Nora Roberts - Night Tales 02 - Night Shadow.pdf

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Night Shadow
CHAPTER 1
He walked the night. Alone. Restless. Ready. Clad in black, masked, he was a shadow among
shadows, a whisper among the murmurs and mumbles of the dark.
He was watchful, always, for those who preyed on the helpless and vulnerable. Unknown,
unseen,
unwanted, he stalked the hunters in the steaming jungle that was the city. He moved
unchallenged in the
dark spaces, the blind alleys and violent streets. Like smoke, he drifted along towering rooftops
and
down into dank cellars.
When he was needed, he moved like thunder, all sound and fury. Then there was only the flash,
the
optical echo that lightning leaves after it streaks the sky.
They called him Nemesis, and he was everywhere.
He walked the night, skirting the sound of laughter, the cheerful din of celebrations. Instead he
was
drawn to the whimpers and tears of the lonely and the hopeless pleas of the victimized. Night
after night,
he clothed himself in black, masked his face and stalked the wild, dark streets. Not for the law.
The law
was too easily manipulated by those who scorned it. It was too often bent and twisted by those
who
claimed to uphold it. He knew, oh, yes, he knew. And he could not forget.
When he walked, he walked for justice-she of the blind eyes.
With justice, there could be retribution and the balancing of scales.
Like a shadow, he watched the city below.
Deborah O'Roarke moved quickly. She was always in a hurry to catch up with her own
ambitions. Now
her neat, sensible shoes clicked rapidly on the broken sidewalks of Urbana's East End. It wasn't
fear that
had her hurrying back toward her car, though the East End was a dangerous place-especially at
night-for
a lone, attractive woman. It was the flush of success. In her capacity as assistant district attorney,
she had
just completed an interview with a witness to one of the drive-by shootings that were becoming a
plague
in Urbana.
Her mind was completely occupied with the need to get back to her office and write her report so
that
the wheels of justice could begin to turn. She believed in justice, the patient, tenacious and
systematic
stages of it. Young Rico Mendez's murderers would answer for their crime. And with luck, she
would be
the one to prosecute.
Outside the crumbling building where she had just spent an hour doggedly pressuring two
frightened
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young boys for information, the street was dark. All but two of the streetlights that lined the
cracked
sidewalk had been broken. The moon added only a fitful glow. She knew that the shadows in the
narrow
doorways were drunks or pushers or hookers. More than once she had reminded herself that she
could
have ended up in one of those sad and scarred buildings-if it hadn't been for her older sister's
fierce
determination to see that she had a good home, a good education, a good life.
Every time Deborah brought a case to trial, she felt she was repaying a part of that debt.
One of the doorway shadows shouted something at her, impersonally obscene. A harsh feminine
cackle
followed it. Deborah had only been in Urbana for eighteen months, but she knew better than to
pause or
to register that she had heard at all.
Her strides long and purposeful, she stepped off the curb to get into her car. Someone grabbed
her from
behind. "Ooh, baby, ain't you sweet."
The man, six inches taller than she and wiry as a spring, stank. But not from liquor. In the split
second it
took her to read his glassy eyes, she understood that he wasn't pumped high on whiskey but on
chemicals that would make him quick instead of sluggish. Using both hands, she shoved her
leather
briefcase into his gut. He grunted and his grip loosened. Deborah wrenched away and ran,
digging
frantically for her keys.
Even as her hand closed over the jingling metal in her pocket, he grabbed her, his fingers digging
in at the
collar of her jacket. She heard the linen rip and turned to fight. Then she saw the switchblade, its
business
end gleaming once before he pressed it against the soft skin under her chin.
"Gotcha," he said, and giggled.
She went dead still, hardly daring to breathe. In his eyes she saw a malicious kind of glee that
would
never listen to pleading or logic. Still she kept her voice low and calm.
"I've only got twenty-five dollars."
Jabbing the point of the blade against her skin, he leaned intimately close. "Uh-uh, baby, you got
a lot
more than twenty-five dollars." He twisted her hair around his hand, jerking once, hard. When
she cried
out, he began to pull her toward the deeper dark of the alley.
"Go on and scream." He giggled in her ear. "I like it when they scream. Go on." He nicked her
throat
with the blade. "Scream."
She did, and the sound rolled down the shadowed street, echoing in the canyons of the buildings.
In
doorways people shouted encouragement-to the attacker. Behind darkened windows people kept
their
lights off and pretended they heard nothing.
When he pushed her against the damp wall of the alleyway, she was icy with terror. Her mind,
always so
sharp and open, shut down. "Please," she said, though she knew better, "don't do this."
He grinned. "You're going to like it." With the tip of the blade, he sliced off the top button of her
blouse.
"You're going to like it just fine."
Like any strong emotion, fear sharpened her senses. She could feel her own tears, hot and wet on
her
cheeks, smell his stale breath and the overripe garbage that crowded the alley. In his eyes she
could see
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herself pale and helpless.
She would be another statistic, she thought dully. Just one more number among the ever
increasing
victims.
