Ilona Andrews - Dark and Stormy Knights

How could he not?

Melted snow dripped from his hair and ran down his neck, leaving cold paths of frigid water in their wake. The gun in the holster under his arm burned his skin. His ears were clogged with the sound of his racing pulse.

Ryder stood there, dripping, and as she watched him, her smile began to fade.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked.

His jaw clenched against the urge to answer her innocent questions. He couldn’t speak to her. If he did, it would only make his job that much harder. If he spoke to her, she’d be a real person.

Besides, what was there for him to say? Hi, I’m here to kill you. I’m sorry it has to end this way. If you don’t die, a monster will appear and all the people around you will be eaten.

No words would make this any easier, for either of them. Best just to get it done and get the hell away from here.

The woman stepped toward him. Ryder unzipped his leather jacket and reached for his gun.

“Did you get stuck in the storm? You’re soaking wet.” Sweet concern filled her voice, and it was all he could do not to turn around, walk out, and let her live the last few hours of her life in peace.

But what about the rest of this too-cute town? Didn’t its residents deserve to live?

The only way that was going to happen was if he put a bullet right between her pretty blue eyes. One woman’s life in trade for that of hundreds more. She was going to die tonight. There was nothing he could do to change that. It was his job to make sure she was the only one who had to die.

Ryder cursed his birthright for the millionth time.

“Have a seat,” she told him. “I’ll get you something hot to drink.” She hurried off before he could stop her.

Get a grip. He needed to stop thinking and just do this thing. Get it over with.

A deep sound of mourning rose up from his chest, despite his intent to remain silent. He tossed another pair of antacids in his mouth. He doubted they’d help, but it was something to do with his hands—something that didn’t involve pulling out his Glock.

The woman came back moments later, gripping a tall mug in her slender hands. “I made you hot cocoa. I hope you like it.” She set it on a nearby table and pulled out a chair for him. “You should sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Ryder took one step after another, hauling his dripping ass over to the table. He told himself that the shot would be easier to take if he was closer. It had nothing to do with the lure of her caring tone or the warmth of the drink she’d made for him.

He didn’t deserve warmth, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve her care.

He looked down at the chair she’d offered, then at the steaming mug. He couldn’t accept either. Not when he knew what he had to do to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to ask for her forgiveness, but he didn’t deserve that, either.

He pulled out his weapon and aimed it at her head.

Those pretty blue eyes widened, and her lips parted on a gasp of shock. She stepped back, lifting her hands. They trembled.

“I’ll give you whatever you want. There isn’t much cash, but it’s yours. Please, don’t do this,” she begged.

“I’m sorry,” Ryder repeated. What else could he say?

A loud pounding of footsteps came from the far side of the room. Ryder swung his weapon to the left, aiming it at the noise. A wooden door swung open, revealing a staircase leading up. And a little girl.

“Mama, can I go online?”

The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven years old. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes and the cutest pointed chin he’d ever seen. She saw his gun pointing at her and came to a dead stop. The air around her throbbed, beating out a deep, almost inaudible rhythm—one only Ryder and men like him could hear.

This woman wasn’t the Beacon.

The little girl was.

Hell, no. He couldn’t do this. Let whatever demon was coming have this town. He was going to throw the woman and her kid into his truck and get them out of here.

And go where? The Terraphage would follow the Beacon wherever Ryder took her. With the roads as bad as they were, he’d have no hope of outrunning it.

If they were going to survive this, he was going to have to make a stand. Kill the Terraphage when it came.

A mocking bubble of laughter rose up inside of him. No one could kill one of those things. Anyone who had been stupid enough to try had failed. The Terraphage was huge, evil, and unstoppable.

Which meant he needed every second possible to come up with some kind of plan.

Ryder didn’t see the chair coming at his head until it was too late. He tried to duck it, but the woman’s aim was true and the metal leg connected with the side of his skull.

Lights out.

Jordan watched the man crumple to the ground, lifting the chair to strike at him again. Rage poured through her limbs, making her stronger than she would have imagined. She shook with the force of it, clenching her teeth against the need to let out a battle cry.

How dare he point that gun at her baby?

Anne started toward her, but Jordan held up a hand. “Stay back, honey. He’s dangerous.”

Or he had been. Right now he was limp and bleeding, lying utterly still. Maybe she’d killed him.

Part of her hoped so. A man who would draw a weapon on a child deserved to die.

He was a big man, filling out that worn leather jacket with wide shoulders and a thick chest. His hair was dark, damp, and mussed. Small scars marred the backs of his hands, especially his knuckles. Jordan guessed they were from bar fights or something equally distasteful. Any man who would point a gun at a child wouldn’t have hesitated to take out his anger with his fists.

Jordan had never regretted her divorce; her ex was a loser who had never wanted Anne. But for the first time since turning her back on men, Jordan wished she had one around—someone willing to protect her and her daughter from the threat this man posed.

Anne took a tentative step closer. “Mama, that’s the man I dreamed about. The one that came right before the monster.”

A cold, heavy dread slithered down Jordan’s spine. Her daughter’s dreams had been getting progressively worse for weeks now, but Jordan thought they’d been making progress. “No, it’s not. That’s just your imagination playing a dirty trick on you.”

“No. That’s him. I’m sure that’s him. He’s even got the same messy hair.”

Jordan stepped to the left to block Anne’s line of sight. “Just go upstairs and get me that big roll of tape out of the toolbox. We’ll talk about this later.”

The pounding of little feet told Jordan her daughter had done as she asked.

She kicked the gun out of reach and poked the man’s leg with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. Encouraged by his stillness, she moved closer and poked him in the ribs.

Nothing. He was out cold. Or doing one heck of an acting job.

Anne returned with the duct tape. “Who is he, Mama?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why’d he have a gun?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“What are we gonna do with him?”

Jordan let out a sigh that shook with nerves. “I’m going to tie him up so he can’t get away, then call the police.”

“I’ll call. I know the number.”

Of course she did. Jordan had made sure Anne knew how to stay safe. Even though they lived in a small town with nearly no crime, that didn’t mean things couldn’t go wrong.

The man bleeding on her floor was proof of that.

Jordan prayed the man wasn’t acting. She prayed even harder that his appearance wouldn’t set Anne back in dealing with her nightmares.