Rogue (Shifters #2)(58)

His fist shot toward me. I ducked, my leg already sweeping toward his. My foot hit his ankle. He fell on his ass, hissing. His fingers brushed the hem of my jeans. I danced away, then turned toward Jace.
Vic knelt at his side, bare-chested, pressing his own shirt against Jace’s right shoulder.
A blur of motion caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I turned my head to see Marc swing the two-by-four at Manx, who’d reclaimed her gun and was aiming it at Vic. He hit her right arm with the broad side of the plank. The gun fell from her grip and slid on the concrete. Manx screamed and toppled. But instead of clutching her injured arm, her good hand covered her belly in a familiar protective gesture.
The afghan flashed in my mind again. The one Natalie had crocheted. Natalie, who was expecting her second…baby.
“Marc, no!” I shouted. He froze, the board raised high over his head, ready to come crashing down on Manx again.
“She’s pregnant!”
Shock claimed Marc’s expression. He lowered the board slowly, staring at Manx with a look of wonder—or maybe horror—as if she had three eyes rather than a microscopic, parasitic, completely un-infectious invasion in her uterus.
Instead of hitting her again, he kicked the gun. It skittered across the huge room, lost to deep shadows in less than a second. Marc met my eyes, his mouth already open to ask how I’d known. Instead, his brow wrinkled and his gaze shifted to something behind me. “Look out!”
I whirled around, ducking as I spun. My fingers scraped the gritty, dust-covered concrete.
Andrew stood behind me, arms raised. Something heavy whooshed over my head. I buried my fist in his stomach. Air burst from his lungs. He doubled over. Something hard crashed onto my head, then clanked to the ground.
I stood, rubbing the new bump on my skull, and prepared another kick. My foot slipped on the pipe he’d dropped. It rolled from under my boot. I landed on my ass in front of him.
He kicked and I rolled out of the way. I sucked in a quick breath, and with it came dust and a sticky cobweb. Andrew kicked again, and I reached for his foot. My hand closed around his ankle and I pulled. He fell beside me, catching himself on both hands.
I rolled over, and my hair clip slammed into the concrete. It burst open. Thick black hair fell over my face. I pushed it away, freezing in place as a low, unfamiliar roar rumbled from overhead. 
Scrambling to my feet, I looked up to find a loft running across the left side of the engine depot. And another on the right. I squinted, trying to see movement in the darkness. But I saw only shadows.
On my right, Andrew lurched to his feet and a growl echoed from my left. Whirling around, I saw a dark form spring from some twelve feet above, taking shape as it neared. The shadows cleared, exposing the lithe, elegant form of a werecat in midleap.
Luiz. He’d hidden in the loft to Shift.
The cat landed gracefully in the middle of the room, on all four paws. Marc faced him, two-by-four held ready in both hands. Luiz considered him for a moment, then turned toward Vic instead.
“Vic!” I shouted. He looked up to see Luiz flying toward him, but had no time to move. The cat landed on his chest, claws bared. Vic screamed.
I was scanning the ground for a weapon, when something hit me from behind. Pain exploded. I flew forward, throwing one foot in front of the other to stay upright. My feet tangled over each other, and the ground soared up to meet me. I caught myself on my left arm. Pain shot through my shoulder, reviving an injury three months old.
Fingers tangled in my hair and pulled. I clenched my jaws against a scream and scrambled to my feet to keep my hair from being ripped out by the roots.
“Payback’s a bitch,” Andrew whispered in my ear, his voice a bitter echo of what it once was. “But then, so are you.”
“Andrew, wait—”
His grip on my hair tightened, and his free fist slammed into my kidney.
Pain ripped throughout my entire body, rebounding for an instant encore. My legs folded and I crumpled to the ground. Tiny popping sounds filled my ear as hundreds of individual hairs were ripped from my scalp. I couldn’t breathe, much less scream.
I forced my body into motion, rolling away in spite of the pain. He kicked me in the thigh. Then the blows stopped.
I opened my eyes, and Andrew was gone.
Manx lay unconscious across the room. Parker knelt over Vic, who now lay on the ground near Jace, who was in a pool of his own blood. Beyond them, Marc stood, iron pipe in hand, facing off against the werecat.
Luiz hissed, teeth bared. He lunged forward. Marc swung the pipe. Luiz dodged the blow easily. But Marc had already gotten off at least one good shot; Luiz was bleeding below his right ear.
