The Fallen One (Sons of the Dark Mother, Book One) Read Online Free PDF Page B

wherever he went, as they had been
doing here all night since they’d first walked in, but he generally
ignored them. And he did so now.
    He was serious when it was called
for and funny when he was relaxed. He was anything but relaxed now.
He’d been her partner for more than five years now. But lately,
he’d become more and more irritated with her—witnessing her work
turn into an obsession with the back-alley slasher. He didn’t
understand it, and she’d never enlightened him. She knew if she
didn’t do so, and soon, he was going to ask for a different
partner.
    He was losing faith in
her.
    She looked up into his
midnight-blue eyes. She knew he was sweet on her. Just as they both
knew they could never allow that to go anywhere.
    “ Jared, I have been searching a
long time for this guy,” she started out, then scowled. Even she
knew she was off to a bad start.”
    “ Why?” His tone was harsh. He
wasn’t taking any half-truths, or half-baked stories.
    She’d waited too long to give him
something—to give him anything short of the truth. And he wasn’t
going to believe the truth.
    Who would?
    She glanced at the bartender. She
wanted another beer, but he didn’t look inclined to help her out.
She turned her head fully and glared back at him. He threw down his
towel and, hands on hips, met her glare for glare.
    She glanced back at Jared, who was
clearly watching—and waiting for an explanation.
    This wasn’t the place for
this.
    She glanced at the bartender, who
wasn’t bothering to look away at all now. Looking back at her
partner, she knew he wasn’t going to wait another minute to hear
something—anything—about what they were doing here, or why she’d
been so obsessed: more than usual, lately, and her usual was
obsessed enough.
    “ Okay,” she held up a hand of
surrender.
    He crossed his arms, leaning back
on his stool, not letting up for a second.
    She glared one more time at the
bartender, then stammered out, “You know the kid in the picture?”
She didn’t bother to explain which kid—or even which picture. He’d
caught her staring at the picture hundreds of times over the
years.
    He raised a brow. “The kid that
lived through some crazed back-alley slasher that day. You
mean that kid ?”
    Hmmm, it sounded as if her partner
had some suspicions of his own. “Yes. That kid.” She took a deep
breath. Well, she couldn’t hold back now. “He is the slasher ,” she blurted out.
    His brow shot up. It took a lot to
surprise him. But he clearly was waiting for the punch line. When
she gave him a purely serious look, a look of priceless surprise
crossed his eyes, and he first sputtered, then started laughing.
“You’re serious!”
    Her brows shot up, daring him to
continue laughing at her.
    He tried to school his features, to
rein in his laughter, but failed and laughed out loud. It was clear
that he was trying to picture a fourteen-year-old boy slashing
through one of Chicago’s most fearsome gangs.
    She glared at him.
    Finally, he sobered. He pinched in
his lips, trying to contain his amusement long enough to ask, “Why
on earth, Jes, would you, of all people, have bought into that
theory?” Then he sobered at his own words.
    He stared at her.
    She stared back.
    He shook his head. He knew
she wouldn’t believe this—not without a damn good reason. But what on
earth could that reason be? She watched him run the gambit, his
gaze finally settling on her when he came up empty for anything
that could possibly tell him how she’d drawn this outrageous
conclusion.
    And he knew—she would have some
kind of rationale for this—and a good one.
    But damned if he knew what it
was.
    When she saw that he was clearly
out of arguments—and better yet, clearly out of any explanations as
to why she’d just said something so crazy—she knew she now had his
full attention, and she began speaking very carefully, in a quiet
undertone, “He is a rogue member of an ancient race called the
Jaguar