had and turned to run.

Then she realized something:
He’s using weapons that he has to
throw—
I’m only in danger as long as I’m
far
from him….
Chloe turned back and ran along the tops of the cars
toward
him. She leapt down to where she thought he was hiding, yowling and screaming to scare him out into the open.

It worked: he threw himself out of her way and into the road.

“Well done.”

Streetlight revealed him to be tall and skinny, with tautly outlined muscles on his legs and arms. He wore a dark, almost military-style outfit with a large belt—for
weapons
—and a loose black leather jacket—for
armor.
His hair was so blond it was almost white, pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes were a muddled blue. It was difficult to judge his age, but one thing was for certain: he didn’t look entirely sane. His pupils were black pinheads, especially strange considering how dark it was.

He pulled out a dagger and crouched a little, a street fighter.
Like from the game Street Fighter.

This is crazy,
Chloe thought.
No one acts like this.
But it was obvious that the man was serious—and would have to be dealt with seriously.

He was waiting for her to attack. Someone threw a can out a window; it smashed onto the street before rolling into the gutter.

“Can I—help you?” she asked, unsure whether to run away or continue the dialogue.

“What’s the matter? No urge to fight? The ancient instinct hasn’t awakened in you yet?” the man sneered.

“I had kind of planned on a cocoa and an early bedtime, actually.” She circled carefully, keeping a tree between them.

“You almost sound human.” With a misdirection of his left hand, he threw the dagger at her with his right. Chloe jumped, but it tore her shoulder as it passed.

He had two daggers now, one in each hand.

“Where do you keep all those things?” Chloe demanded, touching her shoulder. Running now would definitely mean her death: by two quick blades, one in the neck and one in the back.

“I see no one has properly warned you about me,” he said, almost disappointed.

“No, no one told me about a crazy blade-wielding psycho—“Then she remembered.
Your life is in danger. Be wary of the company you keep. Be prepared—and ready to run. The Order of the Tenth Blade knows who you are. …

Order of the Tenth Blade?
She thought about the shuriken.
Maybe it means that he only has ten blades?
Chloe somehow didn’t think that was it. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a tank hidden somewhere on his body.

“A pity. You should know your executioner.”

Chloe shivered again; she felt the hairs on her arms and shoulders rise. Even if he was crazy, he was still serious.

“
My
executioner is probably all the trans-fatties in Oreos and stuff,” Chloe countered.
He’s going to attack—he’s going to attack! Any second now…

“Id tibi facio,” he
whispered, and lunged.

Chloe jumped aside, a tenth of a second too late—once again he cut her, but shallowly this time. He didn’t move like the homeless guy from the other night; he was fast and well trained—a professional fighter.
Killer,
she corrected herself. He wanted to
kill her.
She leapt again as he brought a dagger down on her and realized she had no time to think, only react.

Her left leg throbbed. It was still bleeding.

He went at her belly with a swipe; she leapt up and grabbed a tree branch, hauling her torso out of the way. He spun, keeping the momentum to hit her as she dropped back down, but she curled in a ball to avoid it. His heel ground against the sidewalk. Whenever she stepped backward, he stepped into her; whenever she leapt to the side, he was there with a dagger.

I have to attack
him.

She ducked as he swiped a blade through the air above her head. When she came up, she brought her claws ripping up to his groin. They clanged on something metal.

He laughed.

She had to roll quickly out of the way as he threw a dagger down at her. Chloe saw little blue sparks jump away as it bounced off the pavement with incredible force. She shot out a foot, kicking him neatly in the calf. It made enough impact to give her a little hope.

Fight in, closer,
her instincts told her. She was terrified but obeyed. Chloe waited until the last moment and then sprang forward, closing the distance between them, and tried to swipe him across the face with her claws.
Even if you get the slightest bit of flesh or eye,
she remembered her self-defense trainer saying,
the pain will be great enough to distract.

Only if you hit, though
—his arm came up immediately and his wrist blocked her. Chloe brought her knee up to his groin again, planning to shove
up
really hard, figuring that even if he wore some kind of ancient metallic jockstrap or chastity belt or whatever, it would at least hurt a little as it dug into his flesh. At the last minute, though, she leapt up and brought her foot
down
onto his cup and the other foot, too, pushing with all her strength. The way a cat disembowels.

She was rewarded by the first real response from her attacker: he groaned and caught his breath. Then he shot out his fists, one after the other, trying to slash her before she pushed herself away from him. He ripped right down her shirt and through her bra strap, drawing blood underneath in the soft part of her shoulder.

