Fuller wheezed, his eyes opening wide. He flailed at Emma with his right hand. The thumb was gone, but a tiny protrusion of pink flesh had already begun to grow in its place.
Nathan aimed his weapon at Fuller's head. "Don't move, Mark. Just stay still."
Fuller obeyed, dropping his fists to the snow at his sides. His chest heaved as he tried to draw in air. His frantic gaze met Nathan's. "Can't...stop."
"We'll try to get you help," Nathan promised. But he had a feeling they weren't going to get Fuller out of this field. Madness filled the other man's eyes, and Nathan didn't trust that Fuller would stay down if Emma let him go.
But he was staying down now, so Nathan asked, "Did you kill those women? Rape them, and leave them off the highway?"
As if in ecstasy, Fuller's eyes rolled back into his head. He ran his tongue over the grin that stretched his lips. "They were...so good. Want more."
Emma's snarl echoed Nathan's own rage.
"And what were you planning to do here?"
Fuller raised his right hand. "Knew...you'd find...fingerprint. Knew...you'd stop me. I can't...don't want to stop."
Nathan shook his head in disbelief. No, he wouldn't have found a match. Fuller had never been charged or booked. His prints wouldn't have been in the system.
Fuller's hips lifted and rocked. Emma shifted her grip on his throat. Fuller's voice rose an octave, took on a sing-song rhythm. "But when I came to your house, I smelled her. Oh, Miss Letty, Letty, Letty—"
Emma tightened her jaw, cutting off the sick refrain, but the bastard's hips continued to thrust up and down.
"Hold still," Nathan ordered.
Fuller lowered his hand again, but his other hand moved beneath his waist, pulling out—
"Gun, Emma!" Nathan shouted. "Get back!"
Her jaws clamped around Fuller's neck as she twisted away. The rip of flesh was drowned by the roar of a gunshot.
Emma yelped. Nathan shoved her to the side, stomped his boot into the bloody cavity she'd opened in Fuller's throat. He aimed between the bastard's eyes and fired.
Nathan whipped around. Emma lay on the ground, blood spreading over and melting the snow beneath her.
"Emma, Emma, Emma." He fell to his knees, lifted her head onto his lap, stroked his hands over her fur, searching. It was a belly shot. Bad. Really bad for most wolves. "Tell me you're going to be okay."
He heard the crack, felt her ribs bulge beneath his hands. "Jesus Christ, Emma." He tore out of his coat, covered her with it, held her through the transformation. As soon as she lay panting and sweating in his arms, he said, "I just meant for you to nod your head."
She laughed breathlessly, showing him her pale stomach. Blood stained her skin, but the wound had vanished. "Nice trick, huh?"
His relief grabbed him by his throat, and took away any response he might have had. He hauled her up, sealed her mouth with his kiss, let her feel every emotion rushing through him. She clung to him, returned everything he gave.
He stood and swung her up against his chest, her bare legs dangling over his arm. They stared down at Fuller's body for a silent moment, then Nathan began carrying her toward the house.
He took a long breath. "So, in a little while, once we've got everything settled, maybe you'll take a risk with me."
She lifted her head to look at him. "Marry you?"
His stomach dropped, but there wasn't a bit of him that didn't like the idea. "Well, that, too. But I'm thinking more along the lines of you…biting me." He brushed his lips against her mouth which had fallen open in surprise. "I'd like to run with you."
Tears shimmered in her eyes before she buried her face against his neck. "Yes," she said. "Of course it's yes. We can be our own little pack." Her lips kissed his skin; her teeth followed it with a nip.
He laughed, pressed his lips over her hair. "Let me get you home first."
"I'm with you," she said simply, and her arms tightened around his neck. "So I'm already there."
About the author:
Meljean is the bestselling author of the Guardians series and the Iron Seas series. She was raised in the middle of the woods, and hid under her blankets at night with fairy tales, comic books, and romances. Meljean left the forest and went on a misguided tour through the world of accounting before focusing on her first loves, reading and writing–and she realized that monsters, superheroes, and happily-ever-afters are easily found between the covers, as well as under them, so she set out to make her own. Meljean lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and daughter.
Find out more about Meljean at her website: http://meljeanbrook.com/
GRACE OF SMALL MAGICS
Ilona Andrews
"Never look them in the eye." Uncle Gerald murmured.
Grace nodded. He'd calmed down some when they had boarded the plane, enough to offer her a reassuring smile, but now as they landed, he turned pale. Sweat gathered at his hairline. Gripping his cane, he scanned the human currents of the airport as they entered the terminal building. His fingers shook on the pewter wolf's head handle. She'd seen him take out a couple of men half his age with that cane, but she doubted it would do them any good now.
He cleared his throat, licking his dry lips. "Never contradict. Never ask questions. Don't speak until you're spoken to and then say as little as you can. If you're in trouble, bow. They consider it below them to strike a bowing servant."
Grace nodded again. This was the sixth time he recited the instructions to her. She realized it calmed him down, like a prayer, but his trembling voice ratcheted her own anxiety until it threatened to burst into an overwhelming panic. The airport, the booming announcements spilling from the speaker, the crush of the crowd, all of it blended into a smudged mess of colors and noises. Her mouth tasted bitter. Deep inside her a small voice protested, "This is just crazy. This can't be real."
"It will be fine," Gerald muttered hoarsely. "It will be fine."
They passed the gates into a long hallway. The bag slipped off her shoulder, and Grace pulled it back on. The simple action crested her panic. She stopped. Her heart hammered, a steady heavy pressure pushing on her chest from inside out. A soft dullness clogged her ears. She heard herself breathing.
Twelve hours ago she woke up four states away, ate her usual breakfast of an egg and a toasted English muffin, and got ready to go to work, just like she had done every day. Then the doorbell rang and Uncle Gerald was on her doorstep with a wild story.
Grace always knew her family was special. They had power. Small magic — insignificant even — but it was more than ordinary people had, and Grace had realized early on she had to hide it. She knew there were other magic users in the world, because her mother had told her so, but she had never met any of them. She'd thought they were like her, armed with minor powers and rare.
According to Gerald, she was wrong. There were many other magic users in the world. Families, whole clans of them. They were dangerous, deadly, and capable of terrible things. And one of these clans had their family in bonded service. They could call upon them at any time, and they had done so for years, demanding her mother's assistance whenever they needed it. Three days ago they requested Grace. Her mother had told her nothing; she simply went in her place. But Clan Dreoch called Gerald. They wanted Grace and only Grace. And so she flew to Midwest, still dizzy from having her world turned upside down and listening to Gerald's shaky voice as he told stories of terrible magic.
Her instincts screamed to run away, back into the airport filled with people who had no concept of magic. It was just an animal reaction, Grace told herself. The Dreochs had her mother and if she did run, her mother would have to take her place. Grace was twenty six years old. She knew her responsibilities. She had no doubt her mother wouldn't survive whatever they demanded, otherwise they wouldn't have required her presence. Grace knew what she had to do, but her nerves had been rubbed raw, and she simply stood, unable to move, her muscles locked into a rigid knot. She willed her body to obey, but it refused.