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“Not one for taking assistance or orders, is he?” he commented. With surprising grace, he knelt down beside her.
She shivered. “No, he’s been alone too long to depend on anyone but himself,” she said softly. And wondered where the hell that left her.
HANK HAD A GOOD TEN MINUTES’ START ON HIM, BUT THAT was nothing when you could fly. He barely even felt the wind and the rain buffeting him. All he could think of was the pain in Maddie’s amber eyes, the touch of her blood against his fingers.
The bastard would pay.
After a while he saw a flash of movement through the trees and quickly dove. When he neared the ground he changed, landing with little noise and on the run.
“Hank!”
There was a brief flash of white face as Hank glanced over his shoulder. Jon smiled grimly. Hank leapt forward in a frantic burst of energy. His quarry smelled of sweat and fear.
“You’re a dead man, Hank!”
Taunting your prey was not usually a wise move, but it gave Jon an odd sense of satisfaction. The man was afraid—though not as afraid as Maddie had been.
And not as afraid now as he would be when Jon caught him.
He leapt across a fallen tree stump, took two quick steps, then launched himself at Hank. He hit him hard, and, locked together, they tumbled to the ground with bone-crunching force. Hank kicked and screamed as they rolled off the path, but Jon ignored him, hanging on grimly as they crashed down a rocky incline and slammed against the trunk of a pine tree.
“Bastard.” Hank spat. He swung his fists, punching wildly.
Jon grinned flatly and caught Hank’s left wrist in one hand, crushing it until bones cracked and Hank screamed. “I haven’t even begun to be a bastard yet, my friend.”
Hank swore and kicked. Jon jumped away, evading the full force of the blow, but lost his grip on Hank’s wrist. Quicker than lightning, Hank was up and running.
Jon loped after him. He’d flown over this area when he’d first arrived in Taurin Bay and knew that Hank was headed straight for a cliff. There was no escape.
The trees gave way to barren, rocky ground. The full force of the wind hit them, driving the rain with needlelike force. Hank staggered several steps sideways, then stopped and swung around. Jon saw the anger in his eyes, the desperation. But it was the sudden lack of fear that made him wary.
“I tasted the sweet delights of your woman, shapeshifter,” Hank snarled, his voice full of venom. “I made her squeal, made her beg for more.”
Jon barely resisted the urge to leap forward and rip the life from the lying fiend’s heart. That pleasure could come after he’d found out where Eleanor was. “Where is your master, Hank? Has she gone and left you to face the murder charges alone?”
The flicker of fear through Hank’s dark eyes told Jon the thought was not a new one.
“She needs me, shapeshifter.” But the tone of his voice was uncertain.
“Needs you to be the fall guy, nothing more.” The wild wind twisted suddenly and blew Hank’s long coat around from the back of his legs. Silver gleamed in his right hand. Jon grinned flatly. “Wrong choice of weapon, Hank. I happen to be immune to silver.”
Hank snarled and lunged forward, the knife gleaming brightly in his hand. Jon dodged, but Hank’s weight hit him and knocked him sideways. The knife, aimed at his heart, slammed into his thigh instead. Pain ripped through his body. He ignored the burning ache and smashed his fist into Hank’s face. Hank staggered a few feet backward, then stopped. His mouth was bloody, and there was surprise in his eyes. Jon didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
But he wasn’t about to let Hank know that.
“Didn’t I tell you silver wasn’t effective against me?” Jon slowly pulled the knife from his leg. He held it out, letting the rain wash his blood from the gleaming blade. “Now tell me where Eleanor is, Hank.”
“I’ll see you in hell first,” Hank snarled, then turned and ran for the trees.
Jon threw the knife. Hank made a gargled sound and fell to the ground, the knife buried hilt-deep in his back.
Jon watched him silently, ignoring the buffeting wind and the rain that ran down his face as fast as the blood running down his leg.
Hank didn’t move. Either he was very good at lying still or he was dead. Jon grimaced. He hadn’t intended to kill him—not until he’d found out where Eleanor was, at least. But then, nothing in this damn case was going the way he wanted, so why should things change now?
Suddenly weary, he took off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his leg. Blood soaked quickly through the wet material and he swore. He’d have to get medical attention, but he couldn’t leave just yet. He still had to find Eleanor.
He limped over to Hank and bent down awkwardly, pulling the fiend onto his back. Death had ripped Hank’s mask of humanity away, revealing a face that was all bone and little flesh. He might well have been looking at the skull of someone who’d been dead for years. But the look of surprise on what was left of his features made Jon frown. Hank obviously hadn’t expected to die—but why?
