(Oakwood Street #117: Fetid Back Alley)
Leo sagged against mildewed brick—lungs rasping like ruptured bellows. Each inhalation—iron filings. Vision tunneling. Limbs tremoring. Diego’s purification had siphoned him to husk-status. Standing—an Olympian feat.
Christ! That gelid scrutiny—a serpent’s tongue on his nape—persisted! Locke’s hounds? The shadowkin’s kin? Imminent ambush!
Move!
He shoved off the wall—staggered deeper into the alley’s carcinogenic gloom. Seeking shadow. Sanctuary.
*“FREEZE! POLICE!”*
A voice—cold steel honed to lethal edge—shattered the alley’s hush!
Leo whirled!
Alley-mouth—backlit silhouette.
Tall. Lithe.
Golden hair—battle-tight ponytail—liquid aurum in the murk.
Navy patrol jacket—tactical cut, accentuating whipcord muscle. Duty belt: badge-s
