by Karen Chance
It was standing by the tree. Kit could map it with his ears as easily as with sight, the hot thrum of its blood muffled in some way he didn't understand, but strong and steady and there, nonetheless. It was standing right by the tree.
Yet he couldn't see it.
Until it moved, barely a ripple on the night, one his eyes wanted to slide off of even as he leapt --
And crashed to the ground, pinned in place like an animal by a sparkling net of pain, like a hundred Tasers hitting him all at once. He roared and ripped the thing in two, throwing it aside to finish sparking out against the wet earth. And looked up --
And didn't see her.
Son of a bitch.
Kit jumped back to his feet, staring around, his pulse hammering, his senses reaching out for a sound, a scent, a glimpse --
And found none of them.
But she was here. He'd been right: the place to look wasn't one that was registering, all lit up temptingly, but the one that wasn't. The one conspicuous only by the absence of any activity at all until that tell-tale glimmer.
He didn't see it now, not anywhere. Didn't hear it, either, which probably meant she'd moved, and moved quickly, out of range. But he hadn't imagined it, or the numerous toys she seemed to have with her.
But people only used mage tricks if they thought their own strength inadequate. Otherwise, why not just attack him, kill him now? Before he could bring an army down on her head?
Because she couldn't.
And because that wasn't happening anyway. He hadn't brought his men along for that; he'd brought them to help him find her. Now that he had . . .
This was his fight.
And it was about to get dirty.
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