Hunter's Prey: Bloodhounds, Book 2 (17 page)

Another vampire tore at his sleeve with an inhuman shriek. “Hound,” he rasped, his pale face luminous in the dark. “You’re a hound. He knows you.”

Hunter drove his heel into the vampire’s knee, shattering bone and spilling the creature to the floor. “Who knows me?”

The vampire laughed. “The sheriff. Virgil has his hand around your lady’s throat right now. Should he kill her quickly or make it last?”

Ice flooded his veins, so cold his blood must be frozen. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife as he tried to convince himself it was a trick. A desperate gamble. “You want me to believe you made the sheriff your ghoul, and you’ve got that strong a hold on him all the way across town?”

“Pretty little thing,” the creature crooned. “No calico for her. Blue silk and diamonds—too rich for him, but that’s the last thing he wants to hear.”

Hunter’s knife clattered against the floor before he realized he’d dropped it. He spun and wrapped both hands around the handle for the heavy door that opened the side of the cargo car. Muscle and rage pried it open—not far. Enough to slip through into the uncertain moonlight.

Blue silk and diamonds.

Nate called his name. Behind him, Tobias’s roar shredded the night.

Blue silk. He’d gathered that fabric in his fist. Smoothed it over her body as he gave her one final kiss and promised himself he’d be back soon, back to peel it away and make love to her in a rush of victory.

If the safe room were really safe, the vampire wouldn’t know about the blue silk. But he did, and now Hunter had only one goal. One purpose.

“Hunter!”

He ignored Nate’s worried shout. Ignored Tobias and Emmett and the remaining vampires and the drugs. Ignored the bits of Matthew Underwood that screamed for thought and caution and logic. He ignored the fact that the closest horse wasn’t even his. He swung up into the saddle and took off toward the manor, the need to protect Ophelia a throbbing pain that grayed out the world around him with every surge.

The rest of them could burn. So could Iron Creek, and everyone in it, and the whole goddamn border, for all he cared.

She was what mattered. She needed to be safe.

Panic drove him from the saddle before he could pull his horse to a complete stop in the courtyard. He hit the ground hard and rolled, pain splintering from his shoulder to his hip. He ignored it and came to his feet, boots slipping over gravel as he scrambled for the front steps.

Panic bled into rage, and he tore the front door open—tore it straight off its hinges and let it fall aside. But it was sheer stupidity that sent him charging into the house, rough voice already rising on Ophelia’s name when he caught the dart of movement to his left.

Something solid and heavy crashed into his temple, and he hit the floor with darkness closing around him and his inner, mocking voice chasing him into the blackness.
Blithering idiot.

He wasn’t coming after her.

Ophelia peered down from her perch in the woodshed loft, head cocked to listen, but she heard nothing.

She couldn’t stay in the shed, not when McCutcheon might have moved on to hurting others. So she climbed down out of the loft and crept out into the night—but not before grabbing the wickedest looking weapon she could find, a hand-held sickle Levi had used to mow prairie grass and harvest crops from the manor’s garden.

The curved blade glinted in the moonlight as she crossed the yard, its honed surface comforting and sharp. As she mounted the first step on the back porch, a crash rose in the night, followed by Hunter calling her name.

Silence.

Shit, shit, shit.
She hurried through the back door, sickle at the ready, and caught sight of both Hunter and McCutcheon at the other end of the hall.

The sheriff grabbed a fistful of Hunter’s coat, but jerked back when Hunter stirred with a rough groan. Blood dripped to the floor at McCutcheon’s feet, the wound she’d given him undoubtedly the reason for his clumsy movements as he groped for the revolver holstered at his hip.

Hunter’s eyes fluttered open, and his entire body stiffened as he caught sight of her. His mouth formed one word, a command. A plea.
Run.

Like hell. Like
hell
would she run away and leave him to whatever McCutcheon had planned.

She kicked off her heeled slippers and started running down the hall. The sheriff was preoccupied with his holster, and his distraction afforded her the chance to cover the considerable length of the hallway.

Unfortunately, it also gave him time to free his gun.

