There, on a now white-topped peak less than a hundred yards away, was something Fang was more than a little familiar with—something with fur, wings, and wolfish features.
Erasers.
With no warning, the wind released its grip, and Fang stopped in midair faster than if he’d hit a brick wall. Even in the extreme cold, he felt feverish, and his palms were slick with sweat. His peripheral vision fell away and it was like he was looking through a long tunnel.
At the end of that tunnel was the exact scene that Angel had put inside his head so many weeks ago. His death scene.
Only right here, right now, it wasn’t Fang that the Erasers were tearing apart.
It was Dylan.
63
FANG WAS STRUCK by a sudden realization: He didn’t have to die.
Angel had made it seem like his death was inevitable, but maybe she was wrong. He could change his fate and turn around, right now. He could fly away from this place where he was supposed to die.
He had a choice.
At first, Fang didn’t move. He hovered there, watching Dylan fight. Fang had never realized how strong Dylan was—each of his punches seemed to land with the force of a sledgehammer, and even against five Erasers, he was holding his own.
When Dylan spotted Fang, the look of shock on his face was priceless. Despite the gory scene, Fang knew Dylan was having a “Fancy meeting you here” moment.
As Dylan’s head was turned, looking at Fang, a clawed hand sliced four parallel cuts across his cheek, but Dylan didn’t flinch. “Good to see you!” he shouted. “Now get out of here, Fang! This isn’t your fight!”
In that moment Fang realized what a coward he was being and shook himself into action. If Fate was coming to get him, he would look it in the face.
Besides, they were only Erasers. He’d taken them many times before.
Fang surged toward the fight, and two of the wolfmen broke away from Dylan to meet him in the air. Fang smiled menacingly—up here, he had the advantage. Sheer bulk made Erasers strong and dangerous, but they were clumsy fighters and even slower fliers.
“Ready to be reunited with your old pal, Ari?” Fang growled. The Erasers didn’t seem to hear him. And to his surprise, they zipped after him expertly and turned on a dime. They definitely didn’t have the awkward, grafted-on wings he’d seen in the past.
Their skill was a shock, too. With two against one, Fang was on the defensive from the start, blocking blows and spinning away from deadly jaws. Fang had fought dozens of Erasers in his lifetime, sometimes four or five at a time, but these weren’t like any he’d encountered before. They were stronger, faster, better.
Still, something about them seemed familiar. Maybe it was the way they fought—it was almost like looking in a mirror. They anticipated Fang’s moves and knew all of his tricks. They threw everything back at him with double the force. Fang knew he was a fierce fighter, yet he couldn’t seem to land a single hit.
What was wrong with him?
“They’re Horsemen!” Dylan warned from the peak below. He was only fighting two attackers now; the third lay off to the side in a fetal position. At least Dylan was making headway.
“What are you talking about?” Fang shouted as he dodged a roundhouse kick.
“They’re… enhanced. Upgraded.”
Star’s words came back to Fang. “Jeb promised me a way out,” she’d said. “An upgrade.”
Fang didn’t know anything about these so-called Horsemen. If they weren’t Erasers, he had no idea what he was up against.
They were a pack, but they didn’t seem to care about protecting each other. As Fang watched, the one who had the strongest grip on Dylan grabbed the second Horseman by the scruff of the neck. He smashed their heads together, and both Dylan and the unfortunate Horseman crumpled to the ground.
With Dylan out of the picture, the other Horseman joined the attack on Fang, and if fighting two was difficult, fighting three was almost impossible. Fang couldn’t dodge the blows anymore—there was always someone behind him now, kicking him forward toward the other brutes or tearing into his legs.
One wrenched Fang’s arms backward while another grabbed the sides of his face and slammed his head down against its knee. Fang’s forehead split, and blood from the gash streamed into his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
Then a hairy fist connected with his jaw and spun his head to the side so hard he swore his brain shook inside his skull. It felt like he had hunks of gravel in his mouth, and when he spat a blood-streaked loogie into the face of the guy who’d hit him, Fang saw two of his teeth fly out with it.
He looked down at Dylan’s sprawled body, not knowing if he was alive or dead, and felt utter desperation.