Handsome Devil Read Free

no idea it's there. There's an old wrought iron gate and privacy wall that's tucked away from the street. I'm not ready to bet that the Ferissian is one of that ninety percent though. He knows, and I probably only have seconds before he comes running. My pub is on the other side of the street, beyond the building behind me, but for all I know Ferrisians have ears like bats and he heard the opening clang.
    My bike is sitting next to the hatch, half hidden by the vines and pots of baby trees. I run over, keys falling into my hands via convenience zipper I sewed into the bag myself. I have my leg slung over the saddle and the keys in the ignition before you can say “proud Mary” when a tile crashes to the ground inches from my leg.
    I look up from the terracotta remnants to the roof—and there he is, four stories above my head, staring down at me. I know it's him even despite the fact that I can't see his eyes. No human in their right mind would be up there.
    Fuck fuck fuck fuck. He has a mini transporter.
    I twist the keys.
    The engine guns, and then a hand comes down on my wrist like a vise. He yanks me off of the bike hard, wrenching my arm in the process. He pulls me so forcefully that I fly across the courtyard several feet beyond him, stumbling and ducking into a roll. The duffel hampers me from rolling all the way and I skid to a halt on the asphalt.
    His boots thump and suddenly I'm being lifted into the air via duffel, so high I'm freakin' dangling with my toes barely touching the ground. My arms are trapped by the handles.
    Hoisted by my own petard.
    He twirls me—holy shit, he's only using one hand?!--and I see him in the harsh light of the apartment entrance lamp. There's his set of stars-in-space eyeballs, freaky as ever, glowing just a little bit brighter.
    He smiles, and shows me just what he was hiding before.
    A set of really, really sharp teeth. White, straight cat-teeth, not so different from a movie star's except that he could rip my throat out if he wanted to .  
    My eyes go wide—I've never seen anything like it—and he hums in dark approval. It's like a purr. Or a growl.
    You know what? I'm a fish person. I don't have time to make Nat Geo comparisons.
    And Mama didn't raise no punk.
    I slam my forehead into his chin.
    Blinding pain explodes behind my eyes. Oh my god, what the hell is in that chin of his? Steel? Jesus!
    I shake my head, trying to clear it, and that's when I realize he didn't even flinch. Okay, that's an exaggeration—he is cradling his chin, glaring at me. At least I think he is. I'm kind of seeing the Funhouse version of him right now.
    His pretty face contorts with annoyance. He flicks his wrist and chucks me like a tape wad that got stuck on his fingers. I'm back on the ground before I can blink, my head cushioned by the bulky duffel. It's the only thing that saves me from a concussion, if I don't have one already.
    He walks the two steps before I can move away and a big boot comes down on my chest, pinning me in place. He's not going easy on me either. He weighs a ton. I might mean that literally. The breath is pushed out of my lungs and there's nothing to fill them. He keeps pressing and pressing, until I think my ribs are going to break from the compression.
    I've got to get out of here. I punch his knee and meet the hard resistance of a boot. I kick up but can't reach his ass. He's big, unyielding, and pissed. I'm not getting an inch.
    It feels like the blood is rushing to my face, and I know it's a reaction to too little air. He's not killing me, but spots are starting to float. Don't panic. I can't panic. I have to move, to act.  
    I hit his ankle with my other hand—and realize, throughout this entire thing, I never once let go of the keys.
    So I center them between my fingers and stab him in the thigh, right above the knee.
    He roars. It's big and lion-like, a terrifying testament to his otherworldly origins, the kind of sound meant to cower prey into submission.
    It