Maybe she made a sound. Or maybe he just sensed her. But he lowered his chin and turned his head, not enough so she could see his face, but enough that she could hear him in the relative quiet as the band geared up for their next set.
"I'm not here for you," he said, his voice a low rasp that scraped her nerve endings raw.
She took a step to the side, then froze as a greasy black thing oozed from the gaping hole in the hunter's chest and curled around his killer's wrist, then inched up his arm like a slug made of thick, oily smoke.
"Go," he ordered, and turned his face back toward his prey.
He released his hold of the hunter's throat. The body collapsed to the ground, the black slug rising like a cloud of putrid smoke to hover above the killer's shoulder, held there by a bright thread of light.
Amber willed her feet to move. But she managed only a shuffling slide, her legs shaking so hard she could barely stay on her feet.
Then it was too late.
She heard him inhale sharply.
He turned, his movements slow, and Amber's world ground to an abrupt, stomach-churning halt. Close-cropped dark hair. High cheekbones. Eyes dark and framed by thick, curling lashes. Dark stubble shading his jaw.
His expression was flat and cold, mirroring none of the incredulity that cascaded through her.
Kai.
It couldn't be.
He was dead.
That thought forced a bubble of hysterical laughter up her throat, and she choked it back. She knew better than anyone that dying was relative.
But…Kai? She'd seen his body, visited his grave. Only once. That was all she'd dared because that grave would have been the first place the hunters looked.
No…twice. She'd been an idiot. She'd taken flowers last week. On his birthday. Daisies. Because he always sent her daisies. God, how could she have been so stupid? He'd sold her out to the hunters and she'd come back fifty years later to visit his grave in a moment of melancholy loneliness.
That was what had started this. She'd gone to Kai's grave and even all these years later, they must have been watching.
She stared at him now, the hard planes and angles of his face caught the light filtering through the window that overlooked the street.
His eyes met hers, and she saw nothing there. Not love. Not hate. Perhaps not even recognition.
With a gasp, she fell back.
The band started up again, the bass pounding through her, or maybe that was only the rushing of her pulse.
"Amber." His lips shaped her name, but she didn't hear the word.
Her throat constricted and her heart gave a painful jerk.
She saw only a blur as he moved to block her route to the door.
"Let me pass," she said, uncertain if he could even hear her above the music.
He only stared at her, saying nothing. Her gaze flicked to the dead hunter who lay in a pool of blood, his chest ripped open, then to the dark, amorphous mass floating above Kai's shoulder.
She swallowed against the knot that clogged her throat.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Then she raised her hand, pulled the trigger and shot him through the heart.
Chapter Two
Kai caught her on the stairs. He got one arm around her waist, lifted her clear off her feet and slapped his other palm over her mouth.
His chest felt like it was on fire. Christ. She'd shot him. In the heart.
It was kind of fitting if he thought about it. The only thing more apt would have been if she reached inside him and ripped the damned thing clean out.
Amber.
She was alive. She was here. She was in his arms.
What the fuck?
He'd lost count of the number of nights he'd dreamed of her, ached for her. Fantasized about tearing her lying, deceitful heart from her breast.
She'd sent him to die. Lucky for him, things had worked out different than she planned.
The scent of her hair drifted to him. She wore it exactly the same, loose to her shoulders, light brown, tipped in gold. He gave in to temptation and lowered his face. She smelled of vanilla and strawberries and he wanted to bury his face in her neck and breathe deep and lose himself in the memories of everything they'd once had.
Had. Past tense. Key concept here.
Glancing at the door at the base of the stairs, he tightened his grip as she elbowed him in the side. He shifted his weight, trapping her between his chest and the wall, preventing her from moving the hand that held the gun. Not that she could kill him. But he felt pain and, having one bullet in him already, he wasn't anxious for more.
"Fifty years," he snarled. "Fifty fucking years." Of all the things to say, all the things to ask, that was the best he could come up with? But with the band playing loud enough to shake the walls, she probably hadn't heard him anyway.
He wrenched the gun from her grasp, checked the safety and shoved the barrel into his waistband. Not ideal, but it would do for the moment.
She struggled and writhed as he half dragged, half carried her back up the stairs, not stopping at her door, but heading higher, toward the roof. It was quieter up there and, for the moment, safe enough.