Dim Sum Asylum(2)

“Arnett!” I yelled at his retreating back. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t slow down.

Assholes never slowed down when they were running from the cops. Even if they knew they weren’t going to get away, they still had to try… and Arnett knew better. There wasn’t going to be any end to this scenario that didn’t include him being caught. One way or another, I wasn’t going to let this go. I’d run him into the ground.

The stream of people closed in behind him, moving uphill toward the business centers past Washington. One of the district’s newer gates loomed over me, the large golden dragon on its crossbeam watching the skein carefully as it zipped by. It paid no attention to me. The draconian sentry sat purely for its own reasons, a bargain struck with the Triad Consortium long before the Golden Gate Bridge was built. Its tail swung and wrapped around the thick stone column supporting its perch. The rippling membrane at its end flowered, snapping out, nearly knocking me over. Despite, or perhaps because of, its criminal activity, the Triad knew what it was doing to keep its territories protected. The dragon was massive, a fierce reptilian watchdog mostly satisfied to remain on its post in exchange for a substantial amount of food every week.

So I couldn’t count on its help with Arnett.

For a big man, Arnett could run—which was amazing, because for as long as I’d known him, he barely stirred himself to refill his coffee cup. He’d wait for a uniform, preferably one with round hips and pert breasts, and he’d beg her for a new pour. It hardly ever worked, but he tried.

“Too damned early for this shit,” I grumbled. “God, I hope they get him first. I hope those fuckers burrow under his skin and suck out all his nerves like spaghetti. One by one. That’s what I want.”

Leaping to the side, I avoided running into a bicycle rack. The lizards moved faster, their legs tucked in tight against their undulating bodies until they were brilliant streamers with bared white teeth. Closer to the pier, the air was cooler. Downhill, the streets opened up, and the wind off the Bay whipped quickly through the tall buildings. The chill was nearly arctic, and the dragons hit the cold front, slowing their flight.

Arnett was heading down to the pier, probably hoping to get lost in the crowds of tourists. The dragons jogged to the right, and I skidded after them. They were following instinct, driven to protect their young, while I was chasing Myron because he’d pissed on our assignment. Once I caught up with him, I was going to kick his ass.

I spotted Arnett crossing over the BART tracks. His pockets swayed back and forth, heavy with eggs, and he kept his pace up, looking back every once in a while. He saw the skein before they honed in on him, and he bolted, crossing against traffic. Horns blared, and a truck’s tires smoked as the driver slammed on his brakes. The burning rubber cloud filling the street dissipated as the dragons punched holes through it in their pursuit. I followed, a little bit warier of the traffic than Myron but no less determined than my serpentine rivals.

Morning commuters heading into the financial district were climbing out of the railcars, their minds on the day and not on the sweaty-faced man stumbling toward them. Lines of office workers and suits were forming around the scattered bao carts on the main causeway, vendors doing brisk business in char siu or lotus paste steamed in white bread balls.

Arnett stumbled through the commuters, jostling them from their orderly queues. Shoving began, and it threatened to escalate when the dragons dove into the mix, their frilled manes puffed up around their triangular heads. Arnett nearly fell, and fear closed my throat. The eggs weren’t fragile—they had to survive the jostle of their clutch mates and the skein—but the shells wouldn’t hold up to Myron’s weight. Grabbing the handle of a turnip cake cart, he kept to his feet, but the lizards were honed in on him, turning in as a tight swarm. I closed the distance between us, crossing the pavement with a few strides. Turning the cart, Arnett shoved it at me, knocking over customers. Hot oil splashed from the frying element, scalding people nearby.

“Arnett, think about this.” I bounced out of the way and put my hands up, still hoping to de-escalate the situation. “You can still walk from this. Gaines would section you—”

“Fuck you, MacCormick. Goddamned faerie,” he spat and tossed the vendor’s kitchen utensils at my face. One of the smaller knives hit my cheek, the tip digging into my skin, nearly hitting my eye. Blinking, my vision refused to clear, and rubbing only seemed to blur things more.

One of the smaller dragons wove in, its talons bared and spread. Apparently no one told it that it was supposed to be fearful and docile, so it attacked, its mane spread about its face. Arnett screamed and jerked away, his face scored with deep grooves. His foot hit the steaming oil, and he went down. The rest were on him, and Arnett rolled onto his knees, a black steel service revolver in his hand. They scattered when he turned, frightened by the sudden movement.

He was up and off again before I could get a bead on him.

Front Street was closed to vehicle traffic in preparation for the Moon Festival that weekend. Workers stood on spackling stilts, hanging banners and stringing fae lights along temporary canopies. Arnett twisted as he ran, shooting at me. His arm hit a support leg, pulling a man down onto the pavement. Something in the worker’s body snapped when he hit the cobblestones, and my teeth ached in sympathy pain. A string of paper lanterns fell, rolling around underfoot as people scattered away from the concourse.