Under Suspicion

by Hannah Jayne

  “Oh God,” I grumbled. It is happening again.

  I could still see Will’s shoes as he crept along the side of the Dumpster, but I felt so incredibly alone. A tongue of icy cold air dipped down the back of my coat. The tears started to fall, and I darted after Will, pushing myself in front of him.

  “Sophie!”

  “They want me, Will. They’re after me!” I turned to him; tears and snot were mingling at my chin, and my eyes blurred. “I can’t let you get hurt, too!”

  Will yanked hard on my arm and I flopped to the concrete, letting out an inelegant “oof!” as I hit the ground.

  “What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” I screamed as Will worked to still me.

  “Sophie, stop!”

  I finally stopped flailing and looked up at Will; he was straddling me, sitting gently on my hip bones. I sobbed miserably.

  “All my friends are going to die, and it’s all because of me. I’m going to give myself up. You can’t stop me. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m going to do it!”

  I was midway through my suicidal soliloquy when I realized that Will had climbed off me, tucked his gun back in his waistband, and was crouched down a few feet from me, studying the concrete.

  I pushed myself up. “What are you looking at?”

  “Shell casings,” he said without turning around. “Do you know what shell casings are made of?”

  I shrugged, thinking back to the single shooting lesson I had with Alex a year ago. “I don’t know. Brass, right? Aren’t they usually made of brass?”

  Will nodded and I crouched down next to him, following his gaze to the litter of shell casings gleaming on the wet concrete.

  “They’re usually brass or aluminum.” Will picked up one of the casings and held it up between thumb and forefinger so we could both examine it. “But look. These are made of silver.”

  “Silver?”

  “Silver bullets.”

  I felt my eyebrows go up. “Silver bullets? That’s either—”

  Will licked his lips and forced a small smile. “Skunky American beer.”

  “Or the only thing that could kill a werewolf.”

  We both looked out to the deserted street and noticed the lone silver bullet at the same time. It was lolling against the black concrete, winking in the night.

  Suddenly I was stone-cold sober. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  “My God, Will. Someone is hunting werewolves.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  In my imagination I am Sophie Lawson, Badass Investigator, Paranormal Specialist. I wear black leather, like a second skin; I wield a sexy, jeweled sword; I have the kind of hair that flies in gorgeous wisps over my naked, carved shoulders.

  In real life I was crouching behind a Dumpster, sputtering and making snot bubbles; my skin was pasty white and “I’ll hit the gym tomorrow” jiggly.

  “Someone’s hunting werewolves?” I finally bellowed; my voice was choked with tears and terror. “Does someone think I’m a werewolf?” I pointed to my own chest and then focused on my index finger. “Have I always had hair on my fingers? Oh, holy lord, I’m becoming a werewolf, and someone is trying to kill me!”

  Will grabbed my halfway-to-a-paw hand and pushed it to my side. “I don’t think anyone thinks you’re a werewolf, love.”

  I shook my head. “What’s going on, Will?”

  He gathered up the last of the silver bullet casings and slipped them in his pocket.

  “Are you okay?”

  I gave myself a mental pat down and a short scan for bullet holes. Other than a bladder that was suddenly, shamefully empty, I was unharmed. “I think I’m okay,” I said, my voice a cracked whisper. “Are you?”

  Will nodded coolly as though a shower of bullets was a common occurrence in his English life; then he helped me to stand.

  He brushed little bits of gravel from my shirt and frowned. “I think Bettina was right. Someone is definitely out to eradicate their kind.”

  My stomach quivered, gooseflesh breaking out all over my arms. “Oh my God.”

  “This guy might be after anyone mythical.”

  I licked my lips in a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. “So not VERM? Not just vampire defense.”

  Will shot me a noncommittal glance. “I’m not sure any of this is a coincidence anymore.”

  I slowly began to process what Will was suggesting—a serial killer of mythical creatures?—when I heard a gruff wince coming from the street. My whole body went hot again; the hair on the back of my neck pricked up. My legs trembled like Jell-O and I thanked God that my bladder was empty.

