Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,72

went to his house—”

“Judd Archer.”

“Right.”

“Are you sure it’s the same man?”

“Of course I’m sure. He was right there. On that street and at Judd’s house. He’s tall with dark hair and a scar under his eye. I’m not sure if it’s the left or right eye. Left, I think. He’s wearing a green jacket. He’s here somewhere, at the fair. I can’t stay. I have to get out of here. Will you find him for me? Stop him?”

“I’ll do my best.”

The line went dead.

“That—” Damon began.

“—wasn’t Robyn. I know.”

ROBYN

Robyn turned to run from the man. She knew it was futile—he was close enough to grab her. But he didn’t. She was so surprised that she stumbled, twisting to look back at him.

He stood there. Smiling. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”

Robyn ran.

The forest couldn’t be that big. The path had to lead to the other side. Unless it just looped around to where it started . . .

“Ready or not . . .”

Robyn dove into the brush. She hit the ground, skidding through the undergrowth, shoulder flaring, a branch scraping her cheek a mere inch from her eye. She scrambled in deeper, every move making the brush crackle and snap like gunfire.

She dropped, turned toward the path and stretched out on her stomach. The vegetation sprang back up, cradling her. Flat on the ground, she watched the man’s pale face bobbing along the path. It stopped directly parallel to where she lay.

He turned and crossed his arms. His sigh wafted through the quiet forest. “Oh, come on. If you’re going to play, you have to do better than that. I can smell you. I can see in the dark. What the hell did Marsten teach you about werewolves?”

Robyn choked back a laugh. Did he really say werewolves? He was going to have to do better than that if he wanted to scare her.

He couldn’t see her. He’d just approximated where the noise had come from.

“Are you going to make me come in there after you, blondie?”

Like to see you try, Mr. Werewolf.

He took a step into the forest. Then another, and another, sauntering along as easily as if he was still on the path, ducking branches she couldn’t even see, heading straight for her.

Her shirt.

She’d tried to buy one as dark as possible, but it had white stripes. Against the darkness, she must stand out like a zebra on a dimly lit plain.

She tensed, but held still, hoping she was wrong, that he was still guessing—

He stopped four feet away, his face turning to hers, teeth flashing against the night.

She leapt to her feet and barreled through the undergrowth, glancing over her shoulder to see him still sauntering, unhindered by the brush, not even bothering to run.

She was veering to circle back to the path when she caught the flash of reflective tape on a tree and ran for it. The path. Thank God. She rammed through the last patch of brush. Vines grabbed her feet, but she yanked free and hit the path at a run.

Just find the end. This wasn’t the Amazon jungle.

Footsteps pounded on the path behind her. Now he was running.

Just keep going. Keep—

Robyn tripped over a root and sprawled face-first to the dirt, hands flying out, her skinned palms and injured shoulder screaming.

Ignore it. Get up and—

A hand grabbed her foot and yanked. Her face slammed into the dirt. With a bone-wrenching jerk, he flipped her onto her back.

“Not bad, blondie. Not bad at all. Wanna have another go? I figure we have—” He checked his watch. “At least ten minutes before the cavalry arrives. Marsten’s good at following a scent, but he’ll hate sniffing the ground to do it. Grass stains are a bitch to get out of Armani. Or so I hear.”

He was casual and relaxed, still smiling. Sweat dripped into Robyn’s eyes. He wasn’t even breathing heavy. Just a pleasant jog through the woods. She couldn’t escape him, no more than she could Adele.

Ah, but you did escape Adele, Bobby. Look around. She’s long gone.

Sure, that was because she was still back at the fair, sipping a soda while her thug partner beat the crap out of Robyn.

She hadn’t escaped. She’d run straight into a trap.

“Well, are you getting up? I’m going to give you another chance.”

“Sure, like Lucy gives Charlie Brown another chance to kick the football.”

He threw back his head, laughing. “Sharp one, aren’t you? I’m glad to see you still have some spunk. Now let’s see you use it. Of course, I