The Sinner

The sound of her voice went through him as if she had touched him with a tender hand, the simple word rebounding inside his skin and changing his internal temperature—though he would have been hard-pressed to say whether she was cooling his temper, or heating his lust. Actually, it was both.

Syn walked up to her, his eyes locked with her own, some internal warning system telling him to move slowly and try to look smaller than he actually was. He didn’t want to spook her, but not because of that nine millimeter she had in her hands. He didn’t want to frighten her because, for once in his violent life, he did not want to be who he actually was.

This stranger with the parted lips and the wide eyes made him want to be different. Better. Improved from the base beast that he had been since his transition.

“I’ll shoot,” she said.

He closed his eyes briefly as the syllables she spoke went into him. And then he felt compelled to respond. “Lower.”

When his lids reopened, he was standing right before her, his body having made its own decision about where it wanted to be.

“What?” she breathed.

Syn reached out and took the trembling end of the muzzle, putting it in a better position for her. “Not the head. The chest. You want to aim here. It’s a bigger target and the heart is where you can do the most effective damage.”

With her gun properly set, he took a step back. “There. Now you can kill me properly.”

As he waited with patience for her to pull the trigger, there was such great peace in his capitulation that he was only vaguely aware of a gathering noise above him, some kind of rhythmic thumping sound.

It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

He was hers to command, and if she wished to take his life here and now, he would willingly give his mortal coil unto her. No matter how much it hurt or what his suffering was, it would be a good death, one he had long deserved.

Because this female, who captivated his black soul as surely as if she held his beating heart in her palm, would be the one killing him.

 

* * *

 

On Jo’s list of things to do for the night, shooting another human being was not in the top five. The top ten. It wasn’t even on her list.

Especially not one that smelled like this. Jesus, what was that cologne of his? It was nothing she had ever run across before. Then again, the same could be said for the man himself. He was enormous, positively gargantuan, and the black leather he was wearing did absolutely nothing to make him seem smaller and less imposing. With a tremendous shoulder span and thick arms, his lower body was likewise developed, heavy thighs holding him upright, big boots covering his feet.

But his face was what really got her attention. It was lean, the hollows under his high cheekbones giving him an austere look, the intelligent eyes sunken in deep, the jaw hard cut and unforgiving—as if he was into punishment over reformation. His hair was mostly shaved, nothing but a three-inch-high Mohawk picket-fence’ing his skull from front to back, and there were no tattoos showing. She was willing to bet he had them under his clothes.

Or maybe he was just acres of smooth skin over all that hard muscle—

Stop that right now, she thought.

Bottom line, the fact that he seemed unconcerned with the gun she was pointing at him made sense. By sheer presence alone, he could have turned a bazooka into a BB gun.

“Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m going to shoot.”

“So shoot.”

Neither of them moved. Even as the rest of the city continued on, its felonies and misdemeanors proceeding apace, its night traffic of deliveries still streaming on the bridges and stop-and-go’ing on streets, its people living and breathing in whatever crammed square footage they rented, between Jo and the big man with the Mohawk, all was still, some kind of fulcrum created between them, around which the world tilted and whirled.

“I’m serious,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

His big hands went to his biker jacket and he pulled the two halves apart, revealing a vicious pair of steel daggers strapped, handles down, to his broad chest. Then, in a gesture that made no sense at all—not that any of this was in contention for the Yes-this-is-actually-happening Prize—he let his head fall back on his neck, the muscles that rode up the sides of his throat popping out in sharp relief, the jut of his chin the summit to the mountain of his towering body.

It was as if he were submitting himself to her totally.

Giving himself over.

To her—

Up in the sky, the police helicopter made a circle and came in their direction, its icy-bright light skimming down the alley, illuminating the colon created by the buildings that were squeezed in tightly side by side and across from each other. The beam hit the man in his pose of inexplicable supplication, bathing him in what appeared to be, for a brief moment, a sanctification from heaven, as if he were an altar painting of a saint about to be sacrificed for the good of humanity.

Jo knew she would remember the way he looked for the rest of her life—

With a quick jerk, he snapped to attention, focusing on something down at the far end of the alley.

From overhead, a voice piped through a loudspeaker announced, “Drop your gun. Police units have surrounded the area. Drop your weapon.”

Jo looked up at the helicopter in surprise. Were they talking to her—

“We have to go,” the man in leather barked. “Now.”

She heard what he said, but she was not going to run from the police. She just needed to explain to the nice guys with the badges and the landing gear that she wasn’t actually going to shoot this man in front of her. She just wanted to scare him off—

Said man in said leather put his face into hers. Which meant her gun’s muzzle was now pressed directly against his sternum.

“You have to come with me.” He looked down the alley again. “Or you’re going to die—”

“The police are not going to—”

“It’s not the police I’m worried about.”

As the copter made a tight swoop, the down draft from its rotor blades created a gust that nearly blew her off her feet—and that was when Jo smelled the stench again. That baby powder and roadkill smell.

The man grabbed her arm. “You’ve got to come with me. You’re in danger.”

“Who are you?”

“There’s no time.” He looked to the left one last time. “Keep your gun out. You may need to use it.”

With that, he took off—and took her with him. Her legs had no choice but to start running. It was that or she was going to get dragged. And when he took a sharp turn, she lost her stride, her feet tripping. His hold on her forearm was the only thing that kept her up and she recovered as best she could.

In the back of her mind, she knew this was all wrong. She was fleeing the police with the very man she had pulled a gun on.

Talk about out of the fire and into the frying pan.

Or shit… something like that.

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 



Butch closed in on the slayer in front of him, the distance between their churning bodies tightening up as sure as if they were beads on a string. The lesser seemed to be tiring, and this, like that heart in that bucket at the abandoned outlets, was a news flash. The fuckers usually had Energizer Bunny endurance in their favor and just kept going, and going, and going.