Night Falls on the Wicked - By Sharie Kohler Page 0,19

additional weapons.

It was time to hunt.

Closing the trunk, he took off running, diving between buildings. He followed his gut, not using his eyes but that sixth sense he’d possessed since he was sixteen and his world changed forever.

As dusk turned into night, he left the town behind. The blood rushed in his veins as he ran through snow-draped woods. His racing steps were silent in the hush of the forest. An animal of the night, he surrendered to his instincts, all stealth and speed, as dangerous as that which he hunted.

Their howls soon filled the night. Distant, but he followed the sounds, jumping over a frozen creek and vaulting over a five-foot drift of snow.

Their howls grew frenzied and he knew they were closing in on prey. He ran harder, pushing himself. Cocking his head, he inhaled the ripe scent of them on the air and stopped abruptly. Pressing a palm to a nearby tree, he leaned close to the frozen bark and inhaled.

One of them had passed here, brushed against the very spot his hand touched. He dropped to a crouch and assessed the ground. Fresh snow covered it, but he ran fingers through the powdery white anyway, sensing they’d passed over this ground.

Suddenly the howls stopped, swiftly dying in the air. And he knew they’d found their prey.

He took off again, grunting as he vaulted over frozen ground, jumping off a steep craggy hill and landing in a roll until he was on his feet again. The silence told its own story and he ran until his chest hurt. The sound of running water reached his ears.

He broke through the trees and jerked to a halt at its bank. Immediately the tang of freshly spilled blood hit him, powerful and cloying. His gaze zeroed in on the human remains scattered near the side of the partially frozen river. Blood covered the snow for several feet, staining it a deep red so dark it nearly looked black.

He was too late. They’d fed and he was too late. They were gone.

DARBY STAYED LATER THAN usual, helping clean up. But then it had been an unusual night, starting with the news of Corey’s death and the diner’s sudden surge of business, and then ending with her encounter with the stranger. Another encounter. It seemed odd at this point that she still didn’t know his name.

As she headed out the back door, she was too tired to think about heating up a can of soup as she’d planned. Even though her stomach rumbled in hunger, weariness won out. Her bed with its electric blanket tempted her more than the prospect of hot chicken noodle.

As she moved along the short walk to the wooden stairs that led to the upstairs loft, the wind suddenly blew a fierce hiss. The sound reminded her of an angry beast … and she’d met a few of those in her life to know. Goose bumps puckered her flesh.

She stopped and looked around. No one else lurked outside. For some reason, she thought about the stranger and his warning to not wander around at night. Not that there was much help for what she was doing—not if she wanted to sleep in her own bed tonight.

Her gaze scanned the diner’s back lot. Sam’s truck still sat parked beside the Dumpster, empty, its windows dark eyes that only emphasized how alone she felt at this moment. Tall, snow-dappled trees closed around the broken-up concrete, stretching to the night sky. And of course, there was the moon, full and glowing, watchful as an eye in the sky.

She reached for her necklace beneath her sweater, rubbing her fingers over the three pendants, taking comfort in their presence close to her skin. The necklace had been a gift when she turned thirteen and her powers had first begun to assert themselves. Her mother had hoped they wouldn’t—had hoped she would be different. Normal. Normal enough to not attract demons.

Satan’s spawn had a particular aversion to milk—the food of life—salt and holy water. Each pendant contained one of these three elements and served to protect her. How much protection it offered, she couldn’t say, but she would take whatever help she could get.

And there was the blistering cold of her environment, not to be overlooked. That was perhaps the greatest help of all. Born of the fires of hell, demons could not withstand extreme cold. Their powers of manipulation were always weakest in such climes. So Darby endured living in climates too cold