Riven (Mirus 2)

It wasn’t the Hunter. At least not the one who’d tailed them in Gatlinburg. Neither was he the scar-faced man who’d been watching her from the crowd or the warlock from her apartment. Unless he was some kind of shapeshifter like the one who’d killed her mother. This man was taller, broader with silver-shot dark hair and eyes that seemed to shift and move like smoke.

He eyed the gun dispassionately. “Will you actually use that?”

“If I have to.”

“Good.” The man flowed toward her, his hand curling around hers. Before she could cry out or squeeze the trigger, he spoke again. “Be sure to turn the safety off next time.”

Something snicked, and he edged back in that weirdly fluid way.

Marley stared at him, the gun in her hand bucking. “What are you?” she whispered.

“Help. If you’ll let me.” He took a step back toward her.

Marley firmed her grip on the gun and shifted to better block Ian in the passenger seat.

The man could’ve disarmed her. He’d been close enough to snap her neck and instead chose to turn the safety off on the gun in her hands and step back into the line of fire.

“Ian is going into shock. If he’s not treated soon, irreparable damage will be done.”

He knew Ian’s name. And apparently knew what was wrong with him. Maybe that meant this man knew how to help him. It was a chance she had to take.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Probably best if you don’t know that. Plausible deniability.”

“What should I call you?”

“Commander will do.”

One of Ian’s military contacts? Maybe. He was Mirus. Ian had said they hid in plain sight.

“Move very, very slowly,” she ordered, edging out of the space between the car and the open door.

The corner of his mouth flickered a little, as if she amused him. Threats from someone like her against someone like him probably were a joke. But he did as she asked, easing into the vacated space and laying two fingers on the pulse in Ian’s throat.

“Fool,” he murmured, hoisting Ian from the seat and throwing him over one shoulder. “I get you the biggest promotion of your life and you blow it off for this.”

“Move toward the cabin,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He paused just at the edge of the porch and reached up, using one finger to trace a pattern in the air. Where he touched, a symbol flared gold before guttering out.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded.

“I had to undo the protection runes around the perimeter to get in. He’s not playing around with you.”

Protection runes?

There was no time to consider that. They performed a bit of a juggling act as she fished in Ian’s pocket for the keys and unlocked the door. The other man entered before her, eyes sweeping the space in the same militaristic way Ian’s did. Without another word, he crossed the room and dumped Ian on the sofa.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Unconscious for nearly an hour. Before that he was stumbling a fair bit for another thirty, forty-five minutes. He said it was nothing.”

The man ripped open Ian’s shirt to bare his chest. Marley gasped at the sight of the scars etched into his flesh.

“Fucking stupid, principled bastard. He’s starving himself.”

“No, it must be something else. He’s been eating regularly. We had lunch before we left.”