Gateway (The Gateway Trilogy, Book 1) by Christina Garner Page A

upstairs, but he wasn't as interested in those. Sorry.”
    “That's OK,” I said, my mind reeling.
    That painting had hung in the same spot for months, and now two people were interested in it—Taren to the point of obsession—in one week.
    “You said he wanted details about Ember. What did you tell him about her?” Taren asked.
    Clyde shrugged. “Nothing. Not much anyway. Said you were a regular but you hadn't been in in over a week. He got your name, of course, that was on the card next to the painting. He took that with him, too. Did I do something wrong, Em? You did want to sell it, right?”
    “Yeah, Clyde, I did. You didn't do anything wrong, don't worry.”
    “We've gotta go.” Taren pulled me by the arm.
    “Hey, is everything OK?” Clyde wasn't used to seeing me being manhandled, however slight. He straightened, showing his full height and bulk.
    If Taren was intimidated he didn't show it. He pulled me along without a backward glance.
    “Everything's fine, it's just been a really weird night,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation that Taren wasn't even aware was developing. “I'll see you soon, OK?”
    Clyde's response was cut off by the swing of the door. I yanked my arm from Taren's grip.
    “You need to start telling me what is going on, like now,” I said. My head buzzed with the effort of trying to put all the pieces of the evening together. Pieces that Taren now seemed convinced included me.
    “I will. Get in,” he said.
    “Not until you start talking. And something tells me this time you're not going to threaten to leave me behind.” I folded my arms in front of my chest, daring him to call my bluff.
    Headlights flashed in our eyes as a car rumbled to life behind us. The windows were tinted and in the dark of the alley I couldn't make out a shape behind the wheel. I wondered if anyone had been sitting in the car when we'd pulled up. The thought made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Slowly, the car backed up and swung wide as if to leave, but instead came to a stop, blocking the only way out.
    Taren and I exchanged a look over the roof of the car, and simultaneously got in.
    “What do they want?” I said.
    “I'm beginning to think they want you,” he said quietly.
    I knew better than to ask why—that would have to come later—so instead I asked, “How do we get out of here?”
    “We're about to find out,” he replied, gunning the engine.
    He fastened his seatbelt and I hastened to do the same.
    With what I hoped was skill and not dumb luck, Taren spun the car. It skittered wildly for a second and then came to a screeching stop, the other car dead ahead about a hundred feet away.
    “Hang on,” was all the warning I got. With a burst of speed we barreled ahead—straight at the other car.
    I knew I was screaming, but the sound of the engine drowned out the noise. The impact was sudden and violent. Despite bracing myself against the dashboard to prevent it, my neck snapped forward and back painfully. I coughed, choking on the acrid smoke that poured from the engine. Taren continued to gun the engine, tires squealing, the car in front of us only budging by inches.
    A large man with pupils that blazed red calmly exited the driver's side and strode toward us. In one motion, he punched through the glass of Taren's window and grabbed him around the neck.
    Taren's eyes bulged as he struggled for air, but stayed focused on moving the other car. I clawed frantically at the man's hands not sure if I was doing more harm than good.
    With a jolt, we broke free, barreling onto the main street. Taren didn't slow, ignoring the horns honked in protest at being cut off. The man removed his hands from Taren's throat and clung to the door, the color of his bleeding hands matching that of his eyes. Taren held the wheel with one hand, the other jerking open the glove box, which contained an impressive cache of blades. He grabbed a knife and sliced into our pursuer's hands. The man cried out