by Hannah Jayne
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“But I thought—”
“I don’t need your help,” I spat at Will. “Sampson, let him go.”
There was huffing and grunting as Sampson and Will untangled themselves from one another. I stood in the middle, pushing them apart.
“Sampson?” Will said, sandy eyebrows raised.
My heart, which was already doing a thunderous double-thump, dropped firmly into my knees.
“Isn’t Sampson your old boss?”
Sampson pierced me with a glare. His lips were set firm, nostrils flaring. “Sophie . . .”
“No, Sampson,” I said, grabbing him by the shirtfront. “This is Will. My Guardian.”
The two men evaluated each other much the same way cage fighters evaluate each other before going for the jugular. “He lives across the hall and enjoys the heady, albeit rare, scent of bacon. And Will, this is Mr. Sampson. You’re right; he used to be my boss at the UDA.”
“Didn’t he also used to be dead?”
“Theoretically.” I turned to Sampson, watching as uncertainty flitted across his face. I grabbed his shoulder and shook it lightly. “Don’t worry; Will’s a good guy.”
Will spread his legs slightly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His brows were drawn, his eyes laser focused on Sampson. “So is Sampson.”
There was a momentary retreat to corners until Sampson pulled out the plate that had been keeping warm in the microwave. “Bacon?”
We sat down with bacon as the universal peacemaker. As Sampson heaped the table with breakfast, Will jutted his chin toward me.
“What’s all this about?”
My hands immediately went to my hair and I shook out a leaf. In all the commotion I had forgotten about my blitz attack. “No biggie. Someone attacked me at the park.”
Will crossed to me and circled my body, examining, gently poking at my scratched skin. “Who attacked you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”
“The park is wide open, love. And last I checked the sun is working overtime. How did you not see him?”
“Blitz.” Sampson said. “Got her from behind.”
I pushed away from Will’s probing fingers. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not. Who do you think did this? Fallen angel?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest, winced at the starburst of pain in my ribs, then put my hands on my hips. “You’re asking me if it was a fallen angel? What am I paying you for?”
“With all due respect, love, you’re not paying me at all.”
I poked the donut in his hand. “Consider that payment. And no, I don’t think it was a fallen angel.”
Will quirked an unconvinced eyebrow and I groaned.
“Fallen angels don’t jump their prey at a dog park. They light stuff on fire, make you eat bugs, and accuse you of murder.”
Sampson raised his eyebrows.
“It’s been a challenging year,” I told him.
“But—”
I held up my hand, effectively silencing Will. “I know you’re concerned about my safety and I appreciate that. But you realize there are donuts to be had.”
Sampson handed me a donut. “Same old Sophie.”
It wasn’t that I wasn’t concerned about the dog park jumping. I was. But a little bit of tanbark up my nose quickly paled in comparison to everything else going on in my life. And also, there were donuts.
I was polishing off my second (third) donut and mowing down a heap of cheese-flecked scrambled eggs while Sampson gave the basic overview of his story to Will.
Will nodded, listening intently, and when Sampson finished, Will wiped his hands on a napkin. I stopped him before he could talk.
“So, Will, when Alex and I were at the crime scene, we saw a werewolf hunter.”
Will frowned. “You didn’t tell me there was a crime scene.”
I shrugged. “This is the first time I’ve seen you.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve seen me.”
I couldn’t tell if his sentence was an innocent statement, or a cheek-reddening reminder that I had, in fact, seen him—naked. I said nothing until Will rambled on.
“What kind of crime? Real blokes or some of your gobblygooks?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s offensive. And it was a double homicide.” I grabbed another piece of bacon and stuck it in my mouth, relishing the oozy, salty flavor. The fact that I could eat and talk homicide said volumes about how far I’d come in the investigative world—or in the culinary one.
Sampson pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the table, his eyes fixed on me, lips pressed in a hard thin line. “Her name is Feng. Her family—”
“Feng!” Will put in. “The bird who tried to strangle you. I’d almost forgotten. How is the old gal?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Did you have a nice chat?”
