Angelique:

One of Neville’s gutter boys was after me, I could smell him. Still a floor above, but he was gaining. I could hear him jumping down the stairs, two and three at a time. I caught a glimpse of him when I glanced back. Tall and lanky, young, dressed in black, his face laced up with black stitches across the cheekbones. They all had to take the mark somewhere on their face. Usually across the forehead, something they could cover up with their signature black bangs. But this kid put his gutter mark up front for the world to see.

He had a point to make.

And I was probably part of it.

I wondered if Neville had taken the time to tell him that I should be kept alive. That I had information they needed. I saw a white stick hanging loose in the kid’s mouth. Darts. This punk was loaded.

But what was he carrying? Sleep or death?

I ran, downward. Matching my pace with his. Jumping down steps, swinging around the corners. I knew how to escape, how to fight. My body was new and fresh and it responded to my training memories better than I had anticipated. Still, he was armed and I could tell that he was gaining on me.

I was going to have to do something unexpected.

Level 21.

I yanked the door open, raced over the carpeted hallway, felt him behind me, like he was my echo, like he was wearing my thoughts. I zigged back and forth, knowing that this would slow me down, but I couldn’t take a chance on getting hit with a dart. I slammed my hand on the elevator button as I passed. Just then something shot past me, an invisible hiss. He’d taken a shot at me and missed. Exactly what I was hoping for. I collapsed in a tumble, fell into a clumsy half-rolled position on the ground, one arm slumped over my head, my face turned back toward him, one eye open just wide enough to see the startled look on his face as he slowed down. He approached cautiously.

Good. Keep coming.

I could tell he was looking for the dart.

Closer, almost here.

His right foot landed six inches from my face. Perfect.

I waited until he leaned forward, until he stretched his hand toward my still and crumpled body. I struck, in that moment when he was slightly off balance. I spun, tucked and rolled, swung one leg up, knocked him to the ground. Jumped to my feet, then kicked him in the chest. Heard the wind swoosh out of his lungs, saw his eyes flash closed in reflexive pain. Saw him curl like a spider on its back, legs folded inward.

Then I ran. Toward the open and waiting elevator. Toward the lobby and freedom.

I heard him groan behind me as I ran, thought I heard him struggle to his feet. He was stronger than I’d expected. Something flashed in my brain as I almost made it through the doors. A familiar odor hung in the air.

The decay of gen-spike flesh.

I swung inside the elevator door, punched the DOWN button, crashed my back against the wall, chest heaving, mouth open. The doors started to close when I heard a horrid sound.

A high-pitched whispering whistle, air being pushed back as something shot forward, something flying so fast it was almost invisible.

It struck me in the thigh, the tuft of feathers shivering on impact.

I glanced up, saw his grinning face appear in the narrow space between the closing doors. Already I could feel it. Numb. Heavy. Like I was being plunged in icy-cold water.

My legs sagged beneath me, refused to bear my weight. The elevator plummeted downward and I collapsed, helpless, on the floor. One last comprehensible thought before a gossamer gray veil clouded everything.

Sleep or death?