3. Knives

He felt a bite at his shoulder. A clawing hand.

Peter reached out for the fence, the cold black bars, and the pain bit at his flesh through his coat and he spun and took the hand that had grabbed him and threw the body it belonged to through the gates. The doors gave away under that mass of dark clothes and gleaming skin and Peter went to the other side. The wolves were approaching.

He secured the entrance with whatever he found. Through the black bars of the gate he met nails and searching arms. He snapped the bone like a branch against the fence. The howling. The howling continued. Howling of man.

That previous action, the snapping of the bone, had led to a strange dizziness. Peter found himself hit by a fog of disoriented panic. He fumbled around. The walls of brick were closing in around him. The cold was strangling him. Among the pale colors he detected movement. The man whose body had facilitated his entrance through the gates. He lay, worm-like, on the ice, moving and slithering weakly. He had been the first to catch up to him, Peter thought. But now he was useless. The most pathetic of the pack. The knife that had once struck fear was unworthy of his grip. The milky sunlight smeared the blade. It didn't glimmer. It was stuck there, like the final drop of water in a cup. And Peter felt a bitterness then. A need.

The men, the wolves, were gathered now against the fence. Barking and screaming and lunging at each other. And Peter grabbed his companion by the collar, as he would a disobedient hound, and turned him to face his equals. Those he had outran and consequently lost forever. For being the first to face him, he would be the first to die. He showed off the blade. The sun refused to glint off the surface. It was a bit frustrating. With a wave of his hand he could put an end to a life. So easy. So simple. So… tempting.

The man was twisting under his arm. Wailing. Bargaining.

"It was all orders, Petes. All orders. Pete. Peter! Peter!"

Peter Lake licked his lips and tasted clams. The sea that had nurtured and raised him. He was adrift in shark-infested streets. He had to survive.

He let the blade dance between his fingers. Drops of blood floated in the white winter wind. Plastered themselves to the fence. And the body under his gripping hand became limp. The foggy sky pooled in his empty gaze. Peter tossed him aside and ran.

The world flipped. The ground vanished. The sky rolled back like blinds and Peter collapsed on his back, on the ice. The wolves were climbing the gates. The thick fabric of their coats slithering against the cold black metal. The brush of their fingers against their respective triggers.

Peter felt exhausted. The icy concrete at his back was strangely accommodating. He wanted a moment there, some time in solitude.

But he couldn't stay there. He felt a jolt of adrenaline when he heard the smoky voice of Pearly Soames through the gates.

"No… We have him now… So do it slowly… Use the knives…"

It happened, then. A wave of light. So massive it nearly blinded Peter as he lay on his back. But it wasn't from the blades, now being unsheathed. It came from his side. He turned his body, propped himself on both hands.

There was a horse in the alley.


Author's Note: I'm back! Here's a new chapter.

So far no one is reading this so I'm just talking to myself when I say this, but it's alright. If anyone other than me reads this at some point, thank you for reading and have a nice day.