“No. She just kind of glared at Alex and me.”
Will’s shoulders flexed, the movement tiny, almost imperceptible. “You were with Alex?”
“Yeah, it was a crime scene.” I suddenly felt an odd surge of embarrassment. “Kind of his jurisdiction. If something was on fire, I would have called you.”
When Will wasn’t nicking free food from me or making my nipples stand at unfortunate attention, he was a San Francisco firefighter, red hat, rubber boots, and all.
“If Feng the werewolf hunter was around, isn’t it kind of your jurisdiction?”
“No.” I swung my head. “The crime was not supernatural. Although it was pretty gruesome. They did kind of toss out the killing could have been done by some sort of animal.”
I saw Sampson blanch slightly.
“Don’t worry,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. “I didn’t say a word about you to Alex.”
“Why’s that?” Will said, snaking a piece of toast. “Alex think one of your wolf guys is responsible?”
Now it was my turn to blanch. “No, of course not. It was probably . . . gangbangers. Anyway, he doesn’t know about you, Sampson, I promise.” I looked imploringly at him. “You have to know I didn’t say anything to anyone about you being here.”
Will cleared his throat, looked down at his plate.
“That was different. You barged in. You have no respect for privacy.” I glared at him.
“So why was Feng at the crime scene?” Will asked, bringing us right back to the crime scene.
“I don’t know.”
Sampson looked as though he was working very hard to keep himself under control. “Why did Alex think she was there?”
I shook my head slowly. “He didn’t say. I don’t think he thought anything about it. A lot of people were there.” Even as I babbled, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “There were a lot of people trying to see what happened. People always want to . . .”
Sampson stood up quickly, his fork clattering to his plate. “I have to get out of here. I knew it was a mistake to come back. I’m putting you in danger.”
“No!” I stood up, too, a shower of sprinkles and pink icing dropping from my lap. “No, you’re safe here. If I were in any danger, Feng would have taken me out right then and there. She was just hanging out. It had nothing to do with you—or with me. I’m sure of it.” I wagged my arms, physically trying to get my point across. “And the last time I met her she choked me, just like Will said.”
“She’s a charmer, that one.”
“If I was in any real danger, she would have killed me on the spot. But she didn’t.” My lack of death should have been a victory, but somehow, it didn’t quite feel like it. “And you’re safe, too. She left. She didn’t find you. She wasn’t looking for you.”
“She was at a crime scene.”
“Maybe she’s taken to hunting actual criminals now,” I offered hopefully.
Sampson sucked in a breath. “Do you know how werewolf hunters work, Sophie?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, my eyes going to Wil
l. “Feng gave us a little bit of the lowdown on our . . . visit.”
“She has a sister,” Sampson said.
Will grinned. “Right! Sailor Moon!”
“Xian,” Sampson corrected.
Feng’s twin sister—identical, except for their fashion choices—spent every moment she wasn’t tracking werewolves dressed up as a wide-eyed, short-skirted anime character, while Feng chose to dress like G.I. Jane.
“Xian is the tracker,” I said slowly.
“And if Feng was out there, Xian told her to be. Xian sensed something.”
“That’s perfect!” Relief washed over me in cool waves and I grinned. “Xian’s sensor is off then. Obviously! It was a regular crime scene. Double homicide, nothing special. Far from here.”
“What happened to the victims?”
My cool sense of relief left as easily as it came. “They were murdered.”
“Gunshot? Knife wounds? One of those eggy gang initiations?” Will asked.
“It was graphic. Lots of destruction. Looks like it was a team, if not a gang.” I focused on Sampson. “But there was nothing supernatural about it. There is no reason to think that Feng was there for any other reason than any of the other onlookers were there. She’s a looky-loo. Her business is slow. She said it herself.”
Will nodded agreeably. “She did say that she and the sis were rather good at their jobs. All but put themselves out of work.”
