He laughed, a dry hollow sound. Like a hellhound could ever be called anything but mad, soulless, according to his owner.

Thoughts of Lusse caused his jaw to tense, brought him back to his purpose. Enough. Get on with it.

Adjusting his dark glasses down his nose until he could peer over their tops, he studied the room. Grizzled men and timeworn women filled battered tables around him. Not sparing them more than a glance, his gaze shifted to the back, where the shadows grew deeper. Instinctively, he knew that was where he would find her.

She might think the gloom would disguise her, but it offered no protection from hell’s hunters. With a sigh, he continued his scrutiny.

The booths were empty — save one. Huddled in the cubby farthest from the door was a small lone figure. His prey. Even with Lusse’s vague description he couldn’t miss her. Young, pretty and fresh. She stood out in the place like an angel dropped into a pit filled with vipers.

Leaning against the rough paneling on the wall behind him, he took a moment to study her. Petite, probably only 110 pounds, and with dark hair that fell past her shoulders, she seemed lost in thought. Her hand hovered over a shot glass of amber liquid and a crumpled paper was smoothed out on the table in front of her.

Now that he had her located, he focused on her fully. Fear. The strength of it caught him off guard. Placing his hand on the unfinished wood, he inhaled, nostrils flaring. How did one so small contain so much emotion? Willing himself to stay controlled, he turned to her again. Yes, fear, but there was sorrow, too, and…She plucked the shot glass off the table with her finger and thumb, and tossed the liquid to the back of her throat…Determination.