  “What was that?”

  Will pushed me behind him again and my inner Gloria Steinem was stomped out by my overwhelming girlie desire to climb up on his shoulders and bury my head in his neck.

  Will picked his way across the wet sidewalk to where the wincing was coming from; the collapsible iron gate that locked the storefront next door was gaping open, and there was a dark shape hulking inside.

  “Hello?” Will asked. “Sir, do you need help?”

  Though I trusted Will implicitly, a large part of me considered taking off, running—if only to get help for the downed stranger. To get help and possibly to crawl under a bed somewhere and scream bloody murder until everything was calm again.

  Instead, I stayed glued to Will, certain that my thundering heart would bash through my rib cage and kill us both.

  I could make out the shape of a large man lying on his side against the brick wall. He made a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, and I stiffened.

  “Is he hurt?”

  Will shrugged me off. “Sir, I’m an EMT and a fireman. I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m going to come in and check on you. Again, are you hurt?”

  “No,” came the gasping reply. “Don’t come in here. Just leave me alone.” A painful breath punctuated every word, and I narrowed my eyes, peering deeper into the shadows. I could make out the man’s rumpled coat; the hem dipped into a shard of streetlight and I noticed that the stitching was even and hand done, the luxurious gray silk lining exposed.

  “I think he’s a businessman,” I whispered to Will. “Ask him if he’s a businessman.”

  Will glared over his shoulder at me and took another step toward the man, who shifted and lurched. The man jumped out of the darkness and his face was thrust into the light, teeth bared, upper lip snarled. Though he remained crouched, I could see the guy was huge, with biceps the size of melons and a chest at least three feet across, smeared with blood. A vein bulged in the man’s neck, and his dark skin was stretched tight. His brown eyes were wild, and sweat stood out above his eyebrows and lips.

  “I don’t need any help,” the man snarled.

  “You need a doctor,” Will said. His full body was tensed and seemingly ready to pummel the man.

  “I don’t.” The man doubled over and crumbled before he could finish. I whipped around Will and knelt down, just a few inches from the man’s face.

  “Sophie!” Will yelled.

  I felt Will’s fingers brush past my shoulder as I put my hands on the man’s chest. His head railed against my palm and his breathing came in sharp, fast breaths.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “He doesn’t need an ambulance,” I told Will. “He needs to come home with us.”

  “What?”

  I looked into the man’s dark eyes, which were now hooded and weary. “He’s a werewolf.”

  The man started to shake his head and I steadied him. “It’s okay. I recognize you from the UDA, but I don’t remember your name.”

  “Sergio,” his dry lips whispered. “My name is Sergio.”

  Will’s eyes went wide. “Werewolf?”

  I had a hot, sinking feeling in my belly. On a daily basis I surround myself with immortals, angels, and the occasional fire-breathing dragon. From time to time, having that kind of posse tends to make me feel rather invincible, but coming face-to-face with
the kind of firepower that could take down a werewolf—let alone turn me into a runny hunk of Swiss cheese—had the uncanny ability to turn me into jelly.

  I blinked at the velvety bubble of black-red blood as it made its way out of Sergio’s wound. I felt hot bile rise in my throat. “I don’t feel so good.”

  I felt Sergio’s baseball mitt–sized paws holding my shoulder, guiding me softly to the concrete. Will pressed his palm to my forehead.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Sergio asked.

  I blinked and gulped down a lungful of stale, urine-scented air; then I gagged and coughed.

  “Yeah, she’s fine.”

  I tried to glare at Will, but I was feeling a little barfy. I swung my head out of the vestibule and sucked in some semiclean air.

  Will crouched down next to me. “So, do ... these guys ... bleed out like normal humans?”

  I looked back to where Sergio was holding his wound and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Then we need to stop the bleeding or we’re going to lose him.” Will gently pushed Sergio’s arm aside and Sergio let him. “Looks like he was shot in the chest.”

  Sergio shook his head again. “Shoulder. It’s the upper shoulder. Not a big deal.”

  “Let’s get him home.”

