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  Roz grabbed his arm. “Will you watch where you’re going?”

  “Right, right . . .” The private returned his attention to the road. “My old man’s always giving me grief about that.” He turned toward Roz again, grinning. “This one time I was—”

  “The road!”

  “Gotcha. Anyway, I was—”

  Something dark and heavy crashed down onto the jeep’s hood. Nazzaro screamed and stamped down on the brake. The jeep skidded to a stop and the body kept moving—it hit the ground hard, rolled a good twenty yards, and lay still.

  Lance was out of the jeep and running for the body before it had stopped rolling. Roz leaped out after him, slowed as she approached. Lance was in the way, and it was pretty dark. She couldn’t see much, but the closer she got the tighter the knot in her stomach became. “Oh no. . . .”

  Without turning around, Lance softly said, “It’s Abby.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Twenty-five minutes earlier, Abigail de Luyando had silently pushed open the window of the bedroom she shared with her sister and climbed out onto the fire escape. Instead of descending the creaking metal steps and taking the risk of waking up old Mr. Sutcliffe two floors down, she’d vaulted over the rail and landed in the alley.

  Her conversation with Thunder had been odd. She’d been half asleep, going over the day’s events in her head, when a voice whispered her name. She’d jumped up and flicked on the light, but the only other person in the room was Vienna, softly snoring to herself.

  Then the voice had come again. “It’s me, Abby. Thunder.” He’d told her how he’d been contacted by Roz and that she was coming to pick them up.

  Now, Abby ran along the town’s deserted streets. Leftover’s—normally open until two in the morning—was dark and empty. She darted past, ducked down the side street, and three minutes later was back on Main Street dressed in her homemade costume. Thunder had told her where he lived, so she started running in that direction.

  She was still pulling on her gloves as she reached the front of the diner when she saw the woman standing in the middle of the street, watching her.

  Abby stopped.

  The woman was now wearing a close-fitting bloodred costume, with purple gloves, belt, and boots, but Abby still recognized her: Slaughter.

  Abby’s mouth suddenly dried. Oh God.

  Slaughter walked forward slowly, almost casually, her hips swaying as though she was stepping onto a dance floor.

  Abby had seen enough TV shows and movies to know what was coming next. Slaughter would sneer, boast a little, threaten to kill her, and then the battle would begin.

  All right, Abby thought, her hand slowly rising toward the sword on her back. Don’t give her the chance. As soon as she starts talking—

  Slaughter darted forward, leaped, spun in midair. She landed on one foot in front of Abby, still spinning. Her other foot slammed into the side of Abby’s face, knocking the army helmet from her head. Abby staggered to the right, almost losing her balance.

  Still spinning, Slaughter struck Abby’s face in the same spot with her left fist, then her right. Abby reeled backward.

  Slaughter dropped to the ground, pivoted on her arms, crashed her legs into Abby’s. Abby felt herself hit the ground hard. Got to move—

  The woman pushed herself up and flipped over in one movement. She came down with one foot on either side of Abby’s head, the toes of her boots almost brushing Abby’s shoulders. Abby stared up at her, not knowing what to do.

  Slaughter reached down and took hold of Abby’s belt, effortlessly hoisted her into the air.

  Dangling upside down, Abby made a grab for Slaughter’s left leg, but the woman was too fast: She jabbed upward with her right knee, hitting Abby in the stomach and letting go of her belt at the same time.

  Abby tumbled as she sailed through the air and had a brief moment to see a large painted O approaching—then she crashed through the plate glass window of Leftover’s.

  She skidded on her back across table seven and hit the floor hard. Move! Get out of here!

  Abby jumped to her feet and grabbed her sword from its sheath on her back, and in the half-light noticed that her right glove was glistening red. Blood! I’m cut! Then an all-too-familiar tang reached her nostrils. It wasn’t blood—it was the cheap ketchup that Dave the manager bought by the gallon and decanted into genuine Heinz bottles.

  Then Slaughter was leaping through the shattered window.

