Inked

my right as Zee tumbled from the shadows beneath a scarred Pontiac.
    He was only as tall as my knee, mostly humanoid, and preferred to stand with his shoulders hunched, the tips of his black claws dragging against stone and leaving narrow grooves. His small face was angular as the point of a knife, each thick strand of his hair razor sharp. A series of spikes rode down the length of his spine. His skin was the color of coal mixed with mercury, and I knew from experience that it was indestructible. Nothing could kill Zee or his brothers.
    But the party in the ocean was over. His red eyes were solemn. I straightened with concern, as did Grant. Dek and Mal, who had begun to poke their heads from my hair, went very still.
    “Maxine,” he rasped. “Got company.”
    Grant glanced ahead, to his left where the Mustang was parked in the maze of cars, and narrowed his gaze. “One person. His aura is weak.”
    Weak. Which was another word for dying. I gave him a quick look, then slid out from under his arm, kicked off my heels, and flew across the concrete on light, silent feet. Raw appeared from under a car, bounding ahead of me to sweep broken glass out of my way. He was a blur of darkness beneath the strained cold fluorescent streetlight, and thankfully, no one else was around to see him.
    The same could not be said for the man bleeding to death in front of my car.
    He was on the ground, propped against the bumper with his cheek resting on chrome. Old man, maybe in his seventies—mostly bald, with a ring of feathery hair around the back of his head that was white as snow. Hands large and grizzled as leather meat hooks clutched his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers.
    A lot of blood. He was sitting in a puddle of it, and even in the bad light I could see that his dark slacks were as glistening and soaked as the white dress shirt that stretched crimson across his soft torso.
    His closed eyes snapped open when I was less than three feet away. A brilliant blazing gaze, sharp with pain—but even sharper with intelligence. He looked at me with such intensity, I stopped in my tracks, swaying.
    “Finally,” he whispered, his English heavily accented, though I could not place the origin.
    I heard the rushed click of a cane behind me, but it was a dim sound compared to the roaring in my ears. “Sir. We’re going to help you.”
    I snapped my fingers. Moments later a wad of gauze padding was flung at me from the shadows beneath a car. The old man did not seem to notice, which was what I had hoped for—though I could not account for the way he looked at me, with hungry recognition, as though I was someone he had not seen in years.
    I picked up the gauze, and held out my hands. “Don’t be afraid.”
    He grimaced. “Never. You look…the same.”
    I froze, and then forced myself to move again, stepping close, walking barefoot in his blood. It was shockingly warm, and squelched beneath my toes.
    He had not been shot. Stabbed, multiple times in the same spot. Defensive wounds covered his arms, and there was a gash along his throat that I had not seen earlier.
    I reached for him. “Sir, move your hand. I have something to put on your wound.”
    The old man shifted, but it was to reach into his pocket. I did not pay attention to what he removed, but crouched close, pressing the gauze against his wound and pushing down. He groaned, panting for air. Trembling so violently his teeth chattered. Pink foam flecked his lips.
    I glanced over my shoulder. “Grant.”
    “I called nine-one-one,” he muttered, drawing near. “Five minutes, they said.”
    We did not have five minutes. I glanced down at my right hand, at the armor glinting along my fingers, and tightened my jaw. I could do this. I could move us through space to a hospital. I could even take us back in time, though that posed a whole other range of risks.
    But I never got the chance. The old man grabbed my hand, and squeezed with surprising strength—staring into my eyes with that same unnerving intensity. “You have to end it. We thought…it was over, but we were wrong. We were wrong …and she tried…to warn us.”
    I stared, but the old man was not delirious. There was too much clarity in his eyes, a profound need that was hard and cold, even terrifying. His desperation was the only thing keeping him alive—but that was fading, too.
    “Maxine Kiss,” he whispered, chilling me to the bone. “I have a…message…from Jean.”
    I knew only one Jean. My