  We helped Sergio up and I was astonished to see that he was almost a full head taller than Will; but Will wielded Sergio as if he weighed nothing.

  I stared into the street, frowning. “Should we get a cab?”

  Sergio shook his head with concentrated effort. “My car is right over there.” He dug in his pocket and dropped a shiny set of keys in Will’s hand. “Do you mind?”

  Will shook his head silently, continued to guide Sergio and me toward the car. We helped Sergio lay down in the back of his SUV, then drove home in near silence. The only sounds were Sergio’s occasional groans and ragged whooshes of air. I glanced over at Will, noticing his own arm lying limp in his lap, covered with blood. He was slowly flexing and unflexing his fist.

  “You okay?” I wanted to know.

  I watched the muscle twitch in Will’s jaw. I saw the pink tip of his tongue slide across his lower lip. He leaned over to me.

  “What does it take to make a person ...” His eyes flicked from the windshield to his blood-covered forearm.

  “Into a werewolf?” I finished for him.

  Another whoosh of air from the backseat and Sergio pushed himself up. “Don’t worry, man. You’re fine. I didn’t nick you, did I?”

  My eyes went wide. “He didn’t nick you, did he?”

  Will wagged his head and I let out a tiny, relieved breath. “You’re fine,” I said. “It’s only a bite, a really significant scratch, or drinking from his footprint.”

  Will knitted his brows. “Drinking from a footprint?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”

  We rounded a corner and Sergio winced again; I angled myself over the back of my seat. “You’re going to be okay, Sergio. We’re almost back to my apartment.” I eyed the man and his well-tailored suit—that gorgeous coat now glistening with a growing sheen of wet blood. “Do you know what happened? Do you know who did this?”

  Sergio shook his big head. “I don’t really know. I was walking home from the office and I heard tires squeal. I didn’t really pay attention because, you know, downtown San Francisco.”

  We all nodded knowingly, used to the constant honks, tire squeals, and inarticulate shouting from the downtown residents and tourists.

  “Then I heard the first pop. Naturally, I ducked, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.”

  “Gangbangers?” I asked.

  “Something like that. I really try and keep to myself mostly. There are a lot of thugs out there, a lot of bad elements. I like to keep my business clean.”

  I socked Will on the shoulder. “See? I told you.”

  “Good guess,” he said without looking back at me.

  “I felt the first shot whiz by me, so I dove into that doorway. I wasn’t too worried because”—Sergio’s dark eyes glanced from Will to me—“well ...”

  “Werewolf,” I finished. “Yeah, we get it.”

  For the first time Sergio seemed to brighten. “You too?”

  “No”—I pointed to Will—“Vessel Guardian.” Then I jabbed a thumb at my chest. “Supernatural Tupperware.”

  Sergio grinned, his teeth practically glowing white in the dim car. “Vessel Guardian. You don’t say! I thought that was all just a bunch of religious mumbo jumbo.”

  Will stepped on the gas and easily maneuvered us through an intersection, finding a space just in front of my building. “You don’t say,” Will mumbled.

  “And Tupperware? What’s that like—”

  “Vessel of Souls,” I confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly.

  Sergio’s eyes went wide, and Will cut his eyes to me. “Way to keep that one under wraps.”

  Will put the car in park and we helped Sergio up to my apartment. He was groaning less and starting to stand up a little straighter by the time we reached the third floor. You gotta love that supernatural healing power.

  I sank the key into my lock and kicked the front door open. Vlad, seated on the couch, snapped his head toward us; his nostrils flared, and his brow furrowed.

  “Vlad, this is Sergio,” I said. “Sergio, take off your coat. Let me have a look at the wound.” I nodded to Will. “Go grab the emergency kit underneath the bathroom sink. And there’s extra Bactine in the medicine cabinet.”

  I would like to say that I kept a fully stocked emergency kit and a Costco-sized bottle of antiseptic just for Florence Nightingale situations like these, but, the truth was, I had a tendency to walk into things. Or fall off them. But I was still feeling very much like a lifesaving battlefront nurse, until Will returned with a heap of bandages and Bactine. I turned back to Sergio, who was now down to his white shirt, the blood soaking through to his collar and all the way down his breast pocket.

