The only human I encountered was Denise Woodward, who was out walking her dog Walnut. I’d known both Denise and Walnut for almost ten years. The only threat either of them posed was if you were allergic to dog fur.
“Are you catching cold, dear?” she asked.
What? Oh—I’d been sniffing for scents. “Just enjoying the night air.”
“You should be careful walking alone this late. Have you considered getting a dog like Walnut?”
I studied the overweight, arthritic cocker spaniel who was happily panting and drooling at the end of his leash. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”
I’m not hunting.Yet here I was, out on patrol like I was a teenager again. My knees ached, and the initial fury and adrenaline from Annette’s attack had worn off. I should be back home checking on Annette’s injuries. And checking to see whether Annette’s grandkids had left any of those chocolate chip muffins for the rest of us.
My gut told me to keep walking. My gut also wanted muffins, but I ignored that the best I could. Several times I’d caught a mote of Ronnie’s scent, so faint I didn’t know if it was real.
I broadened my search. I was finishing my fourth lap through the neighborhood when I spotted an old black van parked on Chestnut Street, two blocks back from us. The kid in the driver’s seat had a narrow line of sight between the houses and buildings to our shop. At that distance, hidden behind tinted windows, he probably thought he was invisible.
I couldn’t make out details, but his silhouette matched what I’d seen in the security footage. He had binoculars in one hand. His attention was fixed on Second Life Books. “Hello, Mr. Harbinger.”
I kept walking until I was out of sight, then hopped a fence and cut through my neighbor Mindy’s backyard. My goddess-blessed senses also let me dodge the land mines Mindy’s three Yorkies had scattered through the lawn.
Another fence and a narrow side street brought me onto Chestnut Street, about a hundred yards behind the van.
I felt young again, focused and unstoppable. I moved silently down the brick sidewalk like a predator stalking her prey. I felt every crack and imperfection through the soles of my orthopedic sneakers. When I reached the back of the van, I crouched and sniffed the air.
The scent confirmed it. This was Ronnie Kensington’s van.
If he was smart, he’d have locked the door. I pried up a sidewalk brick and hoped Denise and Walnut were the only ones still awake. This was a residential street, and our profit margin at the store was thin enough without headlines likeLocal Bookseller Goes On Window-Smashing Rampagegoing viral on the internet. I’d have to strike quickly. First, the window, then—
What are you doing, Winter?It would be so easy to let myself go, to punish this kid for what Annette had gone through tonight. This was what I’d been trained to do. Find the threat and take it out.
After three decades, how was it still so easy to fall back into old patterns? To let instinct and passion take over, knowing where they could lead?
I hadn’t stopped being a Hunter because I wanted to escape the violence. I’d stopped because it had gotten too easy to embrace it. To use it as a way to avoid the fear and the anger and the grief.
I retreated and sat on the curb where a parked SUV would hide me if Ronnie happened to check his mirror. Once there, I let myself think about Annette, about every burn I’d bandaged, every flinch and gasp she’d tried to hide. I stopped fighting the anger. Instead, Ifeltit, just like my therapist had suggested all those years ago. After a while, I sank past the anger to the fear and helplessness beneath.
How close had I come to losing Annette tonight?
The brick clutched in my hand cracked. I unclamped my fingers, letting half of it clatter onto the curb.
Annoyance number thirty-two of being a Hunter of Artemis: accidentally breaking stuff.
Better a brick than this kid’s skull. I waited several more minutes until the worst of the fear receded. Once I was calm—or at least calmish—I stood and walked toward the van. I raised my half-brick in one hand to smash the window, then stopped myself. On the off chance Ronnie was dumb enough to leave it unlocked, I grabbed the handle and pulled.
The door swung open.
To Ronnie’s credit, he only jumped a little at the sight of me standing there, and he recovered fast, swinging his binoculars at my face.
I blocked them with my sidewalk brick. The binoculars made a satisfying crunch. One of the lenses cracked and fell out.
He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, either. That made it easy to grab his jacket with my free hand and toss him to the sidewalk.
He rolled, jumped to his feet, and reached inside his coat, probably going for the knife he’d used against the harvester. I kicked his arm before he could pull it from its sheath. He stumbled and landed on his back again.
I tossed my broken brick aside. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you draw that knife, I’ll make you swallow it.”
Not my best banter, but it worked. He raised both hands so I could see they were empty. “You’re Jenny Winter. You work at that bookstore.”
“And you’re Ronald Kensington.”
