Eleri felt it—the pure joy of winning. Her fists plowed into the beast’s face again and again. She knew how to throw a punch; she’d been trained by the best. This man, who’d been trying to kill her and people she cared about, was now laid out against the stairs.
He was paying with every hit. He paid for Allison. He paid for the attacks on Hannah. And Jason. And herself.
Though he'd initially fought back and tried to push her off—both physically and with whatever force he wielded—the assassin had failed. Eleri was stronger. He had an assignment, but she had rage. For a moment, she had felt the same reflected back from him.
In the beginning, maybe he’d thought of her merely as a job. Now that she had refused to be killed easily, now that she was fighting back, he was mad, too. She could feel all of it. Suddenly, it was no longer about completing the task; Eleri had turned his work into survival.
And she was winning.
She had no knives, only her fists and her forces. But she’d damaged most of his face to the point where it was now difficult for him to breathe or think. She aimed for the rib cage, making it hard for him to gulp air, let alone inhale properly. Now that he was starting to go limp, she reached for his throat. She didn't even do it with her bare hands—that would be too crass.
Straddling his limp form, she pulled her cupped hands in front of her, making the squeezing motion almost a full foot away from his actual throat. It was satisfying to watch the bruises form on his neck as she clamped down on his airway, tighter and tighter.
It took longer to strangle someone than most people thought. On TV and in movies, the attacker pressed in for a few moments, the victim struggled briefly and then went limp. But in reality, it took much longer, sometimes five or six minutes. Fighting had brought on an adrenaline high that made it seem to drag on even longer.
She felt his movement, even though she wasn't touching him as he began to struggle underneath the onslaught. His conscious brain might have lied when he was getting punched. It might have told him that he could take the hits now and rally later. But now his oxygen was disappearing. This wasn't damage, it was death. And he was beginning to fight back.
With a roar, she let go of one hand, even knowing that he would suck in air as soon as she released him. Using her change in position and his attempt to rush her, Eleri slammed him backward again into the steps. She could almost hear his skull crack against the edge. Then she calmly resumed her grip on his throat.
Three. Two. . . she counted down until it was over.
She had almost won this damn fight. While she almost smiled to herself, she missed his move.
His hands pushed between hers, muscular arms shooting his fists upward, breaking her grasp in a classic escape move. Even though her hands weren't literally around his throat, the move worked. With her hands thrown wide and his ability to suck in air restored, he punched the heels of his hands at her shoulders—though whether he did this with his hands or his powers, she didn't quite know. Either way, she was tumbling backwards down the steps again.
With a scream and a motion to duck her head beneath her arms, she did the best she could to protect her body from the sharp stone edges. Although worn from centuries of feet from armies and tourists, the steps were still hard and painful, each hit radiating through her bones.
For a moment, she could see them all—the others who had died here, the ones she was about to join. But once again, Eleri felt something burst up from the center of herself. With a primal scream, she rolled over, knowing where and how to plant her feet to stop her downward roll. She pounded the side of her fist into the stone several steps above where her feet had landed and lifted her head. She was ready to lunge back into the job that had suddenly become a fight again.
As her eyes opened to everything around her, her brain registered details. Donovan had taken bites and had been stabbed more than once. Noah was injured as well. GJ was shooting at the wolves up on the landing. But Eleri. . . Eleri had the assassin to herself.
When she looked up at him, she saw he was only focused on her.
He was wearing shorts and a T shirt—much like her, apparently trying to blend in with the tourists, all of whom had fled the staircase. Now he swaggered down the steps as best he could, bruised and bloody. She smiled to herself. Surely more would bloom if he lived.
He wouldn't live.
Eleri would make sure of it.
He walked toward her more confidently and easily than he should have been able to, striding downward almost as though he had no other cares in the world.
How could he be so calm?
His sheer disregard for everything he had done, and everything he was still trying to do, only made Eleri angrier. Now she was struck for the first time with a reality she'd been pushing aside since the first news of this case had come.
Allison was dead. Her old friend would never return. Never swim again. Never send another picture or letter about where she and Hannah had popped up. Most recently, Allison had been doing good work. She'd seen a threat and faced it, unafraid—and she paid the ultimate price for it. Hannah, who had loved Allison unflinchingly for years, was now facing the remainder of her life without her partner.
To top it off, this asshole was trying to kill Donovan and GJ.
He was two steps away when she found her center. With a scream and a strength that she didn't know she possessed, she punched right through the center of his rib cage.