  Abby jumped backward, felt the edge of the countertop pressing against her back, and slashed at Slaughter with her sword.

  But the woman was already two yards to the left, having turned her leap into a short flight and changed direction. Abby lunged toward her and slashed again.

  Slaughter cartwheeled over the counter and passed feetfirst through the rectangular window into the pitch-dark kitchen.

  Abby ran for the kitchen’s double doors, jumped at the last moment and hit the doors with her shoulder, crashed through and rolled to her feet.

  In the triangle of weak light from the doorway, Abby saw the cook’s largest knife thud into the tiled floor an inch away from her right boot. She ducked to the left as a second knife whizzed past her head so close she felt the wind. At the same time a third knife clipped the shoulder of her jacket and spun away to clatter across the floor. No fair! She can see in the dark!

  She ran for the back door. Can’t take her on in here. Not with all these things she can use as weapons!

  A heavy steel frying pan embedded itself in the back door, followed almost instantly by a horizontal hail of razor-sharp steak knives.

  Abby ducked down behind the largest oven, and as she did so she caught a faint glimpse of Slaughter. The woman was standing in the corner next to the well-stocked cutlery drawers. Tiny points of light glinted off the knives in her hands—at least three in each—and from her eyes. Slaughter’s pupils looked huge, wide, and dark.

  Abby snatched up one of the fallen steak knives and threw it toward the far wall, to the left of the double doors. It spun as it flew. The wooden handle clipped the light switch.

  The overhead lights came on instantly, and Slaughter finally made a sound: She gasped, let go of the knives, and covered her eyes with her hands.

  Abby dropped her sword, grabbed the top edge of the oven with both hands, and hauled herself over it in one movement. She clenched her fists as she sailed through the air, slammed them both into Slaughter’s unprotected stomach an inch above her wide belt. Don’t stop, don’t stop! Don’t give her a chance to recover!

  As the woman doubled over, Abby put all of her strength into her right fist. It collided with Slaughter’s chin, knocking her back against the wall. Abby swung her left fist at Slaughter’s temple, and at the same time stamped down on the woman’s right foot with her heavy boots.

  Slaughter screamed, swung her fists wildly. Abby dodged the clumsy blows, aimed another punch at Slaughter’s stomach.

  Slaughter suddenly lashed out with clawed fingers toward Abby’s throat. Abby saw it coming: She caught the woman’s hand, planted her right fist into Slaughter’s face.

  Slaughter screamed again, and launched a frenzied barrage of punches, kicks, and head-butts. Abby found herself staggering backward under the assault.

  Then one of Slaughter’s blows hit its target: Abby’s jaw.

  A burst of pain—greater than anything she had ever imagined—flared through Abby’s skull. She reeled back, hit the corner of the oven, and lost her footing. Dizzy and nauseated, she collapsed to the floor.

  Slaughter stood over her, fists clenched and eyes blazing. Through gritted teeth, she said, “You . . . You hurt me!” She wiped the back of her glove across her mouth. It came away streaked with red. “This is my own blood! No one has ever made me bleed before!”

  Abby tried to scramble out of Slaughter’s reach, but the enraged woman struck out with her foot, the heel catching Abby in the jaw. Another kick, and another. Abby felt the back of her head slamming against th
e floor.

  She made a grab for another of the steak knives, but Slaughter kicked the knife out of reach and stamped heavily on her hand. Abby felt like her whole world was made of pain.

  She felt Slaughter’s hands roughly grab her shoulders, and she was hoisted to her feet. Half-carrying, half-dragging Abby across the kitchen floor, the woman launched a vicious kick at the kitchen’s back door, snapping the heavy lock. She pulled Abby out into the yard. “You think you’re hurting now? You don’t know what hurt is. But I’m going to show you.”

  Still dazed, Abby was aware of a floating, rushing sensation. She was sure she was moving, but Slaughter’s strong hands were still holding on to the shoulders of her jacket.

  Then she recovered a little, and realized that her feet were swinging freely.

  She looked down. The backyard of Leftover’s was shrinking away.

