Samuil vaults off the first one before the engine dies, moving with lethal grace despite his speed. His expression shifts from concern to recognition to rage in the space of a heartbeat. Mr. Morris watches warily from the second.
"Get back, Nova." The command cuts through the evening air.
I stay put. "He needs help."
"Nova." Steel threads through Sam's voice. "Move away from him. Now."
Reluctantly, I scoot a few feet back. The stranger tries to cling to me as Samuil approaches, but his torn jacket falls open, revealing a nasty gash leaking dark blood, and he groans again in a way that sounds worse than any noise he's made yet.
Sam's jaw ticks as he takes in the man's battered face, the blood-soaked clothing. Recognition flares in his eyes, followed by something darker. More dangerous.
