by Hannah Jayne
I nodded, but unease thrummed through my body. I was comforted that Sampson referred to us; I wanted to do everything I could to help him. But as I looked at the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he worried his bottom lip, I wondered if everything I could do was going to be nearly enough.
Chapter Three
I’d thought it was a physiological impossibility for a good-looking man to snore.
And if it isn’t, it should be.
“Is he dying?” Nina wanted to know.
I gnawed on my bottom lip. “No, unfortunately not.”
Nina’s eye’s flashed, part shock, part careful consideration. “Sophie Lawson!”
I rubbed my temples and moaned softly. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t turn into a werewolf. Maybe he turns into a Boston terrier.”
We were standing in our living room, tiny slivers of yellow-grey San Francisco morning light-slash-fog poking in through the blinds. I was pajama clad and bed-headed, Nina was Audrey Hepburn chic complete with signature boat-necked black dress and broached chignon. All that was missing were the elbow-length gloves and one of those long, elegant cigarettes.
“What do we do about it?”
“It” was Sampson. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, indeed—his sandy brown hair was peppered with steely grey and it made him look distinguished, sexy. He had one of those incredible Roman noses and full lips that fell apart just a quarter inch in his slumber, letting out the most raucous, brain-shattering snores.
Maybe it was a paranormal thing.
He had a nice chiseled chest and well-muscled arms, but after three nights being serenaded by the nose symphony, I couldn’t see straight, let alone appreciate anything other than a man who slept in beautiful silence.
And Sampson was not that man.
Seriously, I was about to consider snuggling up with Vlad, if only for the blessed silence of a breathless vampire.
“I don’t think we can do anything about it, Neens. The man’s been on the run for over a year. He said he’s always had to look over his shoulder, to question his safety. This is the first time he’s felt safe since—since the incident.”
The night Pete Sampson went missing and I was nearly bled to death by a Snuggie-wearing maniac had become known as the night of “the incident.” It was easier to explain, and for me and Sampson to remember it, that way. For me it was simply traumatic, my first (and, unfortunately, not my last) run-in with someone who thought this world would be far better without me in it. For Sampson, it was the night his life had gone from simply complicated to in desperate danger.
As I looked over the peaceful, rhythmic rise and fall of Sampson’s chest, I couldn’t help but feel a glowing sense of pride. I hadn’t necessarily had anything to do with saving his life and had been a very good part of the reason Sir Snuggie almost ended his, but protecting him here on my couch seemed like the least I could do.
And then his mouth dropped open again, breathing in a rush of air that came out again, rattling our picture frames and my brain more than any of our native earthquakes ever did.
Nina looked at me, her perfect, coal-black eyes actually seeming to show a bit of purple-tinged exhaustion. “We have to find out who’s hunting him so we can get him out of here.”
I nodded. “ASAP.”
In the eight blessed seconds of Sampson-breathing-in silence, our front door opened, and Vlad poked his head in.
“It’s bad enough I have to smell him, now I have to hear him, too?” he growled.
I looked from Nina to Vlad; the family resemblance was undeniable now as both of them glared at me, fangs at the ready. I held up a hand, slight panic rushing through me.
“Okay. Nobody eats anyone. I’m going to take ChaCha for a walk and clear my head. Then I’ll get this sorted out and get Mr. Sampson on his way as soon as possible.”
Sampson, still dead to the world but as loud as a freight train, snored his agreement.
I clicked ChaCha’s leash around her tiny neck and stepped into the hallway. I was going to lock the door behind me, but I figured with a werewolf on the couch and a two silence-deprived vampires, our collection of Ikea furniture and Burger King china would be safe from looters.
“Whoa, love.” Will Sherman, standing in his open doorway across the hall, stepped back, the expression on his face one of sheer shock, quickly covered by something that was supposed to resemble—I guessed—nonchalance.
“What happened to you? Been out hunting the nutters and whatnot?”
Though I like to think I’m not one of those women who go all quivery-jelly around good-looking men or who feel the need to slap on pearls and lipstick to impress the hairier sex, I still felt my hand fly up to my bedhead nest of orange fuzz and my cheeks burn a little.
