I called Uncle Jim. He didn’t answer.
The hunter’s car was fully stocked, not as well as ours – Nate’s now – but good enough for the battle I hoped to avoid. Reason had worked previously, but Nate’s eyes were covered by rage-colored wool. I’d seen him kill more calmly. He’s every monster’s nightmare.
So am I.
My palm itched, magic returning, pressing, eager. I resisted. If I used spell-craft against Nate, my penance would be a bullet. He’d take the head shot.
I parked before the bend in the drive and, heavily armed, crept forward.
No sound came from the house.