Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.
“Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.
Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed. “What the hell are you looking at?”
She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.
He reached out and caught her arm, pushing her toward the wall. “What are you doing out this late?” Holding her there, his hand gripped her breast hard through the material of her sweatshirt.
Dahlia calculated the odds of fighting him off while maintaining her drunken charade. He was hurting her with his squeezing. He suddenly laughed. She realized he believed all the fighting was taking place around the corner. He was bored and a little angry that he didn’t get to participate, instead regulated to standing guard. He was tired of watching the action and had made up his mind to have a little of his own.
She waited until he lifted his head and exposed his throat. The moment he did, she hit him with the edge of her hand, putting her body weight behind it, at the same time trying to slide sideways, using the wall to help her get away from him. He was enormously strong, grunting and choking at the blow, but doggedly moved sideways with her, keeping her body pinned between his and the wall. He hit her hard in her stomach with his clenched fist, stepping back, still gagging, as she doubled over. He raised his gun, the butt end toward her face.
Dahlia knew immediately he was dead. Her mind and body went nearly numb. Inside of her head, right before the white-hot pain exploded through her body, she heard her own scream. The force of the bullet drove the man backward away from her, so that he crumbled like a rag doll and settled onto the sidewalk in a lifeless heap. His gun clattered to the walkway beside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her vision narrowing to the grim image of death.
Immediately she was swamped in the aftermath of the violence, her body taking the brunt of the destructive energy as it raced to claim her. She fought back, trying to stay conscious, trying to find a way out from the raw, swirling force threatening to take her over. The air crackled with electricity. She saw white arcs of it zigzagging above her head. It was only then that she realized she was on the ground, inches from the downed man.
Dahlia began to crawl, a grueling effort when her body felt like lead and pain roared through her at her movement. She inched her way along the walkway. The smell of urine and blood was overwhelming and added to the misery of her churning stomach. She was sick several times as she clawed her way down the block.
Nicolas came out of nowhere, his hands running over her body, probing for injuries. She knew it was him by the way he touched her, by the way the energy retreated to give her breathing room. She couldn’t see through the dancing white spots and strange webbing that shrouded her vision, but she touched him to reassure him she was fine.
“Relax, honey,” he ordered. “I’m taking you out of here.”
She wasn’t going to object. She just wanted to sleep for a long, long time.