Page 4 of Shadow Waltz

The men were on us before I could react. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, lifting me away from Cass with casual ease. I fought, screaming and clawing, but they were too strong. Too practiced. This wasn't their first time.

“Help!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the empty platform. “Someone help us!”

But there was no one. The homeless guy rolled over and pulled a blanket over his head, pretending to sleep. The city's unspoken rule: see nothing, hear nothing, stay alive another day.

I watched helplessly as the younger man lifted Cass, cradling them like a broken doll. They looked so small in his arms, so fragile. Like they might shatter if he held them too tight. Our eyes met across the platform, and I saw the fear there. Theresignation. The way Cass's lips moved in what might have been an apology.

“Cass!” I thrashed against the hands holding me, but it was useless. The older man was stronger than he looked, his grip like iron wrapped in expensive fabric. “Let them go!”

“Don't worry,” the man said, his voice soft and reasonable. His breath smelled like mint and something underneath that made my stomach turn. “You'll see them again soon.”

But I knew it was a lie. I could feel it in my bones, the certainty that this was the end. That I was losing the only good thing in my life to the city's endless hunger.

A van pulled up to the curb above us, sleek and black with tinted windows. The side door slid open, revealing an interior lined with what looked like medical equipment. Restraints. Other things I didn't want to identify.

They dragged me toward the stairs, toward the van. I caught one last glimpse of Cass's face, pale and scared and beautiful, before rough hands shoved a cloth over my mouth and nose. The world went soft around the edges, then dark.

1

BLOOD AND VELVET

ASH

PRESENT DAY

My breath steamed in the cold air as I bolted down an alley slick with rain and trash, shoes pounding out a rhythm that screamed not prey, not this time. My lungs burned, muscles coiled and uncoiled in practiced bursts, every step measured. I didn’t waste movement. I’d learned that the hard way.

Behind me, footsteps echoed—a mismatched chorus of heavy boots, cheap leather, and desperation. I ducked past overflowing bins and a rusted fire escape, heart hammering as I scanned for exits. Nothing but brick and shadow. Shit. I yanked my hood lower, pulled the knife from my waistband, and kept moving. Every nerve screamed caution, but I’d lived too long to freeze.

A shout cut the night: “There! He’s heading east—block the other end!”

They always thought numbers made them brave. I grinned, sharp and mean, and darted left, skidding behind a dumpster. Three shapes followed, shadows stretching long in the puddle-glow. Their voices blurred with the city’s noise, but I caught the hunger in their words: “Boss wants him back alive. That’s all. Doesn’t matter how.”

The alley narrowed, walls closing in like jaws. I planted my back to the brick, let my pulse slow, and waited. They didn’t expect patience. Most people in my position panicked, made noise, begged. I’d outgrown fear a long time ago.

The first one came in fast—big, bald, tattoos crawling up his neck. He swung a baton at my head, clumsy with adrenaline. I ducked low, felt the wind of it pass overhead, and drove my elbow into his ribs. He wheezed. I jammed my thumb into his throat, sidestepped as he staggered, and flicked my knife up, catching the weak spot between his fingers. He dropped the baton. I caught it before it hit the ground.

Two more came at me—one tall and lean, the other short and thick-necked. They spread out, boxing me in. I let them. Sometimes the only way out was through.

“Give it up, pretty boy,” the tall one jeered. “Auction house’ll pay double if you’re in one piece.”

“Then they shouldn’t have sent amateurs,” I snapped, using the baton to keep them at bay. My grip was steady, mind already mapping their movements, every muscle poised to strike. The thick-necked one rushed me, arms wide, aiming to tackle. I sidestepped, swept his legs out, and brought the baton down on his knee. He howled, collapsed. I pressed my knife to his throat just long enough for him to know I could end it, then let him drop.

The tall one tried to grab me from behind. I twisted, slammed my head back into his nose—felt the crunch and the burst of warm blood. He swore, blinded, and I slammed the baton intohis ribs. He dropped to a knee. I spun, knife flashing, and left a shallow line along his arm. Not fatal, just a reminder. Don’t touch me.

I backed up, breathing hard, senses humming. Three down, but the sound of new footsteps—more than before—echoed at the alley’s mouth. Flashlights flicked on, beams slicing through the dark, pinning me like an insect. I counted five, maybe six. Too many.

One of them—a woman this time, sharp-eyed and efficient—held a tranq gun, not a baton. “End of the line, Ash,” she called, voice flat as winter ice. “Boss said you’re worth more alive. Don’t make me ruin that face.”

I almost laughed. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

She didn’t hesitate. The dart whistled past my cheek, grazing skin. I lunged sideways, tried to duck past the wall of bodies, but two of them moved in sync, blocking my path. Hands grabbed my arms, twisted them behind my back. I kicked, bit, fought like a cornered animal. Someone’s nose broke under my elbow. Someone else shrieked when my boot found his shin.

I almost made it. Almost.

But numbers won, as they always did. A fist slammed into my side, knocking the air out of me. My knees hit concrete. They pinned me, arms wrenching behind my back, cold plastic biting into my wrists as zip ties snapped shut.

Rough hands hoisted me upright. Someone checked my pockets, confiscated the knife, the baton, even the small lockpick hidden in my boot. I spat blood, glared up at the woman with the tranq gun.