There was another bunch of words spoken, but Boone was done with that shit.
Lunging into the air, he attacked full frontal, one hand zeroing in on the front of the man’s throat, the other making sure to lock on the wrist that controlled that knife. There was no struggle to speak of. Humans, even the males, were no match for vampire strength, and it was the work of a moment for Boone to twist that arm out of its socket so that the blade was dropped.
The raw sound of pain coming out of the assailant was music to Boone’s ears, but he couldn’t let that go on for long.
Forcing his fingers into the man’s open mouth, he yanked the head up by the lower jaw with such force, most of the torso came up, too. And then he slammed the back of the skull into the snowpack, ringing the fucker’s bell. The impact got him the stunned immobility he was looking for: The man was still alive—his chest rising and falling, the veins up his throat continuing to pump with a pulse—but cognition was dimmed.
That would come back soon enough.
Not that there was any way out of this for the assailant—
From out of the corner of Boone’s eye, he caught sight of the knife the man had used on the woman. The weapon was lying on its side, the stained blade glinting dully.
Oh, good, Boone thought. This was going to be more fun if things weren’t sharp.
Palming the hilt, he sat back on his heels and waited for those bloodshot eyes to start to focus again. It didn’t take that long at all, a testament to both the man’s relative youth and the cushioning properties of snow.
When Boone was sure the assailant was ready, he leaned down and put the knife right in that face.
Mumbling. Lot of mumbling. Followed by some desperate begging.
“I want you to watch me,” Boone drawled. “Okay? You with me? Don’t piss me off, that’s a bad idea. You ready? Answer me.”
When the head nodded, Boone pointed to the tip with his fore–finger. Then he moved down to the man’s waist and pointed at the crotch area.
Lots of moaning, and the arm that still worked slapped a hand across that sensitive place.
“Yeah, no,” Boone said softly. “Not going to go like that.”
Fishing into one of the pockets of his jacket, Boone found the bandana he always kept on him in case he needed to apply pressure to a wound. Then, in a quick strike, he drove the knife into the back of the assailant’s protective hand.
When the man opened his mouth to scream, Boone shoved the folds of cotton in between all those teeth.
After which he made a fist and punched the guy in the shoulder socket so hard, something cracked in there. It was a good test of the silencer—and one that was passed. The scream was muffled sure as if he had a burlap sack over that head. The pinwheeling legs, however, were a pain in the ass, kicking up snow, moving the torso around—and Boone would have taken care of that problem except he was worried about the human female losing much more blood and body heat.
Pulling the knife out of the back of the hand, he waited until the human could focus once more. Then he grabbed onto the front of the guy’s pants and inserted the tip of the blade. The urine-soaked fabric was relatively hardy, the navy blue weave the kind of thing that janitors wore to work, but it was no match for even a dull blade.
Commando. Go figure.
Positioning himself between the man’s legs, Boone pinned those twitching thighs open with his knees. Just as he was about to put the blade in place, he paused and thought that he was taking things too far.
But then he thought of the woman behind him.
“This is for her,” he said in a growl.
* * *
Helania arrived at the twenty-four-hour diner a little before midnight. As she re-formed in the shadows of its back parking lot, she had to smile. The place was literally called The 24 Hr. Diner.
Talk about clarity of mission.
Stepping onto the sidewalk that ran around to its front entrance, she liked the stainless-steel-looking outer panels and the curved windows and the fact that there were a surprisingly large number of humans taking up space inside in booths by the windows and on stools at the counter.