  Oh dear God! She’s going to—

  Eight hundred feet above Main Street, Slaughter opened her hands, and Abby fell.

  The last thing she saw as she tumbled through the air was a rapidly approaching jeep.

  CHAPTER 17

  “She’s alive,” Lance said, turning to look at Roz. “You know any first aid?”

  “A little. But the soldier . . .”

  They looked back toward the jeep. Private Nazzaro was still sitting behind the wheel, mouth and eyes wide. All the color had drained from his face.

  “He’s not going to be much use,” Lance said. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he wished he’d paid attention during the first-aid classes at school. Recovery position. No, wait. . . . Can’t move her in case she’s hurt her back or her neck. What’s the first thing?

  “She’s breathing OK,” Thunder said, crouching down on the other side of Abby. He pulled off his right glove and placed his index finger on her neck. “And her pulse is strong.” He gently pulled back on Abby’s eyelids. “Pupils are fine. Abby? Abby, can you hear me?”

  The only response was a low moan.

  “My God, how did this happen?” Roz asked. “She just fell out of the sky!”

  Lance looked up. The sky was overcast, thick clouds tinted orange from the town’s sodium lights. “She’s not able to fly. If she was, she wouldn’t have asked Paragon for a lift. So—”

  “Go home,” a woman’s voice called.

  They looked up to see Slaughter standing across the street, arms folded, almost daring them to attack. “Go home,” she repeated. “That’s the only way you’re going to survive this night.”

  Thunder and Roz stood up, faced her.

  Lance said, “Guys, if she can do this to Abby—”

  Roz cut him off. “Thunder? Use your power. Pop her eardrums.”

  Then Abby’s weak voice said, “No . . . Don’t . . .”

  Slaughter suddenly screamed, staggered, placed her hands over her ears.

  “Pain makes her mad,” Abby said softly—but Lance was sure he was the only one who heard her.

  Slaughter launched herself at Thunder. He ducked to the side—but Slaughter twisted in mid-flight and clipped him across the jaw with her elbow. Thunder stumbled back, received another punch to the jaw, then a kick to his stomach.

  He dropped to the ground, rolled aside as Slaughter’s boot came down hard where his head had been. He made a grab for her foot, but the woman easily pulled herself free.

  Her fists clenched, she threw herself toward him—

  —and stopped in midair, her body quivering.

  Lance took a second to see Roz staring at Slaughter, the exertion of using her telekinesis clear on her contorted face, then he grabbed Abby’s arms and started to drag her toward the jeep. Abby was kicking feebly. “Let me . . .”

  “No!” Lance said. “We can’t take her on. You heard what Paragon said. We need to get away from here!”

  Then Abby pulled her arms away, rolled onto her side. “My sword . . . It’s in the diner. The kitchen. Get it.”

  Lance hesitated for a second. Nearby, Slaughter was screaming at Roz, but the teenage girl was still holding her suspended above the ground. Thunder was getting to his feet. I don’t think the others have superhuman strength, Lance thought. From what Paragon told me, Abby’s the only one who comes close to matching Slaughter.

  “Someone help me!” Roz said, her teeth gritted. “I can’t hold her back much longer!”

  Lance ran for the diner. The doors were clearly locked—the only way in was through the broken window, past razor-sharp shards of glass.

  Oh man. . . . Maybe if I jump I can sort of roll through and not get sliced up. He dismissed that idea instantly. Get real. You’re not a superhuman.

  He began to pull off his jacket, with the idea of wrapping it around his hands to protect them, but he was still wearing his backpack. He stopped. How dumb can you get? Lance removed the backpack and took out the armored gloves he’d stolen from The Helotry’s warehouse. They certainly looked capable of knocking out the worst of the window’s jagged shards.

  It took a moment to punch out enough of the glass, then he grabbed the window frames and pulled himself through the window and onto the debris-covered table.

  The diner’s kitchen lights were on, and Abby’s sword stood out clearly on the tiled floor. He grabbed the hilt and almost wrenched his arm out of its socket in the process—the sword was too heavy for him to lift with one hand.

