Free Before Dawn by Ann Bruce

it high up the center of Savage’s back while he fisted his other hand in short black hair. When he felt the other man’s muscles tense, Ryan lashed out his foot, aiming for the bleeding kneecap, drew back Savage’s head, and slammed it into the wall again. There was a crunch, like celery snapping, and he didn’t know if it was the knee or the nose. Maybe both. With his own knee, he struck near the small of Savage’s back, aiming for a kidney. Savage’s yells were muffled, and his back arched as he tried to throw his body away from the wall for either escape or maneuvering distance, but Ryan only twisted the captured wrist until something popped out of place.
     
    More muffled sounds of pain. Even then, Ryan didn’t let go. He’d seen the other man continue to fight while hurt worse. Besides, he had nothing to use to restrain Savage. He didn’t carry handcuffs like a cop because he destroyed the monsters he went after, not arrested them.
     
    Quickly, methodically, he divested the other man of his modified firearms, silver knives, wooden stakes, incendiary grenades, and the retractable silver garrote wire, of which Savage was particularly fond.
     
    Finished, Ryan applied pressure on the sprained wrist. Savage moaned.
     
    “He needs to be able to talk,” Vanessa said in his ear via the earpiece.
     
    “He can and he will,” Ryan promised grimly.
     
    * * * * *
     
    “How did she die?” Mercy forced herself to ask, dreading the answer but knowing she had to keep him talking to give her a chance to do something…anything.
     
    “They found our home, and those cowards put a stake through her heart while she slept.” His eyes closed and anguish crossed his boyish features. “I…escaped. When I returned, only ashes remained of ma belle Angélique.” His lips trembled. “Two hundred years, and every day I feel the pain as if it were only yesterday.”
     
    For a moment, she expected him to put the back of his hand to his forehead.
     
    “Two centuries?” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice and didn’t quite succeed. “You’ve been trying to bring her back for two centuries?”
     
    He stiffened, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I-I foolishly tried to…forget her.” Those ridiculously long sweeps of lashes lowered, but there was a spasm of emotion on his pale countenance. “But there are no others like her.”
     
    And how long had it taken him to reach that conclusion? How many women had there been before he realized the supply of psychopaths in the world was—thank, God—severely limited? And how had he auditioned the potential replacements?
     
    He spun around suddenly, his cape flaring. Seizing her chance, Mercy snatched up the stone knife and hid it between her hands. It was heavier than it looked and surprisingly smooth. She didn’t want to know if the smoothness was a result of passage of time or frequent use. Edmond spun around again, his cape flaring once more, and she wondered if he simply liked the theatrical flair of it.
     
    Edmond went to the urn, laid his hand upon it, caressed it like it was a lover. “I was wrong to think she could be replaced. I was wrong to think there could be another like her,” he murmured, his fingers stroking the urn, back and forth, back and forth, back—
     
    His hand stopped mid-stroke. A soft curse, then his head shot up, and he glared at her, his eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”
     
    Her hands twitched, clenching around the solid piece of stone until the sharp edges of it nearly broke her skin. She didn’t answer. How could she with her heart wedged in her throat?
     
    He came closer, reached for her, and Mercy acted. Stone knife clutched tightly between shaking hands, she slashed at his throat. She didn’t feel the sharp tip cut into flesh, but it must’ve because Edmond jumped back from her, his mouth gaping open, a hand pressed to his neck. Something gurgled, bubbled. Frozen with a sick kind of disbelief, Mercy stared as bright