By the time my conscious mind caught up, I was crouching between coffee table and couch. My weight was on my fingertips and the balls of my feet. Aubrey lay half behind the couch, his breath ragged. I wanted to look at him to make sure it was just surprise and caution, that I hadn’t hurt him, but my head wouldn’t turn.In the dark frame of the hallway, the man with the shotgun stood. He was broad across the shoulders and belly with a neck as wide as his head. His eyes seemed to tremble in their sockets, and his face was flushed the deep red of rage. His bathrobe and T-shirt were stained by grease and time. As I watched, he took another step into the room, growling like a dog. He swung the shotgun toward me, the barrel deep as a well. I flipped the coffee table up between us and dropped low as the blast reduced it to splinters. Then, against all common sense and instinct, I leaped forward.His eyes widened, and he took half a step back. He’d started racking a second round, but I had the barrel in my hand, the heat searing my skin like I’d grabbed a skillet.
