Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 18 of 25

Jack followed the scorched trail away from Eight's body, leg dragging, shotgun braced. The burns led him to a weathered orphanage with peeling green paint and a crooked porch. Relief hit him hard. Dr. Owl had come here. Not to the meat packing plant. Amelie's hideout was still safe. He leaned on Lady Luck and studied the ground. Halfway down the trail, the prints changed. Three lion paws, scorched black into the dirt, veered sharp across the street. He followed them with his eyes. They stopped at a sagging porch with a faded star nailed above the door. The paw prints turned into boot prints there. Heavy, human, still smoking at the edges. Jack's stomach dropped. A shape-shifter. Walking on two legs now. Inside that building. Watching. He reached for the bridge inside his chest, the one he'd built without the dice. It held. Steady hum, no pull. He breathed out slow and lifted the shotgun. "Alright," he muttered. "Don't lapse. Don't blink." The door blew apart. A black fireball roared straight at him. Jack threw himself sideways, hit the dirt, rolled up on his good knee. Smoke curled off his coat. Out of the doorway stepped a young man with red spiked hair, sleeveless vest, fingerless gloves. Heat shimmered off his skin. His eyes burned orange. "Eight gave you a chance," One said. Flat. No flourish. "My turn to clean up." He cracked his knuckles, and the porch wood blackened under his boots. Jack tightened his grip on Lady Luck. The bridge held steady. The fight had already started.