Under the Gun

by Hannah Jayne

  “Courtesy of Mort,” I said.

  Sampson clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, Sophie, I’m so sorry.”

  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  Sampson sat across from me. “Did you find something out? Did you hear something?”

  “Oh, I heard something all right. Is there something you want to tell me, Sampson?”

  The openness in Mr. Sampson’s eyes struck me, and I wasn’t sure if he was good at looking innocent, or I was bad at reading faces. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Alex and I were in North Beach tonight.”

  Sampson’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? Anything interesting?”

  I narrowed my eyes and leaned in, trying again to read his expression. “There was a zombie pub crawl.”

  He smiled.

  “And a werewolf.”

  All the color drained from Mr. Sampson’s face. His mouth fell open just slightly, his eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

  “A werewolf.”

  “Sophie, you—” He paused, seemed to regather his thoughts. “You don’t think it was me, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore, Sampson.”

  He stood up. “I should go.”

  “No!” I jumped up so quickly my lawn chair flopped to the ground. “No. You shouldn’t go. Every time something gets sticky, you try and leave. What you need to do is sit down and tell me the truth.” I don’t know where my sudden burst of bravado was coming from, but even as Sampson looked up at me, his dark eyes challenging, I couldn’t consider backing down.

  I wouldn’t.

  Sampson’s expression softened and he looked at me as if considering. I watched his chest rise and fall as he sucked in a long breath and blew it out, one hand on his head, thumb massaging his temple. “I should have known this would happen.”

  “You should have known what would happen?”

  He swallowed, and I saw the sympathy in his eyes. “I didn’t want to come here. And I never would have if there had been any other way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He righted my chair, then gestured to it. “Sophie, sit down.”

  I did as I was told, clasping my hands on my knees. “You need to tell me everything. This wolf was in North Beach and there were hundreds of people around.”

  “I really thought I could end this.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked away from me, the bright earnestness in his eyes gone, strangled out by something I knew far too well: secrets.

  There was a mammoth silence; the kind of silence that speaks volumes and fills a room with so many ifs and maybes and what-ifs that they buzz like a swarm of bees, until the air goes electric, the pressure smothering.

  “Why did you come here? Why now? You really could have cleared yourself at any time.”

  Another deep, shaky breath.

  “I do want to stop running. I do want to face down the werewolf hunters and get my life back. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “But the timing isn’t exactly my own. Remember when I told you about the den in Alaska?”

  I nodded.

  “When I got back, everyone I cared about was dead. It was horrible. I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, Sophie, in both of my lives, but nothing like this. The hate, the destruction that these people faced—it was overwhelming and it was all because of me.”

  “No, Sampson, it wasn’t,” I said, shaking my head. “You didn’t do it. It was—”

  “I know who it was, Sophie.” Sampson’s eyes flashed like raw steel. “And so does Nicco.”

  “Nicco? Who’s—”

  “He was part of the brood. Like a son to me.” The sadness in his voice was compelling, and I thought I saw his eyes begin to mist.

  “I’m sorry. Losing him must have been awful for you.”

  “I didn’t lose him. He survived. He was gone when they attacked. This”—Sampson rubbed the tip of his index finger over the silvery scar that crossed his eyebrow—“was what he did when he found the bodies.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “I was the only one alive. He saw me and he reacted.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I was able to subdue him—finally—he’s a lot younger and a lot stronger than I am, but once I did, I explained what happened. And who was responsible. Nicco was enraged. He wanted revenge.” Sampson shrugged almost imperceptibly. “The young ones always think revenge is best—an eye for an eye, you know?”

  I nodded. “So?”

  “So, Nicco and I left Alaska. We traveled together until I could figure out what to do. When I did”—he smiled, but it was humorless—“Nicco wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “What did you decide to do?”

  “Hide deeper. Disappear all over again.”

  “I take it that wasn’t what Nicco was thinking.”

