Cyrus’s heart didn’t stop pounding until he made it to the nearest bus station.
The taste of JoJo’s blood was still on his tongue. The man’s flesh had ripped like cheap paper, followed by a rush of warm, viscous blood tinged with iron and a million other sensations that his rat tastebuds couldn’t place. JoJo’s blood was an incendiary bomb in his rat brain.
His heart raced as he kept replaying the conversation in his mind.
“Tell that kid to beat it,” JoJo had said.
If Barry had made it down to the alley before Cyrus and saw Cyrus’s pile of things in the alley—but not Cyrus—it would have raised suspicions. JoJo might have told Barry to kill Cyrus. JoJo might have pulled a gun on Cyrus himself.
His only choice was to bite and cause chaos.
Thank God he’d surveyed the place earlier. He ha
