Dark and Stormy Knights (P.N. Elrod) (Kitty Norville 0.80)

No one sat at any of the small tables or booths. As far as he could see, the place was deserted, but he knew better. He could feel how close the Beacon was—feel a throbbing in the air, as waves of sound too low for a normal person to hear emanated from the Beacon’s heart. The sound thudded against his ears, resonated inside his chest. He could tell by the slowly increasing cadence that he was running out of time.

“I didn’t think anyone was out in this mess,” came a soft, feminine voice through an open doorway behind the counter. “Be right with you.”

Ryder froze in place. The Beacon was a woman?

She hurried through the door, drying her hands with paper towels. Her soft brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. A white apron tied around her waist showed off slim curves. She had a wide smile and the sweetest, most angelic face he’d ever seen. He doubted she was even thirty years old.

Too young to die.

How could he pull the trigger and end her life?

How could he not?

Melted snow dripped from his hair and ran down his neck, leaving cold paths of frigid water in their wake. The gun in the holster under his arm burned his skin. His ears were clogged with the sound of his racing pulse.

Ryder stood there, dripping, and as she watched him, her smile began to fade.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” she asked.

His jaw clenched against the urge to answer her innocent questions. He couldn’t speak to her. If he did, it would only make his job that much harder. If he spoke to her, she’d be a real person.

Besides, what was there for him to say? Hi, I’m here to kill you. I’m sorry it has to end this way. If you don’t die, a monster will appear and all the people around you will be eaten.

No words would make this any easier, for either of them. Best just to get it done and get the hell away from here.

The woman stepped toward him. Ryder unzipped his leather jacket and reached for his gun.

“Did you get stuck in the storm? You’re soaking wet.” Sweet concern filled her voice, and it was all he could do not to turn around, walk out, and let her live the last few hours of her life in peace.

But what about the rest of this too-cute town? Didn’t its residents deserve to live?

The only way that was going to happen was if he put a bullet right between her pretty blue eyes. One woman’s life in trade for that of hundreds more. She was going to die tonight. There was nothing he could do to change that. It was his job to make sure she was the only one who had to die.

Ryder cursed his birthright for the millionth time.

“Have a seat,” she told him. “I’ll get you something hot to drink.” She hurried off before he could stop her.

Get a grip. He needed to stop thinking and just do this thing. Get it over with.

A deep sound of mourning rose up from his chest, despite his intent to remain silent. He tossed another pair of antacids in his mouth. He doubted they’d help, but it was something to do with his hands—something that didn’t involve pulling out his Glock.

The woman came back moments later, gripping a tall mug in her slender hands. “I made you hot cocoa. I hope you like it.” She set it on a nearby table and pulled out a chair for him. “You should sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Ryder took one step after another, hauling his dripping ass over to the table. He told himself that the shot would be easier to take if he was closer. It had nothing to do with the lure of her caring tone or the warmth of the drink she’d made for him.

He didn’t deserve warmth, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve her care.

He looked down at the chair she’d offered, then at the steaming mug. He couldn’t accept either. Not when he knew what he had to do to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to ask for her forgiveness, but he didn’t deserve that, either.

He pulled out his weapon and aimed it at her head.

Those pretty blue eyes widened, and her lips parted on a gasp of shock. She stepped back, lifting her hands. They trembled.

“I’ll give you whatever you want. There isn’t much cash, but it’s yours. Please, don’t do this,” she begged.

“I’m sorry,” Ryder repeated. What else could he say?