  With some effort he hoisted it onto his shoulder, then returned to the main part of the diner. Outside, he could see Slaughter silently tumbling, spinning, kicking—Roz and Thunder didn’t stand a chance.

  Abby was on her feet now, swaying slightly. She began to move toward the fight.

  Lance shouted, “Wait! The sword!”

  She didn’t react.

  Thunder’s blocking out the sound—she can’t hear me!

  He clambered back onto the table, then threw the sword out onto the street and jumped after it.

  The heavy sword had landed next to his backpack, and Lance spotted the hook of the grappling gun protruding from it. I should have told Paragon about that—he might have been able to charge up the gas cylinder.

  In the middle of the street Abby threw herself at Slaughter—the woman didn’t hear her coming. She struck Slaughter in the small of the back with her shoulder, knocked her off her feet.

  Slaughter recovered almost instantly, rolled and pushed herself upright, grabbed hold of Abby’s left arm and pulled. Abby was lifted into the air, spun, thrown into Roz and Thunder. Thunder collapsed to the ground, his head slamming off the asphalt.

  The sound instantly returned.

  Lance snatched up his backpack and ran for the jeep. “Hey! You!” He had forgotten the soldier’s name. “Start it up! Ram her with the car!”

  But Private Nazzaro was still in shock. Lance pulled the man out of the driver’s seat, left him lying stunned on the ground.

  Lance knew the principles of driving, but he’d never done it. More than once, his brother Cody had offered to teach him. Should have taken him up on that, Lance thought.

  He looked back toward the fight: Abby was making a run for her sword. Slaughter was right behind her.

  Lance pounded down on the jeep’s horn—the noise blasted through the street, and Slaughter turned to look in his direction.

  Lance felt his blood chill. The look on Slaughter’s face told him that he would be next.

  Something exploded beside him—Lance turned to see Private Nazzaro half-crouched, smoke rising from the barrel of the pistol aimed at Slaughter.

  “Did you hit—?”

  Nazzaro turned and ran. Then Slaughter was crashing into the front of the jeep. The vehicle shunted six feet backward. Lance felt it tip over as she lifted up the front.

  He had a sudden image of what would happen when the open-topped vehicle landed upside down—he’d be crushed.

  But there wasn’t enough time to get out. Lance ducked down into the foot-well. His gloved hands brushed something heavy and hard—the grappling gun. He had a b
rief moment to again wish that he’d asked Paragon to charge the gas cylinder, then the jeep toppled over and crashed heavily to the ground.

  Lance found himself facedown on the road, scratched and scraped, but otherwise unhurt. OK. I’m better off under here. She’s not going to—

  A purple-gloved fist punched through the jeep’s door.

  Grappling gun’s heavy—hit her in the face with it!

  He knew that he was going to die in the next few seconds, but all he cared about was hurting Slaughter enough to give the others a chance to get away.

  The door was wrenched free and thrown aside. Lance grabbed the grappling gun—but it was stuck, wedged between the dashboard and ground. Oh no.

  His fingers brushed against the gun’s hook as strong hands grabbed hold of his upper arms and pulled him out. Lifting him as though he was no heavier than a toddler, Slaughter held him in front of her. Through gritted teeth she growled, “You shot me!”

  Lance saw a thin black streak across the woman’s forehead. “Wasn’t me!” The grappling gun’s hook was in his hand, but he couldn’t move his arms enough to swing it at her.

  “I’m going to save you for last,” Slaughter hissed. She threw Lance back over the jeep. He landed on his feet, stumbled, and almost fell.

  In front of the diner, Abby was holding on to her sword. Lance watched Slaughter streak toward her.

  Slaughter was less than three yards away from Abby when she suddenly shuddered and stopped. The jeep scraped a few feet along the ground, towed by the grappling gun’s cable.

  Lance had attached the hook to Slaughter’s belt.

  Slaughter dropped to the ground, and Abby swung her sword.

  CHAPTER 18

  Roz got to her feet in time to see Abby’s sword slam into the side of Slaughter’s head.