Before Jasper's completely grasped the situation and found a suitable plan of action, I'm moving, nocking an arrow and jumping seat tops to get the hellhounds within firing range.
One arrow thunks into a shoulder blade; another skims through greasy black fur and ricochets into a window, shattering it like crackers in the palm of a very angry child. They're still coming for us, and, having seen me in all my demigod glory, they've even more enthusiastic, licking their chops and wagging mottled tails.
Gross. Just plain gross.
"Lyra! Above you!"
I snap my head back, eyes roaming the too-close ceiling above while my preoccupied hands go through the motions of pulling back the string, taut and shivering with exhilaration - a practiced skill that I've been cultivating for years. I fire and just barely miss scewering a bloodshot eye; only problem is, the eye is attached to a pissy-looking businessman, not a mutant canine from the foggy depths of Hades.
But that's not important right now (not at this very second, anyway) because I see what Jasper's shouting about.
An emergency escape hatch, used for when fires are swallowing the bus whole and other regrettable incidents. I'm pretty sure this qualifies, so I'm taking it.
"Alright, let's move!"
I'm crossing seats again, playing a ridiculously one-sided game of cat-and-mouse with wicked dog things snapping at my exposed heels. I can see Jasper ushering Isaiah past shell-shocked passengers, who are probably too withdrawn by now to question why there's a pack of wild dogs at a New York City bus station and why three teenagers seem mostly unaffected by it - besides the obvious running for our lives we're currently doing.
Without pausing to consider the consequences, I leap from the seat and kick off from Jasper's sturdy shoulder, propelling myself towards the hatch. I catch onto the wheel-shaped handle and, using the momentum I've managed to gather, twist myself around (opening the hatch in the process) and swan-dive into an empty seat, my back slamming painfully into the thick window when I somehow end up landing upside down.
I'm so smooth, you could figure skate on me in your goddamn socks.
By the time I'm right-side-up, Jasper has Isaiah on his shoulders, helping him up to and out of the hatch; beads of nervous sweat dot his brow, trickling down his profile and collecting into a dripping pool at his chin. I fire off a few more arrows into the pack of hellhounds, but it doesn't do much more than make them skitter back a bit. All I'm doing is buying time. And doing poorly at that.
Another arrow fails to squish into its target. I mutter a curse (in Greek of course) under my breath, scrabbling to back away as the hound shakes out its decrepit fur, dislodging the arrow that had tangled in a greasy knot.
"We gotta get them away from the mortals!" I shout - despite my words I'm not mindful of the plain folk at all, too focused on the imminent danger in front of me to care whether they hear me or not. "So move it, Jasper, you're next!"
He's not really waiting for my go-ahead, seeing as how he's positioned himself atop a seat just feet from the opening, his muscles bunched, poised for flight. I cover him as he takes the leap, snagging the edge of the opening with one hand; the other dangles behind him, his sword gripped tightly in white-knuckled fingers. My eyes widen as he suddenly twists, arcing his sword above my head (because I've just managed to duck with my demigod reflexes) - monster dust splatters everywhere, coating me in gray-gold filth that has my allergies going wild.
How in Hades did he--?
The thought cuts off as I'm jerked upwards, Jasper's trembling hand coiled around the back of my shirt. He drags me from the bus, gaining Isaiah's help when I'm halfway up, but not before I fire off another round of arrows into the pack of hounds circling just below me feet, taking leaps at my ankles every time they see an opening.