Will shook his head, clucking his tongue. “You look a sight.”
I tried to narrow my eyes, but lack of sleep disallowed their free movement. I wanted to look hard and angry, but that was impossible with my spastic pup, ChaCha, doing her love-starved dance at the end of her leash, throwing her entire eight pounds against Will’s calves, rolling over like the pet-slut she was to show off her rubbable dog belly.
Will grinned, leaned over, and scooped ChaCha into his arms.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to do any hunting without my Guardian in tow.” It wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but Will took it as such.
“Ah, a Guardian’s work . . .”
I shifted from foot to foot, still stupidly holding ChaCha’s pink, camouflage leash while Will nuzzled ChaCha, who threw her head back in ecstasy, little dog legs kicking at the air.
Will Sherman is my Guardian. And no, I’m not under eighteen—far from it. I’m also not a trust fund baby à la Athina Onassis or Paris Hilton (pre–sex tape/pantiless partying/jail time). I’m simply the Vessel of Souls and Will is, simply, my Guardian.
Yeah, I really thought I could get that one past you.
I didn’t always know—nor was I always, I guess—this otherworldly Vessel for all human souls as they cross from the human plane to the either angelic or other plane. It’s not like the souls are inside me—no, that’s actually more like a steady stomach of chocolate-marshmallow pinwheels and anything that ends with the phrase “on a stick.” And it’s not as though I could burp up the soul of say, Bea Arthur, at any moment. I prefer to think of myself as more of a gateway rather than a gag gift from some ancient congress of angels who thought it would be a real gas to hide the one thing that both the angelic and demonic plane want more than anything—me, the Vessel of Souls—in plain sight. Yeah, plain sight. Me.
So even if I wanted to describe myself as a rare, exotic beauty the likes of which you only see in storybooks or in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, I couldn’t, as I am supernaturally bound to be this “plain” thing.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself when I stare into the mirror and find that my has-a-mind-of-its-own red hair has decided to curl in its own circus clown fashion, whipping and swooping into my lime Jell-O-green eyes. Plain, yes. Regular? Not so much.
As I was saying, Will Sherman is my Guardian, bound by all things holy and un to throw himself in front of me in desperate, pointy situations, lest I fall into the wrong hands and get gutted, clubbed, or locked in a public restroom with nothing but hand soap as an escape method.
Yeah, he’s not great at his job.
I blinked at Will. “I’m having a hard time sleeping.”
“That explains why you’re up at a decent hour.”
“We’ve got a houseguest and he”—I considered my words, as a simple “snore” didn’t seem to capture the gravity of the situation—“rocks the city as a whole.”
Will cocked an eyebrow and stopped nuzzling ChaCha. She whined.
“He snores. Loudly. I can’t believe you can’t hear it from your place.”
Will grinned and looked over his shoulder, his hazel-flecked eyes going from sparkling and friendly to sensual and fierce.
“You cou
ld have always come across the hall. There’s room in my bed.”
I swallowed heavily and my stomach began a raucous flutter.
Any other woman would have swooned to get an offer like this from Will. He is nothing short of gorgeous with his always-mussed gold blond hair, hazel eyes that sparkled with bits of mischievous gold, and a body that was carved from a soccer god.
And then there was the accent.
Will is English and has that lilting, melodic voice that makes anything sound wildly intelligent and sexy. He uses words like “nappies” and “loo,” which I know mean diapers and bathroom, but when he says them, they tend to be nothing short of panty melting.
But I had already gotten myself into that situation once and due to the werewolf snoring on my couch, I was still in the midst of processing my tryst with Will, whether or not it had been a mistake made out of need or something more, and whether or not I had ruined everything with Alex Grace.
My body hummed with a nervous energy as Will’s eyes flashed over mine, almost daring me to respond.
I wanted to say something very Carrie Bradshaw, very kitten-with-a-whip.
“ChaCha needs to go to the potty.”
