Under the Gun

by Hannah Jayne

  “Ooh, my favorite kind. If I have to be cooped up in this hell hole, at least I can give fashion advice to make your world more beautiful.”

  “Color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis.”

  I could practically hear the horror etching into Nina’s face across the phone line. “What did you say to me?” Nina whispered.

  “You heard me. A color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis. And he’s got one of those Jordan Knight bubbly bouffants.”

  “Does he have an earring?”

  I chanced a glance around the palm and narrowed my eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Ah, just as I suspected. He’s new.”

  “New?”

  “Old.”

  “Old?”

  “Stop repeating everything I say. He’s dead, Soph, dead. No one steps out in rayon, Z. Cavariccis, and a single stud. It’s the dead man’s triumvirate. He’s newly made, newly out, and he’s probably on the prowl.”

  I rolled up on my tiptoes when a waiter blocked my view. Ninety-six laced his long, thin fingers through Fashion Forward’s and she gazed into his eyes, batting her thick, over-mascarraed lashes. The adoration oozed off her.

  “His nails are probably all broken from digging out of the coffin—check for dirt, too.”

  I squinted, and although I could see the shape of their linked fingers, I wasn’t close enough to see the telltale graveyard dirt or broken nails.

  “I can’t tell if his hands are dirty. What else you got?”

  “Well, once awakened, he’d be thirsty. Confused, but mostly thirsty. He’d be looking for easy prey.”

  I bit my thumbnail. “Would he take his prey to dinner?”

  “No, he would eat his prey for dinner. What’s going on out there?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Thanks for the tips.” I clicked my phone shut and arced around the potted palm, then nonchalantly brushed Ninety-six’s outstretched arm as I went back to my table.

  “Everything okay?” Alex asked, his plate of pasta half empty.

  “He’s warm.”

  Alex quirked an eyebrow. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but seriously? Your lasagna’s a he?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not my pasta. Ninety-six.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  I scooted my chair closer to Alex’s and dropped my voice. “If a guy walks out dressed like that”—I angled my brows—“then he likely doesn’t know how far behind he is. You know, fashionably.”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “God, Alex, do I have to spell everything out for you?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “He’s dead. At least I thought he was.”

  “But he’s warm, so horror of all horrors, he’s a live guy in twenty-year-old fashion? That never happens.” He popped another bite of penne into his mouth.

  I cut into my lasagna and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t buy it. In this town?”

  Alex put down his fork and knife. “Now that’s one thing I truly love about you, Lawson.” He blinked at me, his eyes catching the sparkle of the twinkle lights strung in the trees, his loose curls lazily licking the tops of his ears. I knew I was supposed to be flummoxed and mercurial and angered about his and my recent string of romantic follies, but when his voice dropped into that spun-sugar sweetness and the cornflower blue of his eyes pulled me in, I was a kitten, purring. The sexy softness of his voice dripped through me and I put down my own knife and fork, knitted my hands in my lap, and waited.

  “What do you love about me, Alex?” I drew out my words, each one hanging on the soft night air.

  “I love that if there’s a seemingly simple solution to an issue, say, a gentleman preps for a date by pulling out his best date duds—”

  “Circa twenty years ago.”

  “Circa twenty years ago, he can’t possibly just be a victim of fashion circumstance. He has to be newly risen from the dead.”

  I smiled sweetly. “The simplest solution is often the best solution.”

  “And rising from the dead is simple for you, eh?”

  I picked up my wineglass and leaned back in my chair. “I call ’em as I see ’em. Hey, where’d he go?”

  “Looks like his date didn’t mind his fashion flaws as much as you did. They’re leaving.”

  “We should follow them.”

  Alex blew out an exasperated sigh but threw down a few bills anyway. “Fine.”

  I reached for his arm, but when I turned around, I was eye-to-glassy-eye with a pub crawl zombie. He dropped open his mouth and gurgled, little bursts of beer-soaked air bubbling in my face. “Ew!” I tried to edge around Beer Zombie, but there was another behind him and two more behind her. Nineteen-ninety-six and Fashion Forward had disappeared among the stiff, moaning crowd.

