Demon Huntress

Overwhelming rage pummeled her like the fists of foster parents from so long ago. The knife he'd used to cut off her scrubs lay on the floor, and she picked it up, tested the edge with one finger. Hellboy watched her warily, but if he was frightened, it didn't show.

She suddenly wanted him to be afraid, to hurt as much as she did. But she also knew that what she wanted wasn't possible. She could skin him alive and he wouldn't feel the pain she felt on a daily basis. Still, she put the blade to the pulse at the base of his throat.

"I knew the nature of demons long before I became a Hunter." Her gravelly voice cut out. She had to swallow several times before she could continue, but not before putting more pressure on the knife, until a drop of his blood welled at the tip. He didn't even flinch.

"When I was sixteen, I watched a demon torture my mom for hours before he killed her. After that, I lived on the streets and fought them when they would have taken me as a meal. Or worse, because I happen to know there is worse. So don't you dare tell me I know nothing about evil, you sonofabitch."

"You think you're the only one who's experienced loss at the hands of the enemy? Have you heard of a pub called Brimstone? Yes, I can see you have. Two years ago, Berus hunter slaughtered everyone there, including the brother I told you about, Hong, who had done nothing to deserve death. You haven't cornered the market on pain, Hunter."

Brimstone. Two years ago. A cold sweat broke out on her skin. She'd been there. She remembered going in through the rear of the secret lair, remembered how the place had reeked of smoke and worse, a coppery, rotten stench like decaying blood. Demons had been drinking, fighting, gambling. In the center of the room, several demons had been involved in an orgy while others placed bets. On what, she'd had no idea.

The Hunter had swarmed over the demons like mosquitoes, drawing blood. The entire cell had been there, and not one demon had escaped. Especially not after they set fire to the place.

Shu lan could have been his brother's killer.

Mickey scampered off his belly and out of the room, and Ming jie put his hand over hers, not threateningly. "You say I'm wrong about you. If I am, then can't you accept that you might be wrong about me?" His voice was surprisingly calm, given that she could kill him with a flick of her wrist. Given that she'd hit him over the head, tied him to the bed, and probably slaughtered his brother.

"If I'm wrong about you, then everything I've lived for . . ." Was a lie. She shook her head, because the beasts she'd killed over the years had been just that. Beasts with no redeeming qualities. And yet, she couldn't get the image of Ming jie caring for the dying nurse out of her head. "I'm not wrong."

Holding her gaze, he tilted his head, exposing his throat, making blood drip down the smooth skin there.

"Then you have to kill me."

Just three days ago she'd have believed that. Three days ago, if not for the orders to send him packing with a tracking device on his pager, she'd have put him down where he lay. But he'd saved her life. He'd healed his brother and shown mercy to the nurse. Her long-held beliefs had been challenged, and now her resolve wobbled. She tried to pretend she didn't feel relief at the fact that she didn't have to kill him. That would be some other Hunter's job.

"You didn't let me die," she said, pulling the knife away and tamping down the d.e.s.i.r.e to find him a bandage, "so I won't kill you today."

"How generous." He tugged at the chains holding him down. "Are we done with these now? Or are you going to pay me back for keeping you in the hospital?"

"I should. You destroyed my bed."

"I could think of more ways to destroy it."

She huffed. "Demons."

He winked, and she wheeled away, refusing to be charmed. She retrieved the key to the cuffs from where she'd hidden it beneath the music box—the only gift besides the ring her mother had ever given her. Sweat popped out on the bridge of her nose in an ominous warning, instantly followed by a wave of dizziness. Ming jie's face blurred.

"Shu lan?"

"I'm fine." She stepped toward the bed, but her right leg went rubbery and her arms turned into lead weights. Oh, yeah, she was going down.

Swaying, she sat on the floor before she fell. She was getting so tired of this.

"Shu lan, what's wrong? Look at me." He jerked on his chains with such force that the rattle of metal echoed off the inside of her skull. "Look at me, dammit," he said, the commanding tone in his voice irritating but effective, because she swiveled her head in his direction.

"Shut up," she g.r.o.a.n.e.d.

"Your eyes aren't tracking. You're pale."