Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(63)

That fifth proved my all-white theory wrong. He was most definitely part something else, like me. Tall and skinny with it; his hands were big and his feet were big-ger. His hair was long and kinky, a mixture of browns and golds reflecting every shade of the earth and sun. He hadn't yet grown into his body or his face. When he did, he was gonna be dangerous.

Right now his nose was too prominent, as were his eyebrows, and his eyes glinted startlingly light in his darker than suntanned face. From this distance I couldn't tell if they were gray, green, or blue, and it didn't matter. Those eyes made him different in one world while his skin made him different in another.

The kid didn't speak. He held himself ready, weight forward, hands loosely clenched. His gaze remained on the biggest, loudest boy. I figured that would be the one to throw the first punch. They usually are.

I was wrong again. Or maybe not so much. The big boy sneered the N-word—a more painful strike than fists could ever be—and the skinny kid popped him in the face.

Blood spurted. "You broke my nose."

The breeze kicked up, stirring my hair but not the trees.



Marbas, Ruthie whispered.

Was she referring to the black kid, the white, or both? Hard to say. Beyond the certainty that it was a breed. I didn't know what in hell a Marbas was.

"Kick his ass," the leader of the pack snarled, and the three huge beastie boys moved forward like hulking monsters from a Dark Horse comic book.

I took a step forward, too, and Sawyer put a hand on my arm. "Wait," he breathed. "Watch."

I nearly ignored him. I couldn't just stand here and let the kid get pummeled. He might be as tall as the others but he wasn't as solid. They'd been eating steadily and well for most of their lives. He had not. Besides, it just annoyed the hell out of me when someone got picked on because they were different.

It did go back to my childhood. Sue me.

However, in the short time it took for Sawyer to speak and me to hesitate, the boy took care of himself.

One came at him from the right, another from the left, and a third from behind. He snatched the hands of the two on each side as they tried to punch him, and swung them toward each other. They slammed chests, then foreheads, and went down like bricks.

The boy did a front flip over their prone bodies, and the guy who'd been about to bear-hug him fell on his face. The bleeding mammoth lumbered upward, and the boy kicked him in the chest with a tattered tennis shoe. His attacker not only landed on his rump, but the momentum made him crash onto his back and his head thunked against the dirt and dry grass.

The one who'd meant to squeeze the kid to death sat up, rubbing his forehead. The boy was leaning over the kid whose nose he'd broken; he wasn't paying attention. I opened my mouth to shout a warning as the guy lumbered toward him like an out-of-control locomotive on a downhill track, and Sawyer clapped a hand over my lips.

At the last possible instant, the boy ducked, twisted, and kicked out with his left leg. The attacker flew off his feet and back several yards. He was slow getting up, as were the other three. They shook their heads, dazed, but they came right back.

A low rumbling growl swirled around the clearing, increasing to a roar—a lion's roar—so loud and forceful I could have sworn the trees shook, and the earth trembled. If that wasn't scary enough, the kid's eyes blazed amber and his mane of tangled golden-brown hair stuck out from his head like Medusa's snakes.

"Marbas," I said.

"Some kind of lion-shifter," Sawyer murmured.

"What kind?" I asked.

Sawyer shrugged. He knew some things, but not everything.

The bullies ran, crashing through the underbrush like wounded water buffalo. The Marbas clenched and unclenched his hands, bouncing on his toes, his light eyes intent on their retreating forms.

His need to chase them vibrated in the air like an approaching electrical storm. When prey ran, predators pursued. It was what we did.

Even when I'd been a cop, the principle applied. Only the guilty ran. Not to chase them had been as against my nature then as it must be against this kid's nature to let the vanquished escape. But he did.

I contemplated him and wondered why we had come here. To stop him from killing those kids? He hadn't, and he could have, which made me think he wasn't evil, but you never could tell.

I pulled my knife from its sheath. Silver worked on most shifters and was always worth a try.

"You can come out now," the kid murmured, still staring after the departed boys.

I didn't realize he was talking to us until Sawyer skirted the trees and strode into the clearing.

The Marbas looked him up and down. "I guess you aren't from social services," he said.

Sawyer didn't answer.

"What about her?" He jerked his head toward the trees.

He was good. I slipped out, and as soon as I did, the boy's lips curved. "I don't think you're a social worker, either."

I supposed the knife gave me away.

"So who are you and how did you find me?"

Sawyer had found him. Which, come to think of it, was weird. He wasn't a seer, that was my gig, but I hadn't had a tingle until I'd gotten close. To figure out once and for all why we were here, I needed to get a lit-tie closer.

"I'm Elizabeth Phoenix." I put away the knife, then held out my hand for a shake. A risk, true, but Sawyer could take a lion. I hoped.