  “I guess we’re not chasing bad pants tonight,” Alex said with far too easy a smile.

  A little nervous zeal wound through me. Was I sending a woman to her blood-sucking, badly fashioned doom?

  “You’re overreacting, Lawson. You work for a company that detects guys like that. Any new vamps?”

  I bit my lip, considering. “No. But—”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  I scowled. “Well, he’s Cabbage Patch-ing to them.”

  Alex cocked his head, silent, but challenging. I blew out a defeated sigh. “It is possible that I may have rushed to judgment as I have, on occasion—”

  “Jumped to a conclusion or two?”

  I cocked what I hoped was a menacing brow. “Not jumped. Hopped. Frolicked toward.”

  Alex swung his head. “You’re impossible.”

  We edged our way between the beer-soaked zombies and beer-buying zombie sympathizers, and then zigzagged into a slip of a store selling gelato and delicate, hot-off-the-iron pizzelles. The fog had finally blanketed the hot evening and I shivered, rubbing my palms up my arms.

  “Cold?” Alex asked once I had my gelato-slash-pizzelle spoils.

  “A little.”

  He shimmied out of the button-down shirt he was wearing over his fitted tee, and I tried to convince myself that the my immediate salivation was due to the proximity of my dark chocolate pinot noir gelato, rather than the sweet hunk of ice creamy goodness flexing his muscles in front of me. Either way, I was engulfed in jaw-dropping, panty-melting pleasure with a spoonful of gelato in my mouth and Alex’s gentle touch as he settled his shirt on my naked shoulders. His fingers trailed the tiniest bit across my collarbone, leaving a trail of electrical sparks that shot licks of fire directly to my belly. I clamped my legs together and pleaded with my intellect to remember that I was in the throes of a moral issue, caught between two men I really cared for. Then Alex gently cupped my chin and rubbed his thumb carefully over my bottom lip.

  “You have a little bit of chocolate sauce there.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off his sly smile, the drip of chocolate on his thumb as he brought his hand to his mouth, parted those perfect lips, and licked.

  The heat that roiled low in my belly starburst and was everywhere now; the angel on my shoulder reminding me of my morals had been solidly sucker punched by a red-leather-wearing demon who told me to pounce when ready.

  I stopped and stepped in front of Alex. “About last night.”

  There was a sweet look of sympathy on Alex’s face that cut right through me. “It’s all right, Lawson. I know what that was all about.”

  I took a step back. “You—you know what what was all about?”

  “This.” Alex made circles with his arms. “All of this. The nerves. The awkwardness. It’s all right. You were drugged last night. You had no idea what you were saying. I know what you meant. You love me, we’re friends.”

  “Oh,” I said, stunned, nervous heat shooting through me. “No, that’s not what I—that’s not what I meant.”

  “You don’t have to explain it. I know about it. You and Will, I mean. I’m not exactly happy about it, but you know.” He shrugged and jam
med his hands in his jeans pockets, starting to walk around me. “He can give you stuff that I can’t,” he said to the sidewalk. “He can give you a future.”

  Alex wouldn’t look at me, but I saw his face tense up. He cleared his throat.

  “Alex, Will and I . . .” I bit my bottom lip, started kneading my palm. “We—but we—and we’re not.”

  Alex put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gave me a practiced smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

  “There’s nothing serious between Will and me, Alex.”

  “Like I said, you don’t have to explain.” He turned and I grabbed his arm.

  “I might not have to explain, but you do. What do you mean Will can give me something that you can’t? What can Will give me that you can’t?”

  Alex studied me hard, his eyes going so dark they were almost chrome colored. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Will can give you a future, Lawson. That’s something I could never do.”

  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “What?”

  Alex opened his mouth, looked like he was about to explain, when a howl sliced through the silent night. He straightened, his blue eyes going from sympathetic and human to seasoned-cop hard in less than a millisecond. “Did you hear that?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  A string of howls answered back, but these were short and yippy, and ended with the guffaws of drunken zombies and North Beach partygoers.

