I walked cautiously through the living room and into the dining room. There was less mess here, an indication, perhaps, that more running than fighting had happened.
I stepped into the next room—the kitchen—and saw Jak. He was sitting on the floor leaning back against one of the cabinets, his eyes closed and an expression of pain etched into his face. He was nursing an arm that was bloody and torn, and his clothes were less than decent—although I wasn't sure if that was a result of the shape-shifting or the fight. But he was alive, seemed relatively unhurt—slashed arm and pained expression aside—and relief slithered through me.
Until I looked beyond him. A gray-haired woman lay still and silent on the floor near the small table, her neck twisted at such an odd angle it could only mean it had been broken. Her eyes were open but unseeing, and an expression of terror had been forever frozen onto her face.
Jak hadn't been able to save her. I closed my eyes and cursed the killing efficiency of Nadler's men.
But at least Jak had gotten one of them—and the bastard was still alive. He was lying several feet away from the woman, his legs also twisted into odd shapes. He probably would have been screaming had he been conscious, and part of me was tempted to slap him awake just so he could suffer for the death he'd caused.
I resisted the impulse, though, and sheathed Amaya as I walked over to Jak. His nostrils flared; then a slight smile touched his lips—indications that he knew I was close even if he didn't open his eyes.
I knelt wearily beside him. "I thought I told you to stay outside and wait for us."
"Yeah, I'm going to do that when someone is being murdered." He finally opened his eyes and gave me a somewhat annoyed look. "I'm not that much of a bastard, Risa."
"I didn't say you were. I just didn't want you hurt."
I gently pulled away the remnants of his shirt and inspected the wounds underneath. The knife wounds were long and deep, and while some of the bleeding had been slowed by his shift back into human form, the deeper ones were still weeping.
"You didn't?" he said in a surprised voice. "I would have thought the opposite."
I gave him a lopsided smile. "If I'd wanted you hurt, I would have done it myself. Which doesn't mean," I added hastily, as his gaze warmed, "that I am, in any way, ever going to forgive you for what you wrote."
He grimaced. "I sometimes regret what I wrote, but I'm afraid it never lasts long. It was a good story, Risa, and it was the truth."
"As you saw it."
"Which is the only way I can ever report things." His gaze sharpened. "And now, you'd better tell me about that sword-wielding man who suddenly popped into existence and saved my ass."