Spooky

Chapter 25

-Shadow's POV-

Who would have thought that this switchblade would ever come in handy? And to think, I bought it on a whim years ago, just because it looked pretty... I muse silently, staring angrily at the four strangers ahead of me. Twirling the knife in my right hand, I step over Scourge's prone body—it takes every ounce of restraint in my body to ignore all the screaming of what are you doing, go check on him, is he okay? Is he okay? Did they hurt him? going on in my head right now—and glower at my new enemies. Two of them are trying to rub the ice cream that I threw in their faces out of their eyes, crying and swearing softly. I've never been more furious in my life, and I know just who to take it out on.

"You," using my free hand, I point at the weasel, who flinches. "What the hell do you want with him?" They all wilt, frightened and confused; something tells me it's not every day that a hedgehog shows up out of nowhere and knocks them back a fourth of an alley's length with only two ice cream cones and a well-placed kick. "Answer me!" I bark, gripping the knife. "Or I'll just slit your damn throats until you bleed out an answer!" Stronger fear flashes through their eyes; behind me, I hear Scourge getting up, but I don't take my eyes off them for an instant. I'm so glad he's still alive... My heart leaps to the back of my throat. When I saw him lying there, that filthy weasel on top of him, I thought—Water springs into the corners of my eyes, and my sight blurs red. If these bastards had killed him, I'd gut every fucking one of them.

"We, we're the Fourth-Street Rats," the cat pipes up finally, voice quavering, "and he's a Sixth-Street Saint."

A gang feud...of course. Furious, I stalk forward, knuckles whitening from the force of my grip on the knife. "Then I guess by that logic I should kill you," I hiss, "since if he's a Saint, I am too."

They skitter backwards, glancing at each other; oddly enough, though, the fox on the right seems unamused by my behavior. "Come on," he snaps to his gang-mates. "There's four of us, and only two of them—plus, Scourge is on his way out. This kid's all talk."

"Oh, am I?" I laugh, and he flinches, gripping his knife tighter. "We'll see about that."

"Stripes, don't." I hear a rough, pain-filled voice behind me say, and I twist, shocked. Scourge stands, stooped a bit, the nail-filled bat in his hands. For a moment, I think he's going to tell me to let them go, but then he cracks a demonic smile and finishes, "Not without me."

I grin, heart fluttering. Damn, even when he's had the shit kicked out of him, he's adorable. "Wouldn't dream of it." Taking a step back as I turn my head back to our enemies, I stand just ahead of him, one arm subconsciously drifting to the side, stretched out protectively across Scourge. He's still hurt... I'll let him help, but I'm going to take over from here. My eyes flick from creature to creature, analyzing, until the weasel abruptly dashes right at us. Idiot street thugs, I sneer internally, taking five steps forward just to put some distance between Scourge and I, given that I plan to be at the center of the brawl. The weasel springs off on his last step, lashing one leg out, and I step to the side swiftly, a sneer twisting my muzzle as I lift my empty left hand up rapidly, fist clenched. Wham. A screech erupts from the weasel the moment my fist hits him, and he falls uselessly to the ground, clutching his crotch and howling in pain. He's done. Next? I turn my attention to the fox and minx, both with ice cream still on their faces, trying to double-team me with their knives. They're reckless and stupid, slashing wildly, and I quickly lean back and slip the switchblade into my sleeve to keep from cutting them, letting them overextend themselves; their arms sail over my head, wobbling slightly as they try to stay balanced, but before they could possibly react I smash both my hands into their stomachs in twin open-palmed strikes. They gag, wheezing as I force the air out of their lungs, throwing them off me and onto the street. With my left foot, I stomp on the fox's wrist to trap the hand holding his knife, using my right foot to kick the minx's knife-hand; she lets go of the knife and it clatters against the wall.