Hell Bent by Devon Monk

maybe scar showing skin about three inches into his hairline above his right eyebrow. Unibrow, eyes set too close together, old acne scars.
    Other guy was skin over bone. Goat face, long nose, eyes set too wide. Hair shaved up both sides left to fall in a greasy swatch over one eye. Half a hardware store worth of hooks pierced his ears, eyebrows, and down the left side of his neck.
    I didn’t know these jackasses. I kept walking.
    “I’m talking to you,” Driver yelled. Driver also started toward me with a swagger that made it look like he was an inch short in one leg.
    I flipped him off.
    He kept coming, and even though I shouldn’t, I stopped. “What is your problem?” I said.
    “You know a buddy of ours,” Driver said.
    “Doubt it. I don’t hang out with assholes.”
    Driver smiled, showing a lot of gold on those teeth.
    “Sure you do,” he said. “Met him in an alley over on MLK this morning. Called the cops on him.”
    He must be talking about the ox. I wondered if these were the two men Terric had sent running.
    “We don’t like people who inconvenience our friends,” Goat-face said. He had a slight lisp. He also had a baseball bat.
    I held up one finger. “Time out. I didn’t call the cops on that jackhole. I don’t even know what they took him in for. Also, you really want to put that bat down, mate.”
    He did not put the bat down.
    Eleanor was floating a few yards in front of me. She was shaking her head and waving her hands in very clear “no,” “stop” gestures.
    Right, like I was going to stand here and let them beat the crap out of me.
    Driver stepped all up in my space, breathing garlic and beer over every word. “We are going to fuck you up.”
    His heart was thumping up in the heart attack levels. He was excited. Revved up. Alive.
    “One last chance,” I said evenly. “Walk away. I have no quarrel with you. You’ll regret having a quarrel with me.”
    It made him pause. At least he had some sense of self-preservation. I am not joking when I say I look like death. And right now I was doing nothing to hide what I really was. I was trying in no way to look human.
    The magic that had changed me was usually enough for people to know there was something terribly wrong with me.
    Driver saw what I really was.
    I gave him a slow nod. Permission to back away.
    He took a step back.
    But the other guy? Not so much with the smart. He’d come up on my right and swung the bat at my ribs.
    I moved out of the way enough that it just clipped me. Which, yes, hurt like a bitch. Bruises, though I don’t think anything cracked.
    Unfortunately for the guy swinging the bat, I didn’t need weapons in a fight. I am a weapon.
    I rushed him and caught hold of his arm with my left, unringed hand. Stepped in close. “This is not your lucky day.”
    I squeezed his arm, my fingers curled over the veins beneath fabric, beneath skin. Easy to find that pulse, easy to drink that life.
    Counted his heartbeat. Fast. Terrified.
    Fear made it taste better. I hated it, hated that I wanted it. Hated even more that I liked it that way.
    But the man was going beat me with a baseball bat. He had it coming.
    I inhaled. Easy as breathing, I drew on his life.
    He groaned and tried to pull away.
    But I’d only had one little mouthful, barely a taste. I wanted more. Hell, I wanted his life, his buddy’s life, and maybe the lives of all the people on this side of the river.
    I licked my lips and then gave him a smile. “You will never cross my path again—understand me?”
    His eyes went wide and he was sweating hard. He dropped the bat and it clattered against the street. He made a sound that never quite formed a word, but I took it as yes, he understood I’d kill him if he ever bothered me again.
    Just to make sure, I drank down a little more of his days.
    He slumped to his knees. Passed out.
    A slap of ice punched my face. I blinked. I’d gone on my knees next to the guy. Couldn’t seem to let go of his arm.