  “Stupid kids,” I muttered.

  We stepped into the darkness, our moment gone, my gelato a syrupy, melted mess. I scanned for a garbage can to toss it, then stiffened.

  Suddenly, there was a charge in the air. It was the same thing that made cats arch their backs and spine their tails; the same thing that put dogs on snarling alert. My hackles went up, adrenaline boiling my blood. I licked my lips, the saline taste of danger in my saliva.

  I heard the growl, first.

  It was a low, predatory rumble. Earthy and primitive, like nothing I’ve heard before.

  Except I had heard it before. Once.

  My feet were rooted to the ground, but I turned my head slowly. The rumble was low enough that I couldn’t hear which direction it came from. But it called to me, and I knew where it was.

  “Lawson.” I heard Alex call behind me and I slowly held up a hand, silently willing him to understand, to stay put.

  And when I turned again I saw it. A wolf, in the narrow, darkened corridor between two houses. I could make out nothing but his eyes and his teeth as the black rim of his lip curled up into a fearsome snarl.

  The sclera glowed an eerie yellow-green, but it was the silky black of his pupils that drew me in. The edges were jagged and rimmed in a bloody red. Sampson once told me the black was the wolf eye; the red, where it tore through the man. I took a tentative step back and the wolf eye kept its focus on me. There was no flicker of recognition, no restraint in his eyes.

  I wet my lips with my tongue. “Sampson?” I whispered.

  A low growl. Not confirmation, not denial. Animalistic.

  “Lawson!”

  The wolf was over me before I knew it. I felt the slice of his claw over my shoulder, heard the thud of the powerful body hit the ground behind me, watched in horror as it crossed the street, scaled my car, and took off into the surrounding darkness.

  Alex grabbed me before I fell.

  “Lawson! Lawson!”

  I blinked up at him, utterly dazed.

  “What the hell? What the hell was that?”

  “Werewolf,” I said, my voice low and hoarse, the word itself like a betrayal.

  “Who was it?”

  I felt myself start to shake. “I really don’t know.”

  And it was the truth.

  After an uncomfortably quiet ride home, we pulled into the police station parking lot.

  “First the Shively case, now this,” Alex said.

  I almost added the Sutro Point murders but thought better of it. “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t know anything about this.”

  “ No.”

  “I’m sorry, but isn’t that kind of what the Underworld Detection Agency does? I mean, don’t you detect things that come out of the Underworld?”

  A roiling heat went through my body, though I wasn’t sure who I was mad at. “I told you, Alex,” I started, enunciating every word carefully. “I don’t know. Dixon thought that Octavia was killed by a werewolf.”

  “Which you very quickly ruled out.”

  I slammed the car into park. “I just didn’t want anyone to jump to any conclusions.”

  “And now people are dead.”

  “Oh, no.” I turned around in my seat so that Alex would get the full effect of my pissed-off glare. “Don’t you try and pin this on me. You and the whole freaking San Francisco Police Department have done jack crap on this case. You’d still be looking up your own asses if it weren’t for me and my information. And you still don’t have any actual evidence that your murders and mine are connected.” I was seething mad now, feeling thirty steps—or paw prints—behind this entire investigation. I wanted nothing more than to dump Alex out of my car and go confront Sampson.

  “I really can’t believe you, Lawson. You’re so damn fixated on protecting the memory of your precious werewolf buddy that you refuse to look at the facts. You’d rather give up the Underworld than admit that someone you care about might not be what you think he is.”

  I was floored. “Are you talking about Sampson?”

  Alex’s eyes flashed hard. “You tell me,” he said, before kicking the car door open and slamming it hard behind him.

