"Didn't I tell you silver wasn't effective against shapeshifters?" Jon gritted his teeth and slowly pulled the knife from his leg. He held it out, letting the rain wash his blood from the gleaming blade. "Now tell me where Eleanor is, Hank."
"I'll see you in hell first," Hank snarled, then turned and ran for the trees.
He threw the knife. Hank made a gargled sound and fell to the ground, the knife buried hilt-deep in his back.
Jon watched him silently, ignoring the buffeting wind and the rain that ran down his face as fast as the blood down ran his leg.
Hank didn't move. Either he was very good at lying still or he was dead. Jon grimaced. He hadn't intended to kill him— not until he'd found out where Eleanor was, at least. But then, nothing in this damn case was going the way he wanted, so why should things change now?
Suddenly weary, he took off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his leg. Blood soaked quickly through the wet material. He swore softly. He'd have to get medical attention, but he couldn't leave just yet. He still had to find Eleanor. He limped over to Hank and bent down awkwardly, pulling the fiend onto his back. Death had ripped Hank's mask of humanity away, revealing a face that was all bone and little structure. The look of surprise on what was left of his features made Jon frown. Hank obviously hadn't expected to die— why?
Had Eleanor promised a victory over all forms of death, not just the natural ravages of time? Just how old was Hank, if he looked like this in death? How old was Eleanor? If Hank's quickly disintegrating body was anything to go by, they were both more than several centuries old. Which made Eleanor older, and more powerful, than he'd ever imagined.
He quickly patted down what was left of Hank's body. No wallet, no keys. Nothing to give any clue as to where Eleanor might be.
"Just not my day," he muttered, standing up. And noticed a blood red ring gleaming softly on a skeletal right finger.
He slid it off and held it up to the light. It was a ruby, and etched onto the gleaming surface of the stone was a snarling cat. The ring was ancient and rare. He'd only seen its like once—on the hand of the man bound to serve a vampire for all eternity. Eleanor certainly wasn't a vampire, but she was a powerful enough sorcerer to work a ring of binding.
He flipped it lightly in his hand, watching the red glitter in the cat's stone eyes. He could almost feel Eleanor's presence as he held it, could almost taste the darkness that was her soul.
He wouldn't have to find Eleanor. With the ring in his possession, she'd find him.
All he had to do was get Maddie out of harm's way.
Fifteen
Maddie leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The soft murmur of conversation rolled across the room, a soothing sound in the stark, cold surroundings of the police station. At least it would have been, if she hadn't known they were discussing her. It was obvious from his questions that the FBI agent didn't entirely believe her—at least when it came to the point of how she knew Evan was in danger hours before he'd actually disappeared. Or maybe he was just a cop doing his job, and she was being entirely too suspicious. Maybe she'd let Steve's antagonism color her judgement a little too much when it came to the police.
She rubbed her hand across her eyes. The madman in her brain was still pounding away tirelessly, and the cut on the back of her head ached, despite the pain killers the doctor had given her. All she wanted was to go home and sleep. But that wasn't likely to happen any time soon, if the attitude of the FBI agent and the police was anything to go by.
Why couldn't they just believe her and let her go? The only two people she really wanted to speak to were Evan and Jon, and the fact that she hadn't seen either in over five hours worried her.
But what worried her more was, now that Evan was safe, Jon had no real reason—and maybe no real wish—to see her again. That maybe he'd use this time to go after Eleanor then simply leave.
She wanted—needed—to see him again, if only to hold him one more time before he said goodbye.
"Miss Smith?"
She opened her eyes. Mack stood about three feet away, holding out a mug of what looked liked dirty dishwater.
"Coffee?"
She nodded and accepted the mug. At the very least, it would warm her fingers. "How's my nephew? When can I see him?"
"Soon." Mack sat back down at the table and motioned her to do the same.
"Your statement." He pushed several pieces of paper across to her. "Read it and sign it, if everything is correct."
She quickly scanned the papers, then signed the bottom and pushed them back. Mack shuffled them together without looking at them. "You realize, of course, that you are a prime witness in this case. You'll be expected to appear in court."
Something in his gaze told her that he was well aware of her past, or more precisely, her lack of cooperation when it came to the investigation of her husband's death.
"I realize that," she said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. He smiled slightly. "Your...abilities will come out during the trial."
"My abilities are nothing when compared to Eleanor's, believe me." Though she privately doubted if the case would ever make it to trial. There wasn't a prison built that could hold a woman like Eleanor—a shapeshifter well versed in the art of black magic.
She remembered the coldness—no, deadness—in Jon's blue eyes as he'd left to go after Hank, and she suddenly realized he had never intended handing Eleanor and Hank over to the police. Jon was judge, jury and executioner. He'd come to Taurin Bay to kill, not capture.