“That’s reassuring,” Sampson said. “Either way, it’s not safe here.” He began clearing plates. “I’m leaving as soon as I get this cleaned up.”
I crossed the living room and put my hand on Sampson’s forearm, taking the plates in my other hand. “No, you’re not. You’re safe here. You’ve got me and Vlad and Nina and Will. Will is right across the hall and he can fight. He can fight if Feng comes after us, or if anyone else does. And he has a car named Nigella.”
Will grinned, pride washing over him. “She’s a beauty.”
“See? You can finally stop running. Like I told you before, we’re going to help you. We’ll figure this out, Sampson.”
Will crinkled his nose, shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Actually, love, that’s what I came here to talk to you about.”
I sighed and did my best to shoot Really? Right now? daggers at Will. “I thought you came here because you smelled bacon.”
“Well, that was an added bonus. But I was hoping you could help me out. I’m leaving for London tomorrow morning.” He turned to Sampson. “Going to go visit Mum. She’s getting on and having some trouble moving around the flat.”
I felt myself gape. “You’re leaving? Now? And what do you want me to do? Fill in as my own Guardian while you’re gone?”
“With all due respect, love, you’ve spent a good deal of time telling me how lousy I am at my job and how much you don’t need me. I mean, you are a crack shot with a Glock, right?” Will smiled, and his humor stabbed at me. My cheeks must have gone beet red because Sampson looked momentarily alarmed.
“She shot a guy in the arse.”
Sampson smiled, looking impressed. “You’ve come a long way.”
I blew out a sigh that came out an audible groan. There had been a time, once, when I was afraid of guns. It pretty much extended from the first time I shot a gun (I cried) until . . . right now. Yes, I’d shot a guy in the butt. But I’d been aiming for his head. And it’d been a matter of life or death and the backfire had still terrified me and made me pee a little bit when it happened. But before that, in another life-or-death situation (you know? I really need a vacation), I’d aimed my gun, steadied it . . . and thrown it at the red-eyed creature that broke into my apartment. So sue me; I was terrified. But it was true, I’d come a long way since then.
Well, at least I was able to hold on to my gun.
And the ass thing? Lucky shot.
“So you’re coming over here to let me know you’re out?”
“No. I was coming over here to ask you if you could water my fern.”
“You have a fern? You don’t even have a couch and you have a fern?”
“She’s called Esther. And she likes to listen to the football game in the late afternoon. Helps her get all bushy and all.”
Sampson nodded as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
“Fine. I’ll water your fern.” I pointed to Sampson. “But that doesn’t mean you’re any less protected and that we’re not going to get out of this being-hunted situation.”
Will clapped a hand over his chest and cocked his head. “Oh, I feel honored that my leaving takes nothing from the situation.”
I smiled sweetly. “Your leaving will take nothing from this situation right now, so why don’t you get to it?”
Will turned to Sampson. “How do you feel about ferns?”
“That’s perfect. Sampson could stay at your place while you’re gone. Esther gets hydrated, Sampson gets a little breathing room.” I nodded at Will. “You are good for something.”
Will raised fawn-colored eyebrows. “She always been this feisty?”
Sampson nodded. “Pretty much. And thanks for letting me stay at your place.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and adopted a kick-ass stance. Will seemed to get the message because he left without saying anything and once again my insides roiled, tortured and confused.
Sampson glanced at me. “Nice fellow.”
I nodded, my teeth digging into my bottom lip. “Sure.”
Sampson paused for a beat, then held me with a serious look. “I’m not going to put you in danger, Sophie.”
“You mean—about Will?”
“About everything.”
“You keep saying that and I keep telling you: you’re not,” I said, putting my plate on top and taking the whole stack to the sink. I looked over my shoulder. “Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve been around. I can take care of myself pretty well now.” I itched the back of my calf with the toe of my shoe. “Totally.”
And it wasn’t a total lie.