  Sampson shook his head. “He wanted vengeance. Pure and simple. He wanted the werewolf hunters to suffer the way our den did. He called me weak and old; he called me a coward for not going after them. And maybe Nicco’s right. Maybe I am a coward. Maybe I am weak. But Sophie, I never wanted this.” He held out his palms and the desperation cracked his voice. “I never wanted any of this.”

  I remember Sampson telling me the story of his second birth. The way he’d been bitten, how he could feel the power racing through his veins and feel his whole body shaking, changing, absorbing the legend—the curse—of the werewolf. He hadn’t sought it. He hadn’t wanted it. But it had taken hold inside him, it rooted, and there was no way to kill the beast without killing the man.

  “So what did Nicco do?”

  Mr. Sampson swallowed slowly as if the very effort hurt. He looked at me, his eyes suddenly clouded and dark. “I think you know.”

  I sucked in a heavy breath and licked my lips. “Then you have to help me. We have to stop him.”

  Sampson shook his head. “I’ve been trying to. I don’t—I can’t find him. It’s like he’s gone completely off the grid.”

  “That’s why Feng and Xian can’t find him. You’re number one on their list, but they act like they don’t even know he exists.”

  “I think so. So I guess I can take some solace in the fact that he’s safe from them.”

  Anger roared through me. “If Nicco is responsible for all of this, he shouldn’t be safe. Not from anyone.”

  Sampson looked as though he was going to challenge me, but seeing the fire glowing in my eyes, he thought better of it. “I didn’t think he ever wanted to hurt anyone.”

  “Yeah, well, he did.”

  I trudged back to my apartment in a foggy daze. There was someone else. Sampson had lied to me. Sampson had known that this person, this Nicco, was responsible all along, and had kept it a secret. This time, I couldn’t keep the tears from streaming over my cheeks. Whether they were from anger, disappointment, sadness, or exhaustion, I couldn’t be sure, but I walked into my own apartment, cut through the living room without saying a thing to Nina or Vlad, and crawled into my bed. I tried to brush everything off and fall asleep. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t the catalyst for all this destruction.

  After what seemed like hours I gave up trying to sleep and padded into the living room, where Nina was perched in front of the television, eerily illuminated by the silver glow, telephone pressed to her ear.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  She held up a single finger. “But do I still get the free gift with purchase with that?” she was saying. “Because I called while there were still seventeen left. It’s not my fault you didn’t answer the phone. Operators were supposed to be standing by.”

  I edged around her and dug my cell phone out of my purse, then headed back to my bedroom, speed-dialing Alex as I walked. I sat in my bed, listening to his phone ring.

  “One,” I whispered in the darkness. “Two . . .”

  “Grace?” His voice was gravelly and I could hear the mattress shift under his weight.


  “Were you asleep?”

  “What else would I be doing at four a.m.?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Take an Ambien.”

  I let his grouchiness roll off me, chalking it up to sleep deprivation. “I have some information about the case.”

  There was a beat of silence, and when Alex spoke again all the sleep had gone out of his voice. “What kind of information?”

  I crossed the room and pushed my door shut, cutting off Nina who was now demanding free shipping in the living room. “There is another wolf in town.”

  “Another wolf?”

  “A wolf. A werewolf.”

  “That’s not news, Lawson. We saw the wolf, remember?”

  “Yeah, but—” I stopped short, biting my words. I couldn’t tell Alex that Nicco was not Sampson. I couldn’t mention Sampson at all until I could prove his innocence. “Um, Dixon confirmed it. He thought we should know.”

  “I appreciate the heads-up, Lawson.”

  “Sorry to have woken you.”

  I sat in the darkness, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone and feeling exceptionally confused and alone.

  Vlad was sitting at the dining table when I woke up the following morning. His laptop was open in front of him, casting the usual silvery glow over his pale skin. He had his chin in one hand and an American Red Cross mug in the other. The blood inside his mug had stained his lips a heady red.

  “Morning,” I said as I plodded past.

  “Hey. I made coffee.”

