Santos cursed and raised his gun again, but I flung out my left hand and sent a spray of Ice daggers shooting across the room at him. He cursed again, turned to the side, and hunkered down, protecting his head with his arms. He might be lean and lanky, but he was still a giant, with more than enough tough musculature to survive my magic strike.
Too late, I realized he was wearing a protective vest, probably lined with silverstone, since my Ice splattered against the garment and fell to the floor in harmless chunks. Still, Santos grunted as one long needle of Ice punched through his right shoulder, outside the vest. Even better, the needle must have clipped a nerve, because his fingers spasmed, and his gun slipped from his hand and thumped to the floor.
I rushed forward, trying to drive my knife into his other shoulder to make both of his arms useless so I could question him and then finish him off. But Santos raised his forearm and blocked my blow. I lashed out with my left hand, trying to sucker-punch him in the throat, but he blocked that blow too and responded with a head-butt that made stars explode in front of my eyes.
This time, Santos surged forward, grabbed my wrist, and bent it back, forcing me to drop my knife or risk getting my wrist broken. I let go of the weapon and twisted into his hold, ramming my elbow into his stomach.
It was like hitting a brick wall. Pain jolted up my arm, but I gritted my teeth and followed up that first elbow strike with another, harder one. Santos let out a loud oof of air and let go of my wrist, and I whipped around, raised my fists, and went at him again.
Santos lurched to his left, grabbed the photos off the mantel, and chucked them at me. I ducked again and again, the sounds of the frames crashing to the floor and the glass splintering making me growl with rage. The bastard was destroying my rune drawings.
He was going to pay for that.
Santos ran out of pictures. I expected him to pull out another gun, but the photo bombs had just been a distraction. He sprinted forward, leaped up onto the coffee table, grabbed the ceiling fan with one hand, and swung himself right past me.
It was truly an impressive move, worthy of a world-class gymnast, especially given his seven-foot frame. But Santos was faster and far more limber and flexible than most giants. Even more impressive, he landed on his feet as nimbly as a cat and sprinted down the hallway.
I growled again, whirled around, and charged after him, but I stepped on a couple of broken bits of my own elemental Ice rolling around on the floor. My bare feet slipped, and I had to windmill my arms back and forth to keep from falling on my ass.
It only took me a few seconds to regain my balance, but it cost me dearly. I staggered out into the hallway to see the front door slamming shut. A few seconds later, a car engine roared to life in the driveway. I cursed again and picked up my speed, even though I knew I was already too late.
I yanked open the front door and raced out onto the porch. A dark, anonymous sedan was already zooming down the driveway, fishtailing wildly through snow, ice, and gravel. I hadn’t even made it to the porch steps when the taillights disappeared. I cursed, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to hop into my own car and catch up with him.
Gone. Santos was gone.
Again.
*
I stood on the porch for the better part of a minute, fuming at myself for letting Santos get away twice in one night. But there was nothing I could do to bring him back, so I moved on to what I could do: learn more about the bastard.
I went inside, wrapped a blanket from the couch around my shoulders, and shoved my cold, bare feet into a pair of snow boots. Then I snapped on the porch light, stepped back outside, and peered at the front door, trying to figure out how Santos had gotten into the house.
Silverstone bars covered all the windows and side doors, so he had to have come in through the front door, a solid slab of black granite shot through with thick veins of silverstone. It wasn’t the sort of door that a giant could pound through or that an elemental could blast through with magic. Not without a lot of effort and a whole lot of noise—much more noise than Santos had made.
There was no damage to the door, so I bent down, examining the lock. A few scratches gleamed in the metal, so small that I wouldn’t have noticed them if I hadn’t been looking. Santos had picked open the door instead of trying to punch his way through it. Smart and not something I would expect from a giant, since most of them relied on their great strength to solve whatever problems came their way.
I frowned. Santos was seeming less like a common robber and more like a highly trained thief, especially given his acrobatics with the ceiling fan. You didn’t develop slick, nimble moves like that by knocking over convenience stores. At the bank, I’d thought he was a professional, but he was a far higher class of thief than I’d given him credit for. I wondered what other skills he had—and how deadly they might be.