Hey, I’m the Vessel of Souls. I can’t expected to be a sexy linguist, too, right?
I took ChaCha downstairs and once her little legs hit the sidewalk, she beamed like only a dog can and pranced in front of me, wagging her tail and her tongue at everyone we met, peeing on everything static or everyone who moved slowly enough to allow her hindquarters adequate aim.
We walked over to Huntington Park, a luxurious little patch of green not far from our neighborhood where ChaCha could sniff until her little heart was content, and I could find a free park bench on which to lay down.
With lack of sleep, comes lack of shame.
I slipped the loop of her leash around my wrist and closed my eyes, letting the rare shard of sunlight wash over me, relishing the delightful feeling of warmth bathing over my shoulders, my cheeks.
In my uber-relaxed state I could hear the sharp barks of dogs overwhelmed at the abundance of new things to pee on and the steady hum of traffic as it ambled up California Street. I liked to imagine that I was lying on the beach and every whooshing Metro bus was a wave crashing against a coconut-scented white sand beach. In my imagination, I was wearing a tiny turquoise bikini and showing off the six-pack that currently lived somewhere underneath my hibernation flab. In actuality I was laying spread eagle on a park bench with my mouth partly open and my hand dangling in the grass. ChaCha must have seen the opportunity in my dozing because halfway through my fictitious daiquiri, she gave the leash a yank, slipping the loop off my wrist, then took off yipping and yapping across the lolling green hills of the park, her little dog eyes glued to the jaunty butt of a brindle terrier. The little jerk on my wrist sent me sputtering and coughing and sitting up, feeling lost, confused, and blinking into the sunlight.
“Oh, crap!” I saw ChaCha’s pink leash slithering through the grass and I launched myself off the bench, running after her. “ChaCha! ChaCha, stop!”
The little dog didn’t abide and seemed to just get faster, and within seconds she had zigzagged through a tight congregation of boxwood bushes, barking as though she were a Doberman or a wooly mammoth. I was sucking in my stomach, following her, getting angrier by the second.
“ChaCha! You better stop this right now or Mama is going to be—”
It was nothing overt. Call it a feeling, a whisper on the wind, but something rushed by me and made my blood run cold. I stopped short, my hackles up. I felt the hot prickle of someone’s laser gaze on me and gooseflesh bubbled on my arms. “ChaCha?”
I heard the crush of tanbark, the crinkle of leaves.
Low, ragged breath.
The air suddenly smelled salty with a weird mix of earth and sweat. I whirled all around me, seeing dogs running with wide, toothy dog-smiles, tongues wagging, their owners chanting, clapping. The noise of the park and the animals blurred into one solid cacophony and I couldn’t make out another sound.
The footsteps crushing the tanbark; the low breath—had I imagined them?
“ChaCha?” My heart slammed against my rib cage. My saliva went sour, my voice starting to quiver. “Come here, girl.”
I felt it before I heard it, and then I was on the ground. My forehead thunked against the tanbark, my teeth smacked together. All the breath left my body and I opened my mouth and sucked uselessly at the air, trying to get something into my failed lungs. My ribs screamed. My wrists ached. There was a burning swath across the back of my calves where something—or someone—had swept my legs out from under me.
I dug my palms into the tanbark, ignoring the bits of wood that embedded themselves into my skin. I tried to push myself up, but then I felt hands on my shoulders grabbing fistfuls of my shirt and yanking me up. I kicked uselessly at the air. I tried to squirm to see my attacker, but he must have seen me first because he dropped me, fast, another rib-crushing belly-flop to the earth. I heard his footsteps as he stumbled backward.
I knew I should move. I knew I should get up, should run, should find help. But everything ached and my whole body felt as if it was made of lead. I heard footsteps and everything tightened, waiting for another blow. But none came. The footsteps disappeared and the raucous crunching of leaves and twigs and tanbark was gone, replaced by a breezy silence, punctuated by the occasional dog bark, the occasional belch of a Muni bus.
“ChaCha,” I was finally able to croak, feeling the sting of tears at the edges of my eyes.