I’m going to lose this fight,
Chloe realized, her stomach going cold. He seemed to be able to predict all of her moves—though if it weren’t for the exercises the cat person put her through the other night, she wouldn’t have survived as long as she had. She would have been lying on the sidewalk, blood running from her throat.

“Give up, blasphemy of nature,” he growled.
“Demon!”

As his slashing blades came closer, she slashed him back, batting at him with her claws and hissing.

He was waiting for that, apparently, and kneed her in the stomach.

Chloe fell over, unable to breathe.
He’s trying to goad my instinctive reactions; as soon as I stop thinking and just react, he knows how to get me.
When she fought, he could beat her. He was a good
fighter. …

This gave her the slightest shred of hope. She slowly drew herself up and faced him.

“So I don’t scare you?” she asked.
Get a dialogue going.

“Your kind doesn’t scare me,” he said with a sneer. “You only disgust me.”

Chloe flicked a glance over his shoulder into the street.

“Do
cops
scare you?”

His eyes widened and he turned.

Chloe hadn’t thought he would actually do it. Before he realized there weren’t any actual police coming, she kicked him as hard as she could in the stomach with the flat of her heel. She spun and did a backward handspring, putting her at least seven feet away from him.

Then she ran, not looking back and putting all of her effort into flight, satisfied with the heavy, thudding sound of his body hitting ground.

Fifteen

She took random
paths home, sometimes doubling back and retracing her route for several blocks, sometimes running in circles. She considered finding a body of water to run through to hide her scent—before remembering that
she
was the animal; her attacker had obviously taken great pride in being a normal human.
Unless he’s a dog,
Chloe mused. Who was to say that in a world where a girl could have claws, a guy couldn’t have a muzzle and penchant for bones?

The thrill of the fight drove her; part of her wanted to turn back and finish it. To face death.

But she continued running.

When she finally felt it was safe—after pausing for a
long
time in public places like convenience stores and crowded Muni stops, waiting to see if he would reappear—she went home, carefully locking the doors behind her. She waited in the kitchen, listening.

After a while the adrenaline in her blood finally died down.

Chloe began to be afraid.

Just because she’d taken a labyrinthine path home didn’t mean that he couldn’t find her. Obviously he knew who and what she was—how hard would it be to find out where she lived?
How
did he know what she was, for that matter?

He could be coming for me now.

Suddenly she was terrified. It was one thing to be running free on the streets, between houses, out in the open—up to a police station or public place if she had to. But now she was trapped. The windows looked out on a black night spotted with pools of light from other houses and streetlights, which somehow just made the night seem darker, more likely to hide monsters, villains, psychos. Chloe had never really believed in them before, the people who came at you for no reason, from the outside, into your home—that was the stuff of horror movies and urban legends. Now she knew better. It was real.

Chloe turned on all the lights, but the corners still seemed dim and treacherous. She wanted to put on music or the TV, but she was afraid of not hearing him sneak up. She sat on the couch, paralyzed, certain that the next moment was going to bring him smashing into her house with a huge crash.

Just until Mom gets home,
she told herself.
She should be here any minute. Just stay calm until she gets home.

The thought reassured her.

And then she remembered the fight, the crazy, cold look in his eyes, the names he’d called her. What ancient, childlike habit made her believe that her
mommy
could protect her? She didn’t even have the speed or claws of her daughter.

A second thought, more gruesome than this one, came:

If he comes here, it’s my fault.

Not only could her mother probably not protect her, but Chloe would have led him directly home, if not now then later—and if her mom got hurt, it would be because of Chloe. …

What else can I do?

She reached for the phone. Maybe this guy knew her secret, but he was still a violent weirdo and she had the scrapes and bruises to prove it—she could describe him perfectly to the police and let
them
take care of it. If her attacker raved about Chloe being some sort of “blasphemy” and mentioned her claws—
especially
if he mentioned her claws—they would decide he was a crazy from whom she and the rest of society should be protected.

She dialed 9-1—

What about Xavier?

She paused. Whatever happened to Xavier, anyway? What if he had died?
Not all deaths appear in the obituaries.

Her DNA was all over his lips and back and shirt. Her fingerprints on his doorknob and phone. If there was an investigation, she would at least be questioned, probably as a prime suspect. What if they examined her? Looked at her claws, checked her fingernails, x-rayed her fingers?

She cursed herself for not following up on him, seeing what had happened. If he hadn’t died, the people at the hospital would have questioned him—“Yeah, there was this girl I met at the club; she was the last person I touched before I got sick. …” Typhoid Mary. Scratches and boils across his back where she had scraped him. Where her claws would have been, if she had known. She would make an interesting research subject. …