The Hunt by Allison Brennan Page A

hurt him? Didn’t he see the truth? Didn’t he care?
    His fists clenched around his falcon journal, a sob of bitter anger escaped his throat. What did it matter?
    He leaned against the pinion closest to his post and closed his eyes, breathing in the rich pine fragrance, the sticky bittersweet sap, the undercurrent of moist earth, rotting leaves, decaying plants.
    He relived the hunt.
    His prey was good, but he was better. She ran, but he never lost sight of her.
    He watched her fall, heard the snap of her leg through the pounding rain, and decided at the last minute to use the knife.
    It was no fun to shoot fallen prey. What was the sport in that?
    It had been dark, near midnight, but her blue-white skin stood out against the blackness.
    He pulled back her wet hair with his left hand and brought the knife down without hesitation across her white throat. The warmth of her blood surprised him; he tasted it on his lips.
    He dropped her where she’d fallen and stood.
    The hunt was over, but the urge to find other prey clawed at him. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing throughout his body, as he remembered. The intoxicating power when he had her to himself. The feeling of victory that unfortunately diminished with each passing day until there was no choice but to hunt again. The thrill of the hunt was a brief high, and already he missed it. Longed for the power in his hands.
    But he had an important job to do. Here, with Theron and Aglaia and their eggs. Watching, waiting, writing.
    His birds needed him.
    Resist the urge.
     
    CHAPTER
    9
    Long before the sun rose over the mountains, Quinn woke, restless, his thoughts still trapped in dreams of Miranda.
    The pundits repeat the mantra: Time heals all wounds.
    It was a lie. Some wounds could never be fixed, especially when the wounded continued to peel the scabs.
    Miranda lived and breathed for the Butcher. For justice. She’d spent the last ten years in limbo, between heaven and hell, waiting. Waiting for the Butcher to make a mistake. Searching the woods for remains of his victims. As penance or punishment for surviving.
    Quinn had seen too many of his colleagues become so absorbed in a particularly difficult, agonizing case that everything else in their life suffered: their marriages often ended in divorce; they often neglected and lost friends. Seeking justice for the living and the dead could consume even the most emotionally stable professionals; with Miranda being a victim as well as an advocate, no one could be closer to the Butcher investigation.
    She was a time bomb ready to implode. How she’d survived this long without a nervous breakdown, he didn’t know.
    That wasn’t completely true, he thought as he dragged himself from bed. Miranda was indisputably the strongest woman he’d ever met. She’d withstood torture that would break most anyone, man or woman. She’d watched her best friend fall dead, shot in the back, and had the wherewithal to continue running. She’d taken investigators back to the body, led them to the shack where it all began.
    Quinn loved and admired Miranda for her inner core, a spine that was hard as steel.
    But what about Miranda’s needs? Who was watching out for her, making sure she didn’t push herself too far? Taking the time to pull her away from the depressing environment so she could regroup and regain her focus? He feared that unchecked, Miranda had become all-consumed by the investigation, sacrificing her personal happiness and inner peace for justice.
    Looking at his own career, he couldn’t completely fault her. He’d been an FBI agent for nearly seventeen years. The only time he took a vacation was when his boss insisted. Except for the two years he and Miranda were involved. Only then had he voluntarily taken time off.
    He stripped and stepped into the shower, turning on the faucet. The icy spray hit him hard before it warmed, but he needed the cold. When he had first learned what Miranda had gone through, he’d