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The lone Hunter raced through the streets. The supernatural horse galloped at speeds no mortal horse could even hope to achieve. It was a Fey horse, stronger, smarter, better endurance. And it could take turns with almost ninety-degree precision at sixty miles per hour.
Silas struggled to catch up. The straightaways got him close, but every turn slowed him down as he slid into each one, barely making them. Luckily the streets were as empty as they get in New York, which meant both he and the Hunter had to make their way around the occasional bus and line of stopped cars, but no real traffic jams.
Michael was draped over the seat in front of the rider. He appeared to be unconscious. Silas didn't doubt that was the work of the Hunter holding the boy; he knew Michael well enough