Slowly, then with increasing power, anger began to burn through the icy shield of fear. She
would not
cringe and whimper. She would not submit without a fight. It was then she felt the sharp pressure
of her
keys. They were still in her hand, closed tight in her rigid fist. Concentrating, she used her thumb
to push
the points between her stiff fingers. She sucked in her breath, trying to channel all of her strength
into her
arm.
Just as she raised it, her attacker seemed to rise into the air, then fly, arms pinwheeling, into a
stand of
metal garbage cans.
Deborah ordered her legs to run. The way her heart was pumping, she was certain she could be in
her
car, doors locked, engine gunning, in the blink of an eye. But then she saw him.
He was all in black, a long, lean shadow among the shadows. He stood over the knife-wielding
junkie,
his legs spread, his body tensed.
"Stay back," he ordered when she took an automatic step forward. His voice was part whisper,
part
growl.
"I think-"
"Don't think," he snapped without bothering to look at her.
Even as she bristled at his tone, the junkie leaped up, howling, bringing his blade down in a
deadly arc.
Before Deborah's dazed and fascinated eyes, there was a flash of movement, a scream of pain
and the
clatter of the knife as it skidded along the concrete.
In less than the time it takes to draw and release a single breath, the man in black stood just as he
had
before. The junkie was on his knees, moaning and clutching his stomach.
"That was-" Deborah searched her whirling brain for a word, "impressive. I-I was going to
suggest that
we call the police."
He continued to ignore her as he took some circular plastic from his pocket and bound the still-
moaning
junkie's hands and ankles. He picked up the knife, pressed a button. The blade disappeared with a
whisper. Only then did he turn to her.
The tears were already drying on her cheeks, he noted. And though there was a hitch in her
breath, she
didn't appear to be ready to faint or shoot off into hysterics. In fact, he was forced to admire her
calm.
She was extraordinarily beautiful, he observed dispassionately. Her skin was pale as ivory
against a
disheveled cloud of ink-black hair. Her features were soft, delicate, almost fragile. Unless you
looked at
her eyes. There was a toughness in them, a determination that belied the fact that her slender
body was
shaking in reaction.
Her jacket was torn, and her blouse had been cut open to reveal the icy-blue lace and silk of a
camisole.
An interesting contrast to the prim, almost mannish business suit.
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He summed her up, not as man to woman, but as he had countless other victims, countless other
hunters.
The unexpected and very basic jolt of reaction he felt disturbed him. Such things were more
dangerous
than any switchblade.
"Are you hurt?'' His voice was low and unemotional, and he remained in shadow.
"No. No, not really." There would be plenty of bruises, both on her skin and her emotions, but
she
would worry about them later. "Just shaken up. I want to thank you for-" She had stepped toward
him as
she spoke. In the faint backsplash from the streetlight, she saw that his face was masked. As her
eyes
widened, he saw they were blue, a brilliant electric blue. "Nemesis," she murmured. "I thought
you were
the product of someone's overworked imagination."
"I'm as real as he is." He jerked his head toward the figure groaning among the garbage. He saw
that
there was a thin trickle of blood on her throat. For reasons he didn't try to understand, it enraged
him.
"What kind of a fool are you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"This is the sewer of the city. You don't belong here. No one with brains comes here unless they
have no
choice."
Her temper inched upward, but she controlled it. He had, after all, helped her. "I had business
here."
"No," he corrected. "You have no business here, unless you choose to be raped and murdered in
an
alley."
"I didn't choose anything of the sort." As her emotions darkened, the faint hint of Georgia
became more
prominent in her voice. "I can take care of myself."
His gaze skimmed down, lingered on the shredded blouse then returned to her face. "Obviously."
She couldn't make out the color of his eyes. They were dark, very dark. In the murky light, they
seemed
black. But she could read the dismissal in them, and the arrogance.
"I've already thanked you for helping me, even though I didn't need any help. I was just about to
deal
with that slime myself."
"Really?"
"That's right. I was going to gouge his eyes out." She held up her keys, lethal points thrusting
out. "With
these."
He studied her again, then gave a slow nod. "Yes, I believe you could do it."
"Damn right I could."
"Then it appears I've wasted my time." He pulled a square of black cloth from his pocket. After
wrapping the knife in it, he offered it to her. "You'll want this for evidence."
The moment she held it, she remembered that feeling of terror and helplessness. With a muffled
oath, she
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bit back her temper. Whoever, whatever he was, he had risked his life to help her. "I am
grateful."
"I don't look for gratitude."
Her chin came up as he threw her words back in her face. "For what then?"
He stared at her, into her. Something came and went in his eyes that made her skin chill again as
she
heard his words, "For justice."
"This isn't the way," she began.
"It's my way. Weren't you going to call the police?"
"Yes." She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. She was a little dizzy, she realized. And
more
than a little sick to her stomach. This wasn't the time or the place to argue morality and law
enforcement
with a belligerent masked man. "I have a phone in my car."
"Then I suggest you use it."
"All right." She was too tired to argue. Shivering a bit, she started down the alley. At the mouth
of it, she
saw her briefcase. She picked it up with a sense of relief and put the switchblade in it.

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