She threw the pickup into gear and slammed her foot on the gas. The pickup lurched, gained speed quickly, hurtled straight for the biker. The Hound rode to meet her, a bullet fired from a gun. But Amber’s pickup was a tank shell, and tank shells beat bullets.

Usually.

The pickup hit the bike and the hood crumpled and Amber was lifted from her seat and crashed through the windshield and flew, but flew badly, and landed worse, the road scraping at her chest and face and knees and belly.

She lay in the middle of the street, making little sounds, but not moving.

The Hound got off his bike. She heard this, didn’t see it. All she could see was the road and the sidewalk and the bus stop with its bench and a poster for a movie that had already left theatres by the time she’d fled Orlando. She listened to the Hound walk up. He stood over her. She wanted to turn her head, look at him, but her body was slow to obey. She wriggled her fingers and toes. They were still working. That was good. She wasn’t paralysed. Her horns had saved her, maybe. Or her scales. Or her strength. Or the power she’d absorbed when she’d eaten Benjamin – maybe that had done the trick.

She couldn’t feel it anymore. The buzz. That electricity. It was gone. She’d used up most of it healing from the gunshot wounds, and now the rest of it was gone. Stupid. Why hadn’t she worn her goddamn seat belt? Stupid.

She managed to turn her head in time to see the Hound draw back his foot and kick.

The boot connected with her side and lifted her off the ground like she was a football. She smashed through the bus stop in a storm of glass beads and torn movie poster. She landed and rolled, hit the wall on her hands and knees and stayed there, wheezing. Boots crunched on glass behind her and then he was pulling her off the ground by her horns. She went to slash at his throat, but couldn’t raise her arm high enough, and felt her ribs slide against each other when she tried.

He hit her, his fist slamming into her belly. Fresh pain sliced through her. She dropped to one knee and the Hound brought his own knee in. It struck her in the side of the head and the world rocked. She felt his hands on her horns again, felt the sidewalk moving beneath her. He was dragging her backwards after him as he walked to his bike. Amber’s struggles were feeble. Pathetic. She would have been ashamed if she’d had the luxury.