Fair Game

train in the ribs.
    Ignoring the pain, he caught the horned lord’s leg, just above his hock, and his fangs severed the big tendon and the smaller muscle there. In a human this would be the Achilles tendon, and slicing it rendered the fae’s leg useless.
    Benedict tried to put his leg down and fell when it collapsed under him. Charles slid under the antlers and closed his teeth on the horned lord’s neck.
    Benedict was beaten. Helpless.
    He had raped Lizzie Beauclaire and doubtless dozens of others, probably killed as well. Brother Wolf thought he needed to be killed. Charles hesitated.
    A car pulled up in a squeal of brakes and rubber and Charles recognized the sound of the van Isaac was driving. The cavalry was here, the horned lord subdued. Killing him to save Anna was unnecessary.
    There was something wrong with Benedict’s ability to reason, possibly wrong enough to make him not responsible for his actions. Had he been born into a different family, maybe he wouldn’t have spent his adulthood killing people. He’d given up the fight, lying still beneath Charles and waiting for the final, killing strike just as deer or elk sometimes did. He was harmless. Imprisoned in bars of steel, he’d hurt no one.
    On the island, Charles had decided that he would no longer kill for political expediency, because it had put Anna in danger by interfering with his mate bond. Brother Wolf and he were in agreement: this was not a political kill. This one would have hurt their mate, had killed the wolves under their protection—and had hurt the brave little dancer. Brother Wolf knew what should happen to those who broke the laws: justice.
    Charles sank his teeth in deep and then gave a sharp jerk, popping the bones of Benedict’s neck apart. The fae spasmed briefly as life left and death entered, and then Charles’s prey was nothing but meat. It felt right and proper, and something inside him settled with the meting out of justice. This was what he was, the avenger for Benedict Heuter’s victims. This was his answer to the ghosts who had haunted him.
    Why had he killed them? Because it was just that they pay for the harm they had done. Warmth flooded his flesh as the cold fingers of the dead left. He was free of them—as they were free of him.
    Something warned him, instincts or the sound of a finger pulling a trigger, and he moved instantly. He heard a gun go off and something hit Benedict, almost where Charles had been a moment before. That was a second shot that had missed: someone was a lousy shot.
    Charles moved again, leaving the bulk of the horned lord’s body between him and the guns, before turning to see that both Travis and Les had guns out, impossible to see who had shot at him. But Travis’s gun was aimed at Anna.
    “This is the FBI. Drop your weapons,” Goldstein shouted from the open door next to the hole Charles had put in the wall. He and Leslie both had their guns drawn, too. There was no sign of Isaac or Beauclaire—Charles assumed they were rounding the building to see if they could enter from the back. “Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot.”
    “Don’t be hasty, Agent Goldstein,” said Travis. He had his gun in a steady two-handed grip. “This gun is loaded with silver. I shoot her in the head and she dies. I know that no one wants that.”
    Charles stood frozen, his breath still. He was too far away. It would take him three leaps to get to Travis—and that was two leaps too many.
    Les Heuter had raised his hands over his head—but he hadn’t let go of his gun.
    “Les Heuter, Travis Heuter, drop your weapons,” said Goldstein. “This is over.”
    No one moved.
    Charles growled.
    “Drop your weapons,” said Goldstein, and then he gave in to what must have been years of frustration and pushed it too hard. “You are done. We know who you are and you are going down. Make this easy on everyone.”
    “You drop your weapon,” Travis screamed. “You fucking drop yours. You are
nothing
. Nothing but the impotent tool of a liberal government too weak to serve its people and protect them from these freaks.” It sounded oddly like a memorized speech, like some of the phrases Charles Manson’s little harem had spouted. Maybe Travis Heuter had said it so often he didn’t have to think about it anymore. “You drop
your
weapon, or I’ll shoot her now and move on to you.”
    Goldstein and Leslie were focused on Travis. They missed Les, missed the odd expression on his face that changed from