Starling by Lesley Livingston Page B

zigzag pattern toward the trees at the north edge of the tennis courts.
    Suddenly one of the crossbow bolts hit the center of Fennrys’s back, and the power of the shot punched him to his knees. He hit the ground and rolled, assuming for the moment he’d probably just been killed. But then, through the pain of the impact, he realized that the stout, deadly bolt had glanced off the broad blade of the sword on his back.
    In his head, he heard a woman’s voice whisper, “Do not lose this sword. Do not let it far from your hand. It will be your companion and your comfort in days to come as only a good blade can be to the warrior. It will save your life, hopefully as many times as need be.”
    How many times would that be? Fenn thought a bit desperately as he rolled and scrambled to his feet, arms windmilling as he struggled to regain his balance and then plunged on.
    From behind him and above, he heard a roar of outrage as the centaur realized he’d been denied his kill. They were shooting at him from the raised deck of the Triborough Bridge—far enough away that the power of that shot hadn’t been enough to shatter the sword blade and sever his spine. Fennrys was astounded that they’d been able to move that fast—the on-ramp to the Triborough was north of 120th Street. His decision to cross over using the footbridge had given him time, but probably not enough of it.
    But then he heard one of them shout to the other. “Shoot him! He’s on Dead Ground—we cannot follow! Shoot him now or he is lost to us!”
    Hope bloomed in Fennrys’s chest, and he jagged sharply left and crashed headlong through a cluster of whippy saplings that slapped at his face and arms. Then the shadows swallowed him up and he was safe from the monstrous archers, for the moment. Maybe, judging from what they’d said, they wouldn’t follow him down onto the ground of Wards Island itself. But he wasn’t going to take chances. They’d seen him head into the trees, but the trees weren’t thick enough to hide him for long if the horse-men did come looking for him. He headed east, following the shoreline of the island where it bordered the river. Ahead of him, looming like the sentry tower of a medieval castle, was the soaring concrete support pylon of another bridge—a massive, red-painted, iron-girdered arch that gracefully spanned the frothing white waters of the river like a huge bow. The shadows beneath the concrete tower were impenetrable and the vantage point unobstructed. Fennrys would be able to see anything coming from almost a mile in any direction while remaining unseen himself. Good enough.
    The wet, heavy air wrapped itself around him like a cloak as he settled down to wait for morning. If this so-called Dead Ground could keep those things from following him, then he could just bide his time until sunrise. And a return to some kind of sanity or normalcy.
    Or maybe not.
    A flicker of movement in the gloom caught at the corner of Fennrys’s eye. He went stone still, held his breath as an enormous shadow loomed on the concrete bridge support in front of him. Fennrys dropped into a deep crouch, reached over his head to grasp the hilt of his sword, and spun around. The blade hissed as he drew and snapped it straight out in front of him. A large, shabby figure of a man froze instantly, the sharp point of the weapon hovering less than an inch from the center of his chest. Beneath the wide, chewed-up brim of an old leather hat, his eyes glinted in the darkness as he stared, unblinking, at Fennrys. One rag-wrapped fist held a length of lead pipe.
    “Drop that,” Fennrys said quietly.
    The man was big—huge even—but, as far as Fennrys could tell, human. He couldn’t even believe he was framing his thoughts in that way, but after the things he’d seen and done that night … of course, who knew? Maybe he’d been drugged. Possibly he was just—and Fennrys kept coming back to this possibility with a knot of fear in his