“Ya gonna shoot us, are ya, gel?” the hulking figure taunted, raising his pistol. “Well, next time—”

The stinging fire of rage coursed through Val’s veins, and he fired.

The report of his pistol thundered in the quiet, cutting off the remainder of that threat.

The man wailed as the bullet struck his palm, and he dropped his weapon and sank to the floor, howling and holding his injured hand close.

His partner came charging for Val.

Dropping his now useless gun, Val rushed forward. A flash of metal caught his eye.

The smaller thief jerked in his tracks, his bulging eyes stunned, and then they rolled to the top of his head and he crumpled to the floor.

Momentarily stunned, Val stood motionless and stared with shocked eyes at Myrtle.

Myrtle, who remained equally frozen with the fireplace poker raised above her head, that metal weapon she’d brought down on the smaller thief’s head.

His partner commenced a different howling. “Ya killed him.” He stood. “Now, Oi’m gonna kill ya, ya—”

That warning faded to a whimper as Myrtle clubbed him. He dropped to his knees and then pitched forward.

“I was going to say a pistol isn’t such a good idea,” she said, conversing as casually over the two men she’d succeeded in felling as she might across a dining table. “They are wholly unreliable, and noisy, and you have only one shot. As such, the poker”—she brought that article in question up, brandishing her weapon of choice—“is a far preferable option when confronting—”

Val had her in his arms in an instant, crushing her to him, holding her slender body close to his, squeezing her tightly to assure himself that she was unharmed. That she was still here.

Myrtle angled her head back, but this time made no attempt to slip from his arms. “I am fine, Val,” she said softly. “Truly.”

Truly.

And she was.

This time.

“Did I?” she asked, her voice hesitant, and he drew back slightly but still kept his hold upon her. He ran his hands over her arms, needing to verify for himself that she was unharmed.

“Did you what?” he asked distractedly as he made his search.

“Kill them?” She bit her lower lip. “B-because that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t want to kill them,” she said on a rush. “Even if they did want to hurt me. I don’t even like to hunt or fish. Well, I do like to fish,” she rambled in her adorable way. “But I always release them after I catch them . . . unless it is for a meal. Then I apologize and explain to them that I have to eat as much as they do, and”—her fear-filled eyes went to the men sprawled facedown on the floor—“I decidedly did not want to eat them or hurt them.”