Hunter made it halfway to his feet before the shot sounded in the foyer, drowned out by his roar of pain. He slapped his hand to his shoulder and snarled, hands twisting into claws.

The change, the one thing McCutcheon surely wouldn’t survive—and the man knew it. He lifted his revolver again, this time to aim at Hunter’s head.

No.
Ophelia screamed and swung the sickle down in a hard arc, burying the blade in the sheriff’s shoulder.

This time, the pain drove a shriek from his curled lips. McCutcheon twisted awkwardly, ripping the blade from his skin even as the handle twisted free of her hand. He lunged forward—

—and stopped as Hunter’s clawlike hands slapped down on either side of his face. One brutal twist, and McCutcheon’s neck cracked.

Hunter tossed the man’s limp body aside like it weighed nothing, like it
meant
nothing. Ophelia stared at him and drew in a sharp breath that escaped on a wordless sob.

“Ophelia…” Hunter reached for her but froze, staring down at his malformed fingers that looked more like claws. “Shit, I don’t know how—I can’t—”

Shame. She recognized it well but refused to accept it, not from him. So she wrapped her fingers around his, drew his hands to her mouth and kissed them.

A shudder worked through him. His hands trembled in hers, and the change slowly reversed itself, melting away. “Are you all right?”

“Are
you
? He shot you.” She repeated the words with numb lips. “He
shot you
, Hunter.”

“Thank God.” He shook free of her grip and framed her face. “Thank God it was me and not you.”

“No, not me.” Whatever McCutcheon had really wanted of her, it had involved keeping her alive. “The train?”

“We’d taken care of most of it…” He winced. “I think I’m bleeding on the floor.”

“Shit.” They needed Dr. Kirkland, and who the hell did you go to for help when the town sheriff was lying dead in your foyer? “I can fashion a bandage, and we’ll get you to the doctor, all right?”

Hunter shook his head and stepped back. “Help me get out of my coat and shirt. We can get the doctor, but more likely than not, we’re bringing him to the depot. Emmett’s hit too, and Tobias took glass shards to the face. God only knows if any humans were injured, beyond the ones the vampires turned.”

So much carnage, and someone would have to take charge. Ophelia braced herself with two deep breaths and nodded as she tugged at his jacket. “I’ll take care of everything. We’ll get through it.”

As much as it had to hurt, he silently endured the process of stripping away all of the clothing above the waist. But when she reached for his bleeding arm, he caught her wrist, his eyes serious. “You saved my life, Ophelia, because I’m dumb as fuck about you. I’m the one who needs protecting.”

The words warmed her even as they made her heart ache for him. Admitting weakness—
any
weakness—so soon after a fight was unheard of for a bloodhound, especially one still on such shaky ground. “Why don’t we agree to protect each other?”

He barked out a laugh and dragged her against his chest, his good arm sliding around her waist. “How can I argue? You drove a scythe into the last man who pissed you off.”

Her eyes burned, and she could barely speak around the lump in her throat. “He didn’t piss me off. He hurt you.”

All mirth faded from his expression, and he bent to press his forehead to hers. “I’m fine, sweetheart. I’m here, and I heal awful fast, and I love you.”

Her vision blurred from unshed tears, so she wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.
I love you.
Later, she’d think of something as moving as those three little words, something she could give him in return.

For now, she was speechless.

Chapter Twelve

Hunter cradled his glass of whiskey in one hand and watched Emmett settle into the seat across from him. The older man moved slowly, but damn nimble for someone who’d been shot twenty-four hours ago. “How’s the wound?”

“Side hurts like hell, but I’ll live. What about you?”

His shoulder had begun knitting together by the time the doctor got Ophelia’s makeshift bandage off. “I guess I heal up pretty good.”

“I guess you do.” Emmett finished off his whiskey in two long swallows. “Ophelia told me that Wilder and the others are on their way back to town. I hope you’ll understand that Tobias and I must be gone by the time they arrive. The less contact we can report to the Guild, the better, in case they double back to check up on us.”

“Understood.” Hunter sipped his liquor and waited for it to burn its way to his stomach before tilting his head toward where Nate and Tobias talked in low whispers in the corner, both looking over one of the weapons Nate had invented. “What about Nate? He’s what they sent you to find.”