  I stopped. I lived with two vampires and was hiding a werewolf in my Guardian’s apartment; few things stunned me in this life. Vlad, doing something for someone else—especially when that someone was little ol’ mortal me—truly stunned me.

  “You did? Why?”

  He kept his eyes focused on his laptop. “Auntie Nina said you had a pretty rough night.” He brought his mug to his lips, his eyes flicking up at me. They went round and saucer-wide. “Whoa.”

  My hand flew to the short, shooting strands on my left side and I felt my face fall. “I’m assuming that expression means coffee won’t make this look any better.”

  “Maybe if I’d made waffles, too.”

  “Thanks, Vlad.”

  He turned around in his chair as I went to the kitchen and poured myself my usual—half coffee, half sugar—and rooted around for a suitable breakfast.

  “Hey, Soph?”

  I swung around, coffee/sugar in one hand, Pop-Tart held between my teeth. “Huh?”

  “Nina said you got stabbed the day before yesterday.”

  My heart swelled. Vlad cares about me!

  “I did, but just in the leg.” I pulled up my pajama pants to show off my neon-green bandage. “So it hurt, but I’m going to be fine. Totally not a big deal.” I offered him my most motherly smile. “Sorry to have worried you.”

  “You didn’t. I was going to say you got stabbed and”—he gestured toward my head—“that. I was just wondering why you care.”

  “Why I care?” I pulled out a paper towel, dropped my breakfast on it, and sat down next to Vlad. “What are you talking about?”

  “These murders. A couple of people you don’t even know. A vampire that you never even spoke to. I mean, why do you risk”—he pointed to my shorn side—“everything—your hair, your life—for people you don’t know?”

  I broke a piece off my Pop-Tart and nibbled around the frosted edge while I considered Vlad’s question. His eyes were still on me, black as tar, deep as night.

  “I guess I just feel like I have to.”

  “Like you’re some sort of superhero, vanquishing evil in all its forms?” Vlad smiled, the pointed edge of his incisors standing out stark white against his bloodstained lips.

  I smiled back, but felt no joy. I thought of Mort—a half-breed, like me, his demonic side clearly visible as he stabbed and sliced at me through his hoarded stash. I thought of Ophelia, my own sister, who was murderous evil incarnate. And I thought of my father. The devil. Did I fight evil to right what was wrong in the world?

  Or did I fight it because I knew, deep down, that I was part of it?

  I took a long sip of my coffee and shoved half my Pop-Tart in my mouth. “Yep,” I told Vlad. “The superhero thing.”

  Vlad grinned. “Don’t tell Nina. She’ll order you a costume off QVC.”

  The bedroom door slammed open and there was Nina, black hair in fabulous, face-framing waves, her dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell Nina what?”

  “That it’s Diamonique week on QVC,” Vlad murmured, going back to his game.

  “You think I don’t know that?” Nina marched into the living room and swiped Vlad’s mug, downing the contents in one sip. “What I don’t know is when I can get out of this godforsaken house. Do you know what’s on daytime television? Eight hours of Dr. Phil and a parade of women trooping in a bigger parade of men who may or may not be their baby-daddies. It’s excruciating.”

  “What happened to your novel?” I asked.

  “Nobody ever makes any money writing novels. I’d have to die or cut my ear off for anyone to pay any attention to me.” She fingered her earlobe. “And I can’t do that. I’ve got too many earrings.”

  “And it was Van Gogh who cut off his ear. Painter. Not an author.”

  She shot me a death glare before flopping down on the couch, pushing out her lower lip. “ I’m going to die in this apartment. A recluse.”

  “Neens, I’ve said it a million times: go out at night.” My stomach gurgled, the image of last night’s snarling wolf flashing before my eyes. “Or maybe try the fire escape.”

  She turned her bitter stare on me. “Not helping.” She brightened, resting her chin in her palms. “So, what’s on the crime-fighting agenda today?”

  I jammed the other Pop-Tart half in my mouth, feeling the crumbs tumble over my chin and sprinkle on my chest. “Walking the dog and grocery shopping. Not part of the crime fighting but very necessary.” I grinned and ChaCha yipped her approval.

