Malachi paused, his face a rigid mask of rage. He lowered his arm and watched the guy running up the street, leaving his bleeding friend behind. Still holding the knife, Malachi sank to his knees next to the mugger, who was really just a skinny kid, probably a banger, trying to be a big man, lost and stupid and scared. But that wasn’t how Malachi was looking at him. His eyes were blank, like a shark’s, as he grabbed the kid by the hair and wrenched his head back.

“Oh shit, man, I wasn’t going to hurt you. I fuckin’ swear,” the kid babbled, all nasal and snotty, refusing to look Malachi in the eye. I couldn’t blame him for that.

I put my hand on Malachi’s arm. “You have to let him go, too. He won’t call the police—he doesn’t want to draw their attention.” I tried to keep my voice even, but it was hard. I’d never seen Malachi look so predatory.

He leaned down slowly, speaking directly in the kid’s face. “If I see you again, you will not live long enough to regret it.” He held his victim in a punishing grip until the kid’s eyes darted up to meet his and widened when they registered the absolute raw truth in those words. Then he let the now sobbing kid slump back onto the pavement. “Run,” he whispered, baring his teeth.

The kid hesitated, like he thought Malachi might take him down as soon as his back was turned, which did appear to be a distinct possibility.

“Dude, you need to go,” I snapped at the thug, keeping a firm grip on Malachi’s arm as he knelt beside me. “Do as he says.”

The kid looked at me with terror in his eyes, but he lurched to his feet and took off, his feet clunking unevenly against the sidewalk, his arms pumping. Malachi watched him go, and judging by the tick in his jaw, it was taking a lot of effort for him not to nail that kid with a knife to the back. After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, the kid turned a corner and disappeared. Malachi bowed his head. He put his hand over mine, holding it to his arm, like he needed the contact as badly as I did.

“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice trembling. Malachi hated guns, having watched as Nazis shot and killed his brother, Heshel. It was one of the many reasons I wasn’t even going to suggest that Michael supply them for us to defend against the Mazikin.

Malachi nodded. “I’m all right.”

I stared at the dark smear of blood where the kid had been. “We need to get out of here.”

Silently, Malachi rose to his feet and sheathed his knife.

“Come on,” I said, already walking. “We’re going home.”