I sat up, and Andrew stomped past me, headed for Marc. Before I could shout, Parker shoved himself off the ground and snatched the slab of wood Marc had dropped. He swung. The board connected with Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew hit the ground, and I gained my feet carefully, wincing at the ache in my spine.
Parker turned toward Luiz. Marc swung the pipe again, and again Luiz dodged it—right into Parker’s path. Parker swung, low and arcing, as if the board were a golf club. The two-by-four hit Luiz’s back left leg.
Luiz yelped and limped sideways.
Marc slammed his pipe into Luiz’s right shoulder. Luiz whined, then growled. He bounded to his left, past Marc and out of his reach. In less than a second, he was gone, limp-running right out the door. Marc took off after him, the bloodstained steel pipe clenched in his fist. “Take care of them,” he yelled over his shoulder at Parker. Then he was gone.
Andrew watched them go, his jaw slack with shock, eyes brimming with fury. He’d been abandoned—again.
“Andrew…” I began, hoping he’d believe me now. That he finally understood Luiz wasn’t helping him. And that I could, if he’d let me.
He met my eyes, and the pain and loathing in his made me sick to see. He hated me. He wouldn’t let me help him. And he certainly wouldn’t help me.“Fuck this,” he growled through clenched teeth, looking from me to Parker, then back to me. “And fuck you.” Then he turned and ran, right for the front door.
I took off after him, without a second thought.
“Faythe!” Parker yelled.
“I’ve got him,” I yelled, already halfway out the door. “Don’t you dare let Jace bleed to death.”
“No!” he shouted. But he didn’t follow me. Jace and Vic needed him worse than I did. At least, I hoped I wouldn’t need him.
I followed Andrew around the corner of the building just in time to see the door of the abandoned train station swing closed. Shit. We didn’t have time for hide-and-seek. If anyone had recognized Manx’s gunshot for what it was, they’d have called the police. The cops were probably already on their way.
But a glance at my watch told me that—amazingly—less than a quarter of an hour had passed since we’d jumped the fence into the rail yard. Though the fight in the depot seemed to last an eternity, it had only been minutes long. Thank goodness.
I jogged up the steps to the rail station. “Andrew?” I called, pushing the filthy glass door open. I was giving away my position, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t come to fight him; I’d come to explain. And to apologize. “Andrew, where are you?” My eyes skimmed over the room, but I saw no sign of Andrew.
“It doesn’t have to be like this. I just want to help you.” My boots crunched on broken glass as I moved farther into the room, and I’d gone several steps before I realized I could hear him breathing. Fast and hard. I sniffed the air when my ears couldn’t pinpoint his location. His scent was strong, and heavily tinged with anxiety. He was still in the room—somewhere.
Stepping carefully, I headed for a beat-up customer service booth in the center of the main room, the only obstruction in sight. When I rounded the counter, my foot hit a busted metal cash register and I clutched the cracked countertop to save myself from landing face-first in a scattering of shattered window glass.
And there, crouched behind the counter between a metal filing box and the wall, was Andrew, shirtless, his khaki shorts unbuttoned.
He froze, staring up at me with one hand on his zipper. His shirt lay at his feet. He’d been undressing so he could Shift. And kill me. I could see it in his eyes.
I exhaled slowly, devastated by the rage in every line on his face. “Andrew, you have to let m—”
He pounced. In human form, and from a complete crouch, he was suddenly airborne. His shoulder slammed into my chest. My feet left the ground for just an instant. Then I hit the floor, and his weight drove the air from my lungs.
He sat on my stomach, his knees straddling my bruised ribs. My back burned in a dozen places, where each shard of glass had sliced through my blouse and into my flesh. I lay stunned and breathless, wishing I could get to the handcuffs poking me from my pocket. 
Andrew snarled, his eyes wide, lips drawn back from blunt, square teeth. He was in human form, but his inner cat had taken charge. And it was pissed.
“Listen to me. You don’t want to do this.” I wedged my arms between our bodies and planted my hands on his chest.
“I can help you. Let me up, and let’s talk.”
I pushed against him, but he wouldn’t move. Andrew wasn’t as big as my fellow enforcers, but he still outweighed me by quite a bit. And thanks to me, he had a werecat’s strength. I could make him move but not without hurting him, and I wouldn’t hurt him if I didn’t have to. I’d already damaged him beyond repair.