  I let the sun drench my shoulders as I walked while ChaCha trotted proudly in front of me. I was doing my best to smash the last twenty-four hours out of my brain, and I was doing it with a sundress that covered my Mort-inflicted wound and a big floppy hat.

  I was trying to negotiate an earth-friendly bag full of groceries—just the staples: marshmallow pinwheels and cantaloupe—and ChaCha, who felt the incessant need to greet every vertical object with a raise of the leg, when my cell phone chirped, upsetting my entire careful balance.

  “What, Nina?” I groaned, while pulling ChaCha after an errant cantaloupe.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way back from the grocery store. What’s wrong?” I stopped, letting the cantaloupe lob its way down Nob Hill. “Are you okay? Is Sampson okay?”

  “Yes, Sophie, I’m fine and so is your friend Howard,” she stressed the name, “But your other friends popped in to see you.”

  “Friends?” Something in the pit of my stomach hardened. Sans Nina, Alex, and Will, I didn’t have friends. “What friends?”

  I could hear Nina move around on the other end of the phone line. “Pete and Re-Pete,” she hissed.

  “Pete and Re-Pete?” I asked. Then, a shot of knowing. “You don’t mean Feng and Xian?”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  I stopped cold and ChaCha danced around me in what I can only assume was a yip-yapping attempt to corral my fruit. “They’re there now?”

  “Yes,” Nina said loudly. And then, dropping her voice to a low, barely audible hiss, “And they’re weird. Get home. Now.”

  My heart was throbbing in my throat and my dress was soaked clean through by the time I got back to my apartment. ChaCha was panting and slowing down, but true to her traitorous terrier nature, sprung back to yip-yapping life the second I opened the front door. She bolted for Feng and Xian, who stood stalwart, collective eyes narrowed at me. I dropped my groceries and lunged for my errant dog, semi-
certain that Feng would level a revolver at the thing, and pop her with a silver bullet.

  “That your dog?” Feng said.

  “Oh!” Xian threw her arms open, the gathered puff of her baby pink sleeves hugging her ears. Today she was dressed as a trampy Strawberry Shortcake knock-off, complete with striped tights and stacked Mary Janes. “She’s so cute!” She snatched ChaCha from the floor and nuzzled the tiny pup to her face, her high-pitched pixie laugh ringing through the apartment.

  “Well, this is weird,” Nina said from her perch on the couch.

  “Feng, Xian! So nice to see you! Why don’t you sit down?” I gestured to our slightly puckered and mostly threadbare Ikea couch, and noticed that Nina had set out a spread for our guests. “Why don’t you help yourself to some . . .” I paused. “Oyster crackers. And since when did we have orange Crush?”

  “We didn’t come to visit,” Feng said, her lips held in what I was beginning to believe was a permanent snarl. “Xian sensed something.”

  Nina, Feng, and I all swung our heads to Xian, who had buried hers in ChaCha’s belly.

  “Xian?”

  Xian looked up and batted her giant eyelashes. Her candy-pink lips slid up into a coy smile. “I love puppies.”

  “If only,” Nina muttered.

  “Um, not that it’s not great to have you drop in this way, but, um—”

  “What the hell are you two doing here?” Nina asked.

  I shot her a scathing look that she batted away, mumbling, “The heat makes me crazy.”

  “So, what are you two doing here?”

  Xian went right on scratching and cooing at ChaCha as though I hadn’t spoken, but Feng pinned me with her hard brown eyes.

  “The wolf.”

  I swallowed hard. “Beg your pardon?”

  She glared up at me. “The werewolf. Are you going to give him up or are we going to have to take him from you?”

  I pointed to ChaCha. “That’s a terrier.”

  “And she was a gift,” Nina said indignantly. “And now a part of the family.”

  “We don’t want your dog,” Feng said, expression unchanged. “You know what we want. The dog.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shot my own hard stare back at Feng. “Then why did you come here?”