Oliver curses, dropping the child so abruptly that she falls to the floor with a grunt.

"Brace yourself," he says as he staggers upright.

My body is already twisted toward the direction of the door, my feet prepared to push myself through the chaos surrounding us, but the warning makes me pause. "What do you—?" I yelp as strong arms scoop under my knees and haul me over a broad back.

Oliver is already pushing past the panicked crowd to make it through the exit before I can protest.

"My legs work just fine," I say, the terrified chatter of people nearly drowning out the words completely. I intend for the words to emerge far more venomous, but they fall flat as icy terror settles into my veins.

They've found us. Found me. I would never imagine the angel bloods to expose themselves to the public eye—especially not with a new member. A child. Her face will be plastered over headlines for weeks, law enforcement searching for the small girl with a thirst for blood.

It's all far too reckless. I've never seen them more hungry to kill.

"My legs are longer than yours," Oliver says. "And this way I can make sure you get out in one piece." True to his word, he pushes through the frightened mass of humans and emerges through the doorway with both of us disheveled but unharmed.

He keeps running. Neither of us says a word. He's right—I'm relatively quick myself, but his long strides prove more effective than mine.

It doesn't take long for them to push through the door, their heads frantically whipping around to catch sight of us. They find us almost immediately. This block is practically a straight line of shops and restaurants, not a single escape route in sight.

It's just our luck that we parked a few streets away. It's only a few minutes to walk at a somewhat quick pace, but now it just might mean our death.

I breathe a long string of curses as they begin to start toward us. The glint of metal reflects off their hips as a few of them pull their weapons out and take aim.

They fire. The shots are messy and uncoordinated from being shot so far away and whilst on the run, but the pained grunt and faltered step that emerges from Oliver alerts me that one of their bullets may have hit true.

"Shit," I breathe, doing my best to scan the back of his body at such an awkward angle. "Did they get you?"

"Don't worry about it," he says, the words strained. He somehow manages to flip me from his shoulder to his arms, supporting the back of my knees and torso and he clutches me to his chest. Probably to keep my head and other important body parts out of range from their bullets.

"Where?" I narrow my eyes as he stays silent, his pace slowing and his mouth screwing into a pained line.

Fuck. If my assumption is right then one of their lucky shots could very well mean our death. "It's your leg, isn't it?" I can slowly see their heads nearing closer with each passing second over Oliver's shoulder.

He's silent, then murmurs a displeased, "Yes."

"Put me down."A sharp hiss escapes his clenched teeth as I wiggle in his arms. "I'm serious. You shouldn't strain yourself with carrying me. The less weight, the better."

He grits his teeth for a long and stubborn moment, then nods his head and drops me so suddenly I nearly tumble onto my ass.

"Jesus." I don't have time to send him a dirty look so instead I quickly right myself against him and shove my arm under his shoulder. "Put some weight on me."

His jaw sets stubbornly, but then after a few moments of hesitation, Oliver leans his body onto mine.

I bite back a grunt as I struggle to keep him upright. The man is slender everywhere except for the toned muscle of his arms—how can he manage to be this heavy?

"We need to go faster," he says past clenched teeth.

"I know." I wince as the sound of gunshots loudens behind us. At the pace we're going now, they'll be on top of us in only a few moments.

My chest lightens with relief as I notice an alleyway a few feet ahead of us, practically shoving Oliver in the opening.

"Nice," he says, eyeing the dead end before us with an unimpressed leer. "What now?"

I almost curse but then I notice the worn fire escape ladder leading to the top of the brick building on our right.

"Think you can climb?" I ask even though I'm already gripping his sleeve and tugging him forward.

"What do you think you're doing?" He pulls his arm away but I notice the movement isn't as effortless as it should be, his face lightening to a sickly pallor. "I'm supposed to be protecting you."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not the one with a chunk taken out of my shin."

"I'm fine," he says.

"Right," I say, my lips pulling into a taut line as I glance down at the wound. He's favoring his left leg, the bottom half of his pants already soaked through with sticky crimson. "You look like the absolute peak of health."

"Calliope," he says, eyes narrowing as he grips my wrist and tries to pull me forward with his waning strength. "Will you please just—"

"No." I step back from his reach. In the case the angel bloods catch up with us, I'll need to fend them off. Oliver can barely keep himself upright and moving, much less properly aim a gun. "Stop being so stubborn and go."

He hesitates for a moment but then seems to realize that I'm a lost cause and puts his hands on the bottom wrings.

He tries to haul himself up as quickly as possible, but the building is taller than it looks and I can tell the blood loss is taking a toll on him. By the time the angel bloods have caught up to us, we still haven't reached the top.

"Motherfucker," I breathe as I reach for my waistband and grapple for the gun's handle. They're already pulling the trigger before I can click the safety off and I grunt as a searing pain erupts in my shoulder.

I don't aim as I fire off a round below. There are only three of them—one of them already subdued by a lucky shot—but it would leave me far too vulnerable to take them out one by one. I watch with grim satisfaction as they scramble to take cover from my bullets, a few causing the sharp contrast of red to splatter across the pale pavement below.

