Page 21 of Unnatural (Men and Monsters #2)

Autumn slowed to a walk, breath coming quickly as she melded with the other New Yorkers moving through the crowded streets.

She’d rolled up the stolen files and stuffed them in her mostly empty purse and secured it around her body.

Now she gave one final glance over her shoulder, secure in the belief that no one was on her tail.

If Chantelle had called the authorities present in the building and they’d attempted to follow and detain her for stealing official, sealed documents, she’d successfully evaded them.

For now.

Would they pay a visit to her home? Maybe. She’d deal with that when the time came. She’d even give the files back. After she’d scoured every piece of information.

She turned the corner toward the sign for the subway that would deliver her to the bus she’d taken into the city.

She’d read her file as soon as she was safely seated in the back and headed home.

Would it contain anything she didn’t already know?

Something worth noting that no doctor had ever mentioned to her?

And what if there isn’t?

She’d been so fearful as she’d stolen her file, but now she was even more afraid the theft had been pointless.

She patted her bag as she hurried toward the subway stairs at the end of the block. If there’s nothing here, will you give up your search for answers? For the meaning behind your suffering?

Could she?

Is it time?

She picked up her pace, practically running again.

No.

No, I could not. It’s not in my makeup.

She thrust her shoulders back, determination filling her. No, she would not give up no matter what, because not doing so was important. She felt that. She knew it with every fiber of her being.

A sudden wind whipped up, causing her to turn her head.

Across the street and up a ways, a man’s ball cap flew off, and Autumn’s heart nearly stopped.

She gasped and turned, her neck craning as she watched him rush ahead and then scoop it off the ground where it’d landed before replacing it on his head.

His head of silvery-white hair, the color of moonlight.

It can’t be. It can’t be. Oh my God!

The world took up spinning again, the first two rotations overly fast and erratic, making Autumn feel as if she should grab something stable.

She noted his size, a full head above the other men on the street, and the bronze tone of his skin.

The world isn’t spinning, Autumn. You are. Now pick up your feet and move.

She did, running across the street as a car stopped short of hitting her, its brakes squealing. She leaped for the curb, losing sight of him in the bustling crowd, weaving between people, and then stepping out into the street again—being mindful of cars this time—to get a better view.

She didn’t see him anywhere.

Her heart pounded, panic making her feel like screaming his name. But she didn’t know his name. She didn’t even know if it was him.

How could it be? It’s impossible.

You’re standing here on a street corner in New York, twenty-three years old and healthy. Nothing is impossible.

She pushed back into the crowd, again moving in the direction he’d gone, jumping sporadically in an effort to see above the people in front of her, some of whom were much taller.

She came to a four-way intersection, her heart sinking when she saw neither hide nor hair of the very large man with the red ball cap.

No, wait. There he is.

She squinted, heading toward a less busy neighborhood. The groups of people walking that way were much sparser, the larger crowd continuing on in the direction of the subways and the lines of taxi cabs, the office buildings, and the restaurants.

She saw a tall head far down the block, second-guessing herself when she began to move toward it. How could he have possibly gotten that far away in such a short amount of time?

Because he has legs twice as long as yours, that’s how.

The light turned green, and Autumn hurried across the intersection.

There were smaller retail shops on this street and a large church up ahead.

Now that the crowd had thinned, Autumn picked up her pace, jogging in the direction where she thought she’d seen his head.

Even if it’s not him, which it’s probably not, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t find out.

She heard the sounds of children playing, laughter and joyful shouts, and realized that what she’d thought was a church was actually a school. She looked up at the name on the front of the building: Deercroft Academy.

Her breath became short as she stopped for another moment, peering up the street where there were very few people and the shops turned into row homes. Had he gone inside one of them?

Deep disappointment descended. I’ve lost him. Again.

She walked past the school, unhurried now, stopping at the corner of the grand, stone building and looking to her right.

It felt like her heart did a strange dip and swerve. There he was, standing at the fence, watching the children play.

The world seemed to grow brighter, then everything faded except for him and the patch of ground he was standing on. She opened her mouth to call to him, to say what, she wasn’t sure.

I’m here.

Don’t disappear.

Wait.

It’s me.

The words crowded her mind, all of them seeming wrong yet right.

Then she heard a number of distant pops before an alarm suddenly rang out. Autumn turned toward the building where the sound was coming from. A fire drill? A teacher called calmly to the children on the playground, and the children began walking toward her. Yes, a drill.

But before she could form another thought, the sharp sound of unmistakable gunfire split the air, the laughter of the children turning instantaneously to screams.

The white-haired man bolted toward the schoolyard and ran along the fence. He kicked open a gate and sprinted inside. It all happened in less than thirty seconds.

Autumn ran too, toward the children in navy-blue uniforms, scattering in terror as the gunfire continued, popping loudly, coming from somewhere just beyond.

She saw a woman near the swings, who was ushering children toward her, go down, the children around her grabbing their heads and ducking as the screams grew louder.

The man with the moonlight hair stepped in front of several running children, pushing the first one so that he flew backward into the others. The wall directly behind the spot where they would have been erupted in concrete craters as bullets hit.

Autumn pressed herself to the fence, her gaze flying around, trying to make sense of what was happening, attempting to figure out what to do.

“Amon!” the man yelled. His ball cap had come off, and now she could clearly see that dazzling shock of silvery blond hair she’d seen only briefly on the street.

The crowd of children were converging on an outdoor stairwell as another man appeared from around the corner of the building.

Autumn stared, her breath coming in sharp pants, sweat dripping down her cheek.

There was an adult body next to the slide.

The teacher who’d fallen near the swings remained unmoving, and Autumn could see the puddle of blood pooling around her body.

She heard the sounds of little feet running up the mostly obscured stairs, a line of them at the base still fully exposed. Oh God, run! The moonlight man had moved quickly toward them and was now the only obstruction in the front of those children pushing and clamoring for cover.

“Get out of my way,” the man with the gun gritted out.

“No,” the man with the white hair grated back. His voice was hoarse, guttural, deeper than she remembered it, no longer that of a boy.

The face of the man with the gun morphed from cold resolve to indecision as the sound of sirens rose in the distance.

The gunman glanced toward the place where the stairwell was enclosed by an outside wall, that coldness blossoming again but now overlaid with what Autumn could only call violent yearning.

Bloodlust. He raised his weapon toward the still-exposed children at the base, and the man with the moonlight hair spread his arms wide, acting as a human shield.

The gunman fired repeatedly, the blast of gunfire mixing with the piercing screams. Her moonlight boy jerked back, righting himself and then jerking again and again—performing a horrifying dance—as the bullets ripped into his flesh.

The children pushed forward, the last one finally making it around the concrete barrier and into the covered stairwell just as the man who’d shielded them crumpled to the ground.

Autumn, who’d been mute with shock, screamed then—a sound of horror—and the gunman’s head whipped toward her as he raised the gun again. Oh God. Oh no. Brace. Autumn turned her head and clenched her eyes shut, hearing the weapon fire and waiting for the slam of a bullet that didn’t come.

With another terror-filled cry, she opened her eyes to see the gunman lying still on the ground, a spray of blood surrounding him, blood trickling from the gunshot wound at his head.

Autumn brought her hands to her mouth, giving herself three breaths to get hold of herself before springing into action.

She ran from one wounded teacher to the second, tears trickling down her cheeks as she put two shaking fingers to their still pulses.

A wail rose inside her, and she tried desperately to hold it back, or she’d lose it completely.

Save the ones you can, Autumn.

If there was anyone to save.