Too late the warning is torn from my throat. “Tori— run!” She has another idea. She reaches into the grocery bag, pulls out a glass jar of pickles, and swings it at her attacker, catching him full in the face. He staggers back, dazed, his sunglasses askew. The pickle jar drops to the pavement and shatters. I’m running flat out, desperate to reach her, my mind spinning with the horrible thought that Osiris has found us again. I don’t recognize the man in sunglasses, but he could easily be one of the Purples. “What do you think you’re doing?” The shocked grocery shopper steps protectively in front of Tori. The sedan’s driver leaps out and shoves him to the pavement with a warning of, “Mind your own business, old man!” Tori reaches into the trunk for another weapon. This time, she’s not as lucky as she was with the pickle jar. She comes up with a long baguette and swings it like a baseball bat at the driver. With a cruel laugh, he allows her to club him with it a couple of times before yanking it from her hands. Out of options, Tori flees. The driver springs after her. She’s the fastest and most athletic of us—burglar DNA—
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