In my last couple of years as sole breather in the underworld, Vessel of Souls, and undefeated holder of the Most Likely to Bleed and/or Get Socked by a Bad Guy title, I learned a few things. One being that when it came to taking care of myself beyond the basic eating/sleeping/breathing essentials, I really couldn’t be trusted. The other was if there was bad to be found, I would run headlong into it (metaphorically), waving my arms and screaming like a maniac so that said bad didn’t miss me. This wouldn’t be terrible if I were some kind of supernatural ass kicker or even just a butch chick with a penchant for black leather, weapons, and wanting to kill a man just to watch him die. I wasn’t, but after the last couple of ass-whoopings and blubber-fests, I decided it was about time I put my big-girl panties on and learn some technique.
I signed up for a Krav Maga class at the Fillmore Community Center. I hadn’t gone yet, but it was all about baby steps. I rented three self-defense DVDs from the San Francisco Library and Netflixed the entire first season of Alias, kicking and jabbing in the living room. And I had even talked Vlad into giving me the occasional vamp-approved hand-to-hand combat course.
I wasn’t a black belt yet, but I was totally inching above complete imbecile.
“I need to head off to work,” I said, sweeping a rag over the counter. “Do you have plans? Maybe we could meet for lunch?”
Sampson smiled and for the first time since he showed up, he looked like his old, relaxed self. “This isn’t a vacation, Sophie. I’ve got to talk to some people, see what I can find out about the contract, about Feng and Xian.”
“What contract?”
“There’s a contract out on my life.”
I felt myself gape. “So we’re not only dealing with Xian and Feng, we’ve got the mob after you, too?”
“The contract is Xian and Feng’s.”
I crumpled up my rag and tossed it in my to-be-washed mountain. “I think Xian and Feng were pretty much kill-at-will.”
&n
bsp; “They like people to believe that. But, technically, under UDA bylaws they have to be contracted or they’re considered rogue and enemies.”
I sat down hard. “Wait. You’re telling me UDA governs the Du family, too? What the hell?”
Sampson shrugged. “The Underworld is complicated.”
“Well yeah, obviously. But can’t the UDA just override Feng and Xian? Don’t you—or Dixon, or just the bylaws—override a stupid contract?”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it’s not that easy. I’m just one man and the contract only pertains to me, to my life.”
“This has to enrage other demons, Sampson. Someone can just contract someone else and your life is over? That’s a travesty. It’s absolute crap. It’s un-American. We should protest. Or sue.” I thought of the late-night attorneys on TV, urging people to join their class-action lawsuits against asbestos poisoning and “vaginal mesh slings”—whatever those were—and even though I wanted to do everything I could to save this man, to make things right—I had a hard time imagining the same crooked lawyers imploring demons to call out the people who tried to kill them. “Or something.”
Sampson was already shaking his head, but I rattled on. “Can we just ask them to stop? We can tear up the contract!” I imagined myself then, leather clad, because anytime I imagine myself doing kick-ass things like tearing paper, I’m clad in leather, haughtily tearing and crumbling, throwing teensy-tiny nullified contract crumbs up into the air. Then I’d drink a scotch. “What do you think?”
The look on Sampson’s face was one of those sweet, sad ones a father gives his elementary school daughter when she says she’s going to marry SpongeBob when she grows up. “I wish it were that easy. These contracts aren’t paper bound and they aren’t as simple as pen and ink.”
I’ve been in the Underworld a long time, and although the Detection Agency runs on what seems like thousand-year old Word documents, I’d yet to see any contract come through that wasn’t “paper bound” or “pen-and-ink.” I licked my lips. “Like, written in the stars? In blood? On big stone tablets? We can still get it, ruin it, jackhammer it if we have to.” I’d skirted enough hard-hatted workers to have a pretty good idea what jackhammering entailed, but that sweet, sympathetic look in Sampson’s brown eyes said that even power tools were out of the question for this.