  There was a lot of blood.

  But I was used to blood in copious amounts—when it came from a blood bag and wasn’t attached to an actual bleeding person.

  That was the last thing I thought before the room started to spin... .

  I felt ice-cold fingers pressed to my cheeks. When I blinked, Nina was hovering over me. “She’s awake. She’s going to be okay.”

  “Are you sure she doesn’t have a concussion?” It was a gruff, unfamiliar voice and I struggled to sit up, but Nina held me down, fingertips pressed against my shoulders, surprisingly strong.

  “What’s your name?” Nina asked.

  “Let me up, Nina.”

  “Answer the question,” she commanded.

  “Sophie Annemarie Lawson. And you’re Nina LaShay.” I pointed. “That’s Will Sherman and ... I have no idea who you are.”

  “Sergio, remember?” Sergio grinned at me and I cocked my head, remembering. “Nice shirt,” I said finally.

  He had traded in his bloodstained button-up for a borrowed shirt from Vlad. It was three sizes too small, emphasized Sergio’s bubbly muscles, and the VERM logo was stretched unmercifully across his huge chest. Sergio smoothed it, grinned, and patted the two inches of exposed belly under the hem of the shirt. “It’s the best we could do.”

  “Whatever,” Vlad mumbled.

  I sat up and smiled at Sergio. “You’re okay.” I pointed to my own shoulder. “The gunshot?”

  Sergio blushed, his dark skin tinged a deep red. “Your Will is quite the nurse.”

  Will’s eyebrows disappeared in his bangs. “Hey! No, it must be the werewolf-healing thing.” He snapped his fingers. “Quick. I had nothing to do with it.”

  I stood up and brushed off my pants. “I’m glad. But I thought the silver bullet would, you know ...”

  Sergio wagged his head. “No, only through the heart.”

  “Oh,” I said, “like vampires. But with the stake.”

  “Not like vampires,” Vlad said, taking his seat behind his lapto
p.

  Will leaned in to me. “They’re not going to start the whole werewolf-vampire arm wrestling thing, are they?”

  I looked from Sergio to Vlad, narrowing my eyes on the scowling century-old sixteen-year-old. “No, they’re not. Besides, the whole vampire versus werewolf thing has mainly been fabricated by the media.”

  “That sounds very VERM.”

  “We DON’T shorten it!” Vlad groaned.

  Sergio clapped his hands together. “So, now that this is all sorted out, I should probably be on my way.”

  I grabbed him by his ham-hock bicep. “You can’t go. You’ve just been shot. You need to relax and we need to figure out what’s going on. Your shoulder might be healed, but you’re probably still a little weak, right?”

  Sergio frowned and rubbed his flat belly. “A little, I guess.”

  “Can I get you something? Crackers or something?”

  “No, thanks.” Sergio wagged his head. “Do you have anything with protein?”

  “Oh,” I said, “because you’re a werewolf.”

  “Actually, it’s because I’m gluten intolerant.”

  Will followed me into the kitchen while I pulled open the fridge, willing a turkey breast and a hunk of Brie to magically appear. My powers of astroprojection being nil, I was greeted with the usual selection of blood bags, condiments, and a carton of vanilla soy milk.

  I shook the carton, then upended it in a glass.

  Will winced. “Is it supposed to be chunky?”

  I tossed the carton in the trash. “Do you think I could pass it off as chocolate chip?” I blew out a sigh. “Hey, Sergio, what do you like on your pizza?”

  We were all sitting around the dining-room table—Vlad, glowering at Sergio; Sergio, oblivious, enjoying his fourth piece of Veggie Madness on a gluten-free crust; Nina, working a bag of AB negative and typing away on my Mac; and Will and I trading uneasy glances between a half-decimated all-meat, extra-cheese pizza.

  I wiped my grease-soaked fingers on my napkin and pushed away from the table. “Okay! So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”