I pressed myself up onto my haunches and my little pup came barreling toward me, yipping as though someone had just released her. I curled her into my chest and stood, holding what little breath I had and listening to the silence. I felt at the bandage on my forehead, then glanced back at the tiny tears and splinters on my palms, an unabashed fear washing over me. First the Sutro Point murders and the person watching me there. Now I’m manhandled by—what? I looked around me, my stomach going sour. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what had knocked me down.
There was definitely something going on in San Francisco and as usual, I had succeeded in getting into the middle of it.
By the time ChaCha and I returned to my apartment, the luscious smell of coffee had permeated the whole third floor. I didn’t have the vampire sense of smell that Nina and Vlad had, but I was almost one-hundred percent sure I smelled donuts, too. The kind with sprinkles.
“Hey!” Sampson turned when I walked in the door and I had to grin. He was dressed in GQ pressed jeans with a dark wash, and a viciously starched button-down shirt. The thin red stripes of the shirt were kept clean by a frilly apron with kitschy cherries all over it that I had purchased in a fit of Donna Reed-dom (thankfully, that particular fit was fleeting).
I was grinning at Sampson, but his smile fell when he saw me.
“Sophie, what happened?” He rushed out of the kitchen, and I set ChaCha down and shrugged my shoulders.
“Dog fight?”
Sampson pulled a mammoth hunk of tanbark from my hair. “Someone attacked you.” He began untying his apron. “I knew this would happen. I knew my being here was a bad idea.”
“No!” I leapt forward, wincing, putting my hand on Sampson’s forearm. “This had nothing to do with you.”
Sampson’s face was hard. “I come to town, you get attacked, and it’s just a coincidence?”
I waved a scratched-up hand. “You wouldn’t believe how often I get attacked. This city is really going to hell.”
Or hell is coming to the city.
Sampson went hands on hips. “Who did this to you, Sophie?”
I unhooked ChaCha’s leash and hung it on the hook. “I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Sophie—”
“You said yourself that the people who were after you beheaded and slaughtered the people in Anchorage. I just got a little roughed up.” I forced a smile, not entirely sure how the words “beheaded” and “slaug
htered” fit into a pep talk. “Is that bacon?”
Sampson finally relented, shaking his head. “Yeah. Coffee, first of all,” he said, pouring me a cup, “then eggs, bacon and—”
“I thought I smelled—”
Sampson flopped the oven door open, exposing a grease-stained pink bakery box. “Donuts.”
I slid the box out of the oven and selected a donut. “You made these? Box and everything?” I asked with my mouth full.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
I turned at the sound of Will’s voice behind me. “Uh,” I started. “Uhhhhhh . . .”
Sampson brightened immediately, giving Will a curt nod. “I’m Joe. Sophie’s uncle.”
“Right,” I said, nodding spastically and oozing relief. “Joe is my uncle. Joe, this is my friend, Will.”
Sampson stuck out a hand, but Will hung back, studying Sampson and me. He stepped forward then and without moving his lips muttered, “If you’re here against your will, say spatula.”
“Spatula?” I didn’t have time to blink or to think about the fact that I had spat out what Will defined as a safety word because Will was on Sampson, and ChaCha darted from her dog bed, yapping at the rolling cacophony of elbows and arms. Will grabbed Sampson in a headlock and eggs went flying. ChaCha stopped her yapping to lap them up and I threw myself in the middle of Sampson and Will—groans, growls, and me screaming, “Wait, no! Stop! I didn’t mean spatula! I didn’t mean it!”
There was a throaty growl and then everything stopped: Will’s eyes were huge, his cheeks ruddy and carpet burned. His elbow was firmly clasped around Sampson’s throat and Sampson’s eyes were truly wild—a look I had never seen and that was all at once chilling and mesmerizing. White bubbles of spittle bubbled at the corner of Sampson’s mouth and a glistening sheen of sweat beaded on Will’s upper lip as Sampson’s arm clamped down hard around Will. I was kneeling on the floor, yanking on Will’s arm, palming Sampson’s forehead.