“Mmm, and I have his marker now. He owes me, and one day I
will
collect.”

Some tension in Hunter’s shoulders unwound. “I don’t doubt you will. I get the impression that things are interesting in the Guild these days.”

Emmett leaned forward. “That’s one way to put it. Another would be to say there’s a war coming, son. One within the Guild, not without, and none of us will be removed from it. Not even you.”

That brought a chill the liquor couldn’t banish. “Does Nate know?”

“Nate’s known for years, whether he wanted to admit it or not. How do you think a man of his brilliance ended up in Iron Creek instead of New York?”

Hunter looked at Nate again, looked at the way Tobias seemed fascinated by the weapon set on the table between them, and Hunter turned back to Emmett. “Nate’s really that much better than the rest of them?”

The old hound snorted. “With him, it’s more art than science. Inspiration, Hunter. If an inventor doesn’t have it, he can still be capable. But he’ll never be Nathaniel Powell.”

No wonder the Guild wanted him back. “I can’t speak for Wilder or Archer…but I owe you too. This town owes you. Without you and Tobias, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Bullshit. You did all right. Better than you should have, given your circumstances, and that’s the truth.”

Hunter couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe I’m not as broken as I thought.”

“Not nearly.” Emmett grinned. “Especially with Miss Ophelia to help patch you up.”

“She helps,” Hunter agreed. “I owe you for that most of all. For giving me the ugly truth when I needed to hear it. When this war comes…”

“I know.” He nodded. “I’ll be expecting you to fight it, but in your own way. As we all will.”

Hunter lifted his glass in silent toast and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “I’ve got to go out and meet with the men who stepped up as deputies. When will the two of you be riding out?”

“Before morning.” The old man winked. “Best to steal away under cover of darkness, yes?”

Tobias dropped to the sofa beside Emmett. “Are you revealing all our secret plans again? Christ, but you are bad at this, old-timer.”

Hunter grinned at him. “I see your pretty face is healing up. Too bad. A few scars might have given you some help with the ladies.”

“I don’t happen to need help with the ladies, thank you very much.”

Emmett laughed and poured him a drink. “No, the ladies need help with
you
.”

Tobias came up with a suitably disrespectful retort as Nate joined them, and Hunter let Emmett refill his glass. Liquor and jesting and entirely inappropriate laughter—it was like having friends again, only deeper. Deeper than the bonds of family too—blood and magic bound them together, a brotherhood that went beyond anything humans could comprehend.

It was companionship. Understanding, from the only men who knew what it was like to be part monster, and in their company, a monster didn’t seem such a terrible thing to be.

Ophelia tucked the basket under one arm and opened the door to the sheriff’s office. “Am I interrupting?”

Inside, Hunter stood at a desk in front of two of his newly deputized assistants. Both averted their gazes as they rose, the younger blushing straight to the tips of his ears, but Hunter just smiled at her. “Not at all. Lee and Bert here were just about to take their first evening patrol.”

The older seemed to realize the statement was meant for them more than her, and he dragged his blushing partner toward the door while still managing to get his hat off. “Ma’am.”

“Gentlemen.” She hid her smile until the door closed behind them. They seemed terrified, but who could blame them after what had happened to the previous sheriff and deputies? Even Miller had lived through his ordeal only to hop the first train back East. “How young
are
they?”

“Young enough to be flexible in their thinking.” Hunter didn’t look like a man who’d been shot a scant few days earlier, and didn’t move like one, either. He covered the space between them in two long strides and caught her around the waist before claiming a soft kiss.

She wanted to drop the basket and slide her arms around his neck. Instead, she pressed one more kiss to the corner of his mouth and leaned back. “I brought supper. You need to eat.”

“Lord, do I ever.” Hunter lifted the basket from her hands. “Compared to the work that goes into upholding the law in a town this size, Wilder’s training routines are downright lazy.”

But he’d thrown himself into the work, and he seemed to be enjoying it. “Is it rewarding, though? That’s the true question.”

He set the food on the desk and held one of the deputies’ abandoned chairs for her. “It’s good work. Hard, but good. But the people…well, the rich don’t adapt easily.”