Shadow

LEANING OVER, I WENT TO GRAB MY BACKPACK, BUT MOVEMENT IN THE REARVEIW MIRROR MADE ME FREEZE.

A dark figure stood behind the car, now totally still. Fear shot lightning fast through my system, and I had the distinct feeling that I'd just dropped straight into a horror film.

Shit. He just stood there, a shadow in the rear window.

Slowly my head skipped over the backpack and went for the glove compartment. I opened it, feeling for the 9mm Eugene kept there. I was in a company car. There was always a backup in each vehicle. Illegal for me to use, but something told me being illegal was the least of my worries, and if I could scare him off, then no harm done.

Relief rushed through me as my hand curled around the gun. I straightened, took a deep breath, and forced my mind into training mode. I'd practiced encounters like this a million times-evasion tactics, self-defense, apprehending....

I opened the door and got out of the car.

Tall Dark blond hair cut short. Black T-shirt. A leather strap diagonally across his chest attached to a round shield behind his back. But what caught my attention and made my heart leap to my throat was the very shiny, very wicked-looking blade in his hand, something in between a dagger and a short sword.

He was solidly built, and when he eyed me up and down and then stared into my eyes, my mother's words echoed in my mind. RUN!

My hand flexed on the weapon I held against my thigh as he moved from the trunk of my car to the open space, leaving me trapped between two vehicles and the wall of the hotel. I eased back and slipped between the front of the car and the bushes, and made for the other side. He shadowed my move.

''Look, man, I don't know your deal is, but maybe you should put the knife down, okay?''

We were on the back side of the hotel, virtually isolated. And unless a car came down the side road next to the lot, I was on my own.

He moved forward, leading with his wide shoulders. I didn't want to shoot the guy, but something told me he could care less about the gun. He started speaking. In a different language. A low, commanding tone spoken with such conviction that I knew whatever he was saying was bad, like last rites kind of bad.

''C'mon, don't be stupid.'' I backed up, stumbling over the curb. ''I don't want to shoot you.''

He closed the distance between us and was about three feet from me when he spoke in heavily accented English and raised the blade. ''By the will of pitch black, I release you from this life.''

Damn it, he's gonna make me do it.

The blade swung down. I fired

The sound cracked through the night air like a bomb, and the slight kickback vibrated through my body as the bullet thunked into his thigh.

He flinched, paused for a second, and then continued stalking towards me.

My eyes went wide and my mouth went dry. Oh yeah, he was jacked up, high on something. Had to be.

He raised the long dagger again. My pulse pounded loud and slow in my ears. It seemed like that second lasted forever before his arm came down with so much force that it made him grunt. I could barely feel my hand as I leveled the gun and pulled the trigger again. The bullet hit him in the right shoulder. It wouldn't kill him, but it should make him drop the damn mini sword.

He stopped, arm halfway into his blow, and glanced at the blood blooming outward from his wound. Then his crazy eyes met mine. He grinned.

Oh, ham sandwich

He took two steps and swung downward. I caught his arm, hoping the wound and my own strength would be enough for me to hold him off. His face was inches from mine, close for me to see the purpose-filled light in his eyes. Sweat trickled down his left temple. Through clenched teeth, he cursed at me in a odd language. His other fist swung up, but I blocked it with my elbow, steeling myself against the pain, and immediately kneed him in the groin with enough strength to dent the hood of a car. He dropped back and doubled over.

The blade clattered to the ground.

About time.

My senses kicked in. I darted past him, grabbing the blade off the ground without breaking stride, my hair coming undone and falling into my eyes. I made for the side street that led to the front of the hotel, but just as I rounded the corner, he caught up with me. His hand snaked out and hooked my ankle. I shrieked in surprise. My arms pinwheeled. Oh no. I braced for impact.

My elbows hit the ground first, a fraction of a second before my forehead cracked hard on the blacktop and sent the gun and blade clattering.

Pain burst in all directions, running along every inch of my skull and blinding me in the process.

Jesus Christ! Everywhere there was searing white light.

My limbs went numb, my pulse thundering too fast, too chaotic. I was on the verge of panic, the kind that would completely destroyed my ability to fight if I didn't get my act together. If you're down, you swing at anything! You do whatever it takes to get back up! Eugene's voice shouted in my head.

Biting back the panic, I flipped over and kicked out blindly, connecting with something. My head brushed over the hilt of the blade lying above my head. I grabbed it, sat up, and shoved it in front of me with all my strength, hoping to hell it hit something.

The sword caught. I pushed.

My heartbeat drummed so loud in my ears, I could barely hear. Slowly my vision returned.

The man knelt between my legs, both hands holding a small portion of the blade near the hilt, the rest embedded deep In his chest. His eyes were wide and surprised, as though the idea of failure had never occurred to him.

Time passed. Our gazes stayed locked. At some point, his expression shifted to regret. One hand reached out and lifted a strand of hair. ''So beautiful,'' he whispered in English. He rubbed it between his bloody finger and thumb. Then he muttered in that same strange language before a cough overtook him. He grimaced, closing his eyelids tightly. My hair trailed through his fingers as he fell back, his body sliding off the blade.

The frogs and crickets continued their night song. The sounds of traffic came back to life. But all those sounds, that had no idea what had just happened, were muted by my loud, ragged breaths.

My throat grew thick and dry. Tears stung my eyes as I stared at the guy in front of me. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Healthy. Good looking. He could've had a decent a life. Met a cute girl. Gotten married. Had babies.

Oh, God. I'd just killed a man-my fingers flexed on the hilt of the blade-with a goddamn miniature sword.

Family time with the Fitzhertberts never covered this.

I swiped the back of one shaking hand over my wet eyes, still gripping the dagger with the other even though my knuckles were white and my fingers were cramping. I couldn't seem to move, couldn't seem to recover from shock. The shock of being attacked by a stranger. Of fighting for my life. Of killing him...Get the cell phone. Call 911. Get off your pretty ass, you know what to do. Yes. I knew what to do. With a deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I rolled onto one hip to push up, but the man's body suddenly twitched.

I froze, mouth going slack as his body lifted off the ground and hovered for a few seconds before slowly turning to smoke, and then disappearing into some invisible updraft.

Dumbfounded, I sat back down and blinked. My grasp on the sword went limp, the angle of the blade catching the street light and making the blood shine.

A sharp laugh escaped my open mouth. ''Seriously?'' My voice sounded small and weak in the quiet night. I tipped my head back and yelled at the hazy night sky. ''Seriously!''

Was this someone's idea of a mind game? Did I fall down the steps at Rocquemore? Bang my forehead too hard on the pavement? Goddamn it! Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the blade resting on the ground between my legs.

Blade. Blade.

Whatever had just happened, I knew one thing. It was real. I held the proof of it in my hands. My mother, as screwed up as it sounded, had been right.

1500 WORDS Ahhh so proud of myself. Whoah things are getting deep.