  I drove home in silence, letting the rumble of the engine thrum through my entire body and blinking back tears that I refused to let fall. I was angry at everyone—at Alex, for his outburst; at Sampson for not knowing—or not telling me that there was another wolf in town; and at myself for being so stupidly trusting. I refused to believe that I was responsible in any way for the murders, but I couldn’t keep the guilt from welling up inside me. By the time I pulled into the apartment building parking lot, my throat was aching from the solid lump and my dry eyes were burning. I wanted nothing more than a jug of wine and a sleeve of chocolate marshmallow pinwheels, and for the world to stay sane for just one night.

  I’d deal with the fate of San Francisco first thing in the morning.

  I pushed my key into the lock and edged through the door, pausing and frowning before turning on the light. The apartment was a sour-smelling, stuffy, dim box thanks to the closed-tightly blackout curtains. Once my eyes—and nose—adjusted I looked around.

  “Nina?”

  She was stretched out on the couch, still in that adorable, silky jumper, but now the flouncy fabric at the bust line was limp. One of the straps had flopped down toward her elbow and her hair matched the jumper: limp, floppy. Neither had been washed. Vlad was stretched out on the floor in front of her, corpse style. His eyes were dull, and his bare, pallid chest shone eerily in the dim glow from the muted television. He was wearing nothing but boxers and his usually slicked back hair was disheveled. I blinked, unable to tear my eyes from Vlad’s concave, white marble chest. He looked like a starved, felled statue of David.

  “You guys look like you’re dying,” I said with a frown. And then, concerned, “You’re not dying, are you?”

  Nina rolled her eyes. “We might as well be. This is torture!”

  “Fucking torture,” Vlad echoed.

  I chewed the inside of my lip. “Is there anything I can do?” I stepped forward, gingerly touching Nina’s calf—still ice cold. “Do you need to be like, refrigerated?”

  The sharp annoyance that flashed across Nina’s face let me know that she was nowhere near dead, and the current situation wasn’t as dire as she and Vlad portrayed it. “We don’t need to be refrigerated. We’re vampires, not sides of beef.”

  I held up my hands placatingly. “Hey, just trying to help. I’m a born and b
red San Franciscan. This heat thing is a little weird to me, too.”

  “We should go back to Seattle,” Vlad moaned from his spot on the ground.

  Nina’s eyes rolled back once more. “Never again. Too close to all those sparklers.”

  I put down my purse and snuggled with ChaCha. The heat was apparently too much for her, too, as her usual spastic patter was more of a lazy lope tonight.

  “Hey,” I said, eyes flicking to the TV screen. “News.”

  Vlad shot the remote control at the TV, and the coifed newscaster roared into action. “We’re at day three of the most severe heat wave the San Francisco Bay Area has ever seen. While most of you are out there enjoying the heat, some of you are left wondering, when is it going to end?” She flashed a set of dazzling, blue-white veneers, then shuffled her papers and flirted with the camera once more. “Usually, San Franciscans can depend on the offshore flow to beat the heat, but not tonight. We don’t have a cold front in sight! And rain? What’s rain?” The anchorwoman guffawed while Nina and Vlad groaned.

  “That’s it. We’re going to die here.”

  The news cut from the in-studio view to a sweeping picture of Pacific Heights, zooming in on the yellow-taped house Alex and I had visited earlier. My stomach sunk and guilt weighed my shoulders down.

  “How was your day?” Nina said without opening her eyes.

  I thought of Dixon, of the zombies, of my blow-out with Alex. I thought of the way he’d told me that I was betraying the Underworld as my eyes shot over Nina and Vlad, looking so listless, so helpless. I swallowed hard. “Not over,” I said softly.

  Chapter Ten

  I sucked in a sharp breath before knocking on Will’s door. I heard Sampson moving about inside, then his gruff voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” I said. “Open up.”

  Sampson pulled the door open two inches and stared me down, as if trying to make sure it was really me. “Hi there, come on in.”

  I went straight for one of Will’s lawn chairs and sat down prissily, kneading my palm in my hand.

  “Everything okay, Sophie?”

  I looked up, then swiped the hat from my head and watched Sampson’s eyes bulge. “Oh. Did you—mean to do that?”