The wrings are slick with the trail of blood dripping down Oliver's leg but somehow I don't slip as I grapple to the ladder one-handedly. We only have a few more steps until we reach the metal ledge with a stairway that leads up to the roof.

I glance up at Oliver between the rhythmic pull of my trigger, my shoulder blade burning with the small twist I maneuver to get a good look at him. My sweater feels warm and sticky against my back, the thin fabric already caked around the festering wound.

I'm sure it's going to hurt like hell later. For now, I barely notice it with the heavy rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Oliver manages to climb the last few feet and scrambles to the rusty metal ledge. It squeaks under his weight as he grapples for his gun, taking over as I climb as quickly as I can, panic burning in my lungs as they rearrange where they've taken cover behind an old steel dumpster.

Oliver breathes a curse as they start to aim again, glancing down anxiously at my body bared so vulnerably against the latter.

"Hurry," he says, his skin taking on a blanched pallor. Whether from blood loss or fear of my life, I have no idea.

"I'm trying." If I climb any faster, I'll fall. Not to mention that I have to watch the placement of my fingers so I don't risk slipping my grip against the slickness of his blood.

When the first few shots ring into the air from below, my body tenses in grim anticipation of the pain to come. I'm a far easier target than Oliver, and I know they're thirsty for my blood.

I'm a traitor to them. I'm not stupid enough to hope that they might spare my life.

But even as their guns continue to thunder below, I remain whole. I breathe out a burst of panicked laughter—how I'm still alive and able, I have no clue.

Something thuds above me, quivering the rusty metal against my fingers and causing my heart to shoot to my throat.

My body freezes as I glance at the metal ledge above my head. "Oliver?"

His body is draped over the stairs, an unnatural limpness to his usually solid frame. His face peers down through the metal cracks, an unnaturally glassy sheen to his eyes as he rapidly blinks as if it's a struggle to keep them open. A droplet of something warm drops onto my cheek and dribbles down to my chin.

With shaky fingers, I reach up to wipe it from my skin. I almost think I've begun to cry until I notice the liquid marring my palm is a thick, deep shade of red.

I glance up again, a new cascade of ice slithering into my veins. It travels from where the blood coats my hand into my arm and then my torso, spreading into my limbs. Everything feels heavy and disconnected—but somehow I continue to put one hand in front of the other, running on instinct alone as I quickly push myself up to the ledge Oliver drapes over.

For some reason, the rapid shots stop as I crouch over his limp body. A strange quiet settles in the air, the only sound the wet-sounding inhales as Oliver fights to take in breaths.

I gently turn him over, grunting as half of his heavy body falls atop mine and drags me down to an awkward half-sprawled position over the metal stairs. It squeaks under both our weight and part of me wonders how the corroded metal is sturdy enough to hold both of us.

A hole rips through his front, an angry and wet-looking wound leaking a frightening amount of blood across his torso and darkening the fabric of his thin t-shirt.

"Oh god," I hear myself say. My hands press to his ribs as if my palms can stop the steady flow behind them. His eyes flicker over to mine as he draws in another rasping breath, his lips parting slightly to reveal red-tinted teeth.

"It's okay," I say, willing tears away from my eyes. I can't cry. I can't scare him. He needs all the will he can muster to push through this. "It's okay. You're an incubus. You're sturdy. We just need to find some help, alright?" I fight to keep my eyes on his, even as the tickling trickle across my fingers tells me the steady stream refuses to be contained by my hands.

He rasps another breath, his face pale as if drawing air is too difficult to manage. It sounds bubbly and awful and wrong.

St0mach roiling, I glance down at the placement of my hands and realize the important organ that lays beyond them: his lungs.

Oliver can't breathe because he's drowning in his own blood.

My hands quiver so hard that they shake his frail body. I swallow the bile that burns the back of my throat. "Help me," I call out. I can feel the angel bloods staring at me from below, their weapons falling back to their sides. "Someone fucking help me."

A lone shot thunders through the silence. Something warm splatters across my face and lips, a strange coppery sensation blooming over my tongue.

I wipe the liquid from my eyes and it takes me a long moment to fully take in the sight before me. To etch the image of the gaping hole in Oliver's throat in my mind forever, to take in the sight of his usually hardened gaze now glazed over and permanently staring into mine.

I've seen death before. More times than I can count, actually, but none have hit me as this one does.

I think I scream. I don't know. My ears ring, my throat scratching painfully, and I think I stop to gasp for air before promptly vomiting off the side of the platform. Even with the taste of stomach acid in my mouth, I still can't seem to rid of the metallic taste of his blood on my tongue.

"Oh, little one," a familiar soothing voice says above me. I crane my head to the top of the stairs, where the roof evens out enough to step onto. In our panic, it never occurred to me that there might be another fire escape from the other side of the building. I guess we were doomed from the start.

Warm umber eyes stare into mine, soft and harsh all the same. The glint of a pistol hangs at Delia's side, the likely still-warm barrel now aimed at the ground. "I'm sorry about your friend, but it's time for you to come home now."