Dark Alchemy Read Online Free PDF Page B

skittering helplessly along the perimeter of the fight.
    â€œJesus, Frankie’s gonna kill him.” Maria dug in the back of the Bronco for the shotgun, scrabbled in the glove box for loose shells.
    In the doorway of the bar, Petra spied the bartender. He stayed in the shadow of the door, watching.
    â€œHelp him!” Petra shouted.
    The bartender shook his head. He watched with detached interest, like a vulture watching a predator make a kill that he could pick over later.
    The taillight of the truck broke under the impact of one of Frankie’s blows, glittering red in the spatters on the pavement. The stranger was on the ground, and Frankie slammed the fence post into the man’s ribs. The stranger’s hat lay on the pavement, broken plastic shards glittering on the leather. The raven paced beside the hat, wings spread, shrieking.
    Petra stepped up to Frankie. “Leave him alone.”
    Frankie paused. Petra marveled at the power of her voice, that Frankie was willing to stop midstrike, bloody fence post lifted over his head.
    Then she looked down, saw the pistol in her hands and the barrel pressed against the base of Frankie’s neck. The pressure seemed to keep the gun from shaking.
    â€œHoly shit,” she breathed at herself.
    The raven looked up at Petra and cawed hoarsely, as if challenging her to act. Or pleading.

 
    Chapter Three
    Bluffing
    A shotgun shell ratcheted noisily into its chamber somewhere behind Petra. She held her breath, tensing to receive a load of buckshot in the back.
    â€œDo as she says, Frankie,” Maria snarled. “Drop it.”
    Frankie let the stained fence post clatter to the ground. Sullenly, he turned to Petra and Maria. Spittle ran down his chin and flecked the front of his T-­shirt.
    â€œLast chance. Get in the truck, Frankie.”
    Frankie, grumbling, shuffled toward the Bronco. He vomited in the street and collapsed upon reaching the truck, passing out against the fender.
    Petra knelt before the beaten man. His dark hair was matted with blood and dirt. Petra rolled him on his side, saw the purpling bruise already swelling on the right side of his face.
    â€œAre you okay?” It was a dumb question. He clearly wasn’t.
    â€œMmmph,” he said.
    She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and called 911. The call rang twice, then disconnected.
    â€œHey,” she shouted over her shoulder at the bartender. “Call an ambulance.”
    The bartender disappeared. Petra didn’t know if he’d make the call, if there even were ambulances out here.
    Petra pried open the man’s good eye. The pupil in his shimmering amber iris contracted in the sun. That much was good. The eye began to roll back into his head.
    â€œYou.” She shook him. “Stay with me. What’s your name?”
    The man coughed a mouthful of blood up on Petra’s shirt. “Gabriel.”
    The raven paced before them, rustling its feathers in agitation. Petra tried to shoo it away, but it hopped back, making sketchy tracks in the blood with its claws.
    Petra turned Gabriel’s stubbled face toward her, examining the bruise covering the right side of his cheek. His skin was oddly cool, like stone, and he smelled like metal. No heat emanated from the wound, nor from the blood that covered his skin. Petra rubbed her hand on her pants, conscious of the risk of blood-­borne contagion.
    Gabriel touched Petra’s collar. “Sorry about your shirt.”
    Her gold pendant necklace spilled out from under the fabric, and Gabriel immediately brushed his fingers against it in fascination. “The true green lion,” he rasped,
    â€œWhat? You know about this?”
    His amber eyes fluttered shut, and she reached for his wrist to take his pulse. Her fingers sought an arterial thump of blood. But she didn’t feel a thump . . . she felt a buzz. Like placing her fingers on a stereo speaker that was playing only static.