I’m really excited about this one. It is from my good friend and critique partner, Tess Grant.
Kitty Irish has heard all the rumors swirling around Daniel Phinney. Most of them involve a gun, a flask, and a temper. One chance encounter with the WWII veteran over a grisly find in the woods pulls the cover off the dark secrets of their small town, and Kitty is drawn into an unlikely partnership.
Armed with an antique rifle and a handful of homemade silver bullets, the two form an efficient team. Unfortunately, their game is werewolf hunting, and disaster is only a bite away.
“So, the unselfish heroine role won’t work for you? I’ve got one better. How’s dead?”
Kitty shoved her chair back reflexively, heartbeat ramping up a few beats. Wary, she looked out the window, but no clouds hid the sun and the kitchen stayed bright and solid in its light.
He ran a hand through his white crew cut, rubbing at the fuzz on his head, then at his eyes, and his face softened with the movement. “I shouldn’t have said that. No sense scaring you. But you need to know the truth. You were out there with me in that glade.”
“So what?” Kitty started but Phinney cut her off, raising a finger in the air.
“I need you to get this one thing. They’ve marked you as a hunter, just by the fact that you were with me—whether it was accidental or not. Where you gonna go? It’s a small town.” His body pushed forward into the table, his face coming close. Dropping his finger to the table, he pushed it into the wood in a rhythm that matched his next words. “They know your smell, the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of your heart. Don’t you think they’re watching you?”
Kitty shoved her hands under her legs to keep them from shaking. The thought that something so elemental—so out of her conscious control—as breathing could mark her as a target rattled her.
Phinney stood up and sighed. “They don’t like hunters. They kill hunters,” he said as he walked to the sink. Putting his Mason jar into the basin, he put both hands on the counter. “I need a nap.”
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