Inside, she could hear only silence. No reaction to her noisy intrusion. No footsteps running to the door.
Oh, God, answer! Come here and answer your door, you idiots!
Kaitlyn looked behind her and her heart nearly jumped out of her body.
Because the foxy man was there; he was standing on the walkway of the house. Looking at her.
And he was very very very bad. His mind was full of things that Kaitlyn couldn't sense directly, but that when put together sounded like one long scream. He'd done things to other girls-he wanted to do them to her.
No sound from the house. No help. And she was cornered prey here on the porch. Kait made her decision in an instant. She was off the porch and running, running for the Institute, before the man could move a step.
She heard her own pounding footsteps in the street -and pounding feet behind her. Her breath began to sob.
And it was dark and she was confused. She didn't know which way the Institute was anymore. Somewhere around here she turned left-but where? It was a street that sounded like a flower or plant-but she couldn't read street signs anyway.
That street looked familiar. Kait swerved toward it, trying to get a glimpse of the sign. Ivy Street-was that right? There was no time to debate. She veered down the street, trying to push her legs into going faster .. . and realized almost instantly that it was a mistake.
A cul-de-sac. When she reached the end, she'd be caught.
She glanced behind her. He was there, running, overcoat flapping like the wings of a bird of prey. He was ungainly but very fast.
She wasn't even going to make it to the end of the cul-de-sac.
If she ran to a house, he'd grab her as she stood on the porch. If she slowed, he'd tackle her from behind. If she tried to double back, he'd cut her off.
The only thing she could think of to do was stand and fight.
Once again, the feeling of clear coldness swept over her. Right, then. She pulled up short, staggering a little, and whirled. She was standing in the widest part of the cul-de-sac, surrounded by parked cars.
He saw her and stumbled, slowing down, hesitating. Then, at a shambling half-run, he started toward her again. Kaitlyn stood her ground.
She was glad she hadn't dropped her duffel bag. Maybe she could use it as a weapon. Or maybe there was something in it to use. . . .
No, everything was too soft. Except the pencils, but they were in her art kit. She'd never get them out in time.
Then I'll use my fingers to stab his eyes out, she thought savagely. And my knees and my feet and fists. Adrenaline was singing in her veins; she was almost glad of the chance to fight. The things she sensed inside him made her want to rip him to pieces. He'd killed, he was a killer.
"Come on, you creep," she said, and realized she was saying it out loud.
He came. He was grinning, a crazy-happy grin. His eyes were crazy, too. Kaitlyn tensed her muscles and then he was on her.
Gabriel was blocking the world out, but the scream came through.
He was pacing in front of the Institute, loitering. He'd been out all night, and didn't particularly want to go in. Not that anyone inside now would bother him-but he still had an impulse to avoid the place. He'd screwed up; he hadn't gotten the crystal shard. And tonight he'd have to explain to him.
Zetes. Gabriel felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. He understood now why Marisol had been so afraid of the old man. He had a sort of malevolent power about him, a power that was best observed in day-to-day living. He seemed to drain the will out of everyone around him. Not suddenly, the way Gabriel drained life energy, but slowly. People around him began to feel nervous and exhausted-and dazed. Like birds looking into the eyes of a snake.
A quiet form of terrorization.
Gabriel didn't intend to be terrorized. But now that he'd chosen his path, he needed Zetes. The old man had the structure, the organization, the contacts. Gabriel planned to use all those things on his journey to the top.
He was debating going in when the scream sliced through his consciousness. It wasn't a vocal sound, purely mental. It was composed of hate and anger as well as fear. And it was Kaitlyn.
Close. North and west of him, he thought. He was moving before he thought anything else.
And he probably couldn't have explained why if anyone had asked him.
He moved with the smooth long steps of a hunting wolf. The scream came again-the sound of someone fighting for her life. Gabriel moved faster, homing in on it.
Ivy Street. It was coming from down there-and now he could see it, in the streetlights at the end of the cul-de-sac. He couldn't hear anything except mentally; Kaitlyn never did scream out loud when she was in trouble.
Gabriel reached the grappling figures at a dead run. A red-haired man was on top of Kaitlyn, and she was biting, kicking, and clawing. The man was considerably damaged but sure to win in the end. He was heavier and stronger; he could outlast her.
Deja vu, Gabriel thought. Once in back of the Institute he'd found another man attacking Kaitlyn-a man who'd turned out to be from the Fellowship. This one, Gabriel thought, eyeing the unwashed hair and unsavory appearance of Kaitlyn's attacker, was unlikely to be anything but a bum.
He could just leave things as they were. The old man would be happy to hear Kaitlyn was dead, and it would mean one less person keeping the shard from them. But. . .
All these thoughts flashed through Gabriel's mind in seconds. Before he'd even consciously come to a conclusion, he was reaching for the man.
He tangled a hand in the back of the dirty overcoat and pulled, yanking the man up. Kaitlyn rolled out from under, and he could hear the surprise in her mind. Gabriel!
So she hadn't seen him. Well, she'd been busy trying to stay alive. The man in the overcoat was reacting now, pulling away. He saw Gabriel and threw a punch.
Gabriel ducked around it. He jerked his arm and the knife in his sleeve snicked out. His hand closed around it, feeling the welcome weight, the smoothness of the handle.
The man's eyes got big.
Just like Wolverine, Gabriel thought, cutting the knife in front of him in a practice move. The red-haired man's eyes followed it. He was scared; Gabriel could already taste the flavor of his fear.
But don't worry about the knife, he thought, knowing the man couldn't hear him. That's just a distraction, to keep you watching . . . while I do this. . . .
Gabriel's other hand rose almost gracefully, gracefully and stealthily, and touched the man on the back of the spine. Just above the soiled collar of the overcoat, just at the nape of the neck.