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 could 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 “slaughtered” 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.
“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 Will. “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.”
“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.
“The contract is bound by blood and flesh.”
I felt my own flesh crawl and my mouth quirked into an involuntary grimace. “Flesh?”
Sampson nodded solemnly and I considered a hunk of demon buttock squirreled away in some file cabinet somewhere. “How is that even possible?”
“You know that things in the Underworld don’t work the same way that things in the over world do.”
“But”—I pantomimed dumping a hunk of flesh on the table—“I don’t get it.” I was silent for a minute, considering. Then, with a slight brightening, “Should we just be looking for someone missing a hunk of flesh? Where do they take it from? Would he have, like, a hook for a hand, or one of those prosthetic limbs? Or”—that grimace again—“is that where the vaginal mesh sling comes in?”
Sampson cocked an eyebrow, his brow wrinkling. “Excuse me?”
It may have been a matter of afterlife or death, but I couldn’t believe I had just spewed the words “vaginal mesh sling” in front of my boss. A hot redness bloomed in my cheeks. “So, where does the flesh come from?” I asked again.
“It’s mine.”
“Yours?” My eyes immediately slipped over the length of Mr. Sampson, taking in every chiseled inch. His face and neck certainly weren’t missing any flesh and his button-up shirt didn’t seem to bow over any fleshless gaps. I tried not to look any lower.
“It was cut from me when I was in my werewolf form. In order for the contract—the hunters—to consider the contract bound, it must include flesh from the”—Sampson swallowed slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing—“animal, and blood from the contractee.”
God, I felt bad for their file clerk.
“So, in order for us to end this thing, we have to . . .” I felt my lip curl in a disgusted grimace. “Get your pound of flesh back?”
“It’s not a pound of flesh. It’s a piece of flesh.”
“So, to end the contract . . .”
“We need to destroy the contract, the contract holder, or the hunters.”
“Who’s the contract holder?”
Sampson shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Well, it has to be someone who knows you—maybe someone who’s holding a grudge? Someone you met through work?”
“I don’t know. It was all I thought about up north.”
“Okay, well. How about the contract? Hunk of flesh and blood notwithstanding, the contract is, like paper, right? I mean, it’s not tattooed on the back of an ogre or burned into the side of a volcano or something, is it?”
“The binding part is written on the flesh.”
I fought the urge to heave while my stomach lodged firmly in my shoes. “So we’re looking for some wordy flesh.”
“No, we’re not. You’ve done enough for now.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I know I’m not your boss anymore, but aren’t you about to be late for work?”
“Did I mention how nice it was to have you back?” I socked Sampson in the arm and pulled a healthy lunch—a Fresca and two Pop-Tarts—out of the fridge, then yelled for Nina and Vlad to get their undead asses moving. While I waited, I yanked open the blackout drapes in the living room and let the beams of glorious, rare San Francisco sunlight wash over me. I was marveling at the way our Ikea furniture sprung to glistening life in the natural light when Nina tore out of her room, like a tiny, raven-haired cyclone dressed in a painted silk kimono robe.
“What are you trying to do?” she screamed. “Kill me?”
Sampson raised his eyebrows and I set down my Fresca. “What are you talking about? And where’s Vlad?”
Nina turned to gape at me. Or at least I think she did, because she was wearing her enormous dark sunglasses. “Have you not seen the weather?”
Sampson and I exchanged uncertain glances. “We live in California, Neens. We don’t have weather.”
Nina wagged her head. “It must be so easy to live a life with so few consequences.”
Sampson hid his smile behind his coffee mug and I rolled my eyes, about to remind her that I had been hung up by my ankles and accosted by a lunatic with a gunshot in his ass (courtesy of me, but still), when she went on, slapping her arms and raving. “I’m practically burnt to a crisp thanks to your obsession with opening the blinds.”
I blinked at the blue-white of her forearms. “Sorry. But if you were burnt to a crisp you’d be, well, burnt. To a crisp.”
She narrowed her eyes. “We’re talking life-or-death situation here, Sophie. You’ll have to let Dixon know that I can’t come in today.” She shrugged her tiny shoulders and flopped down on the couch in pure Scarlett O’Hara fashion. “I can’t risk it.”
“If you can’t be out in the sun to get to work, what makes you think Dixon will?” Dixon Andrade, a vampire (and former Nina boy-toy) took over the UDA after Sampson’s “disappearance.”
Nina waved her hand, the reflection catching in her Jackie O glasses. “Just let him know I’ll be working from home today.”
“Holy crap!” The front door slammed open and I coughed, covering my mouth and nose over the plume of smoke that came racing in. A man was hunched, an ugly, military-looking blanket pulled over his head. The whole thing—the man, blanket and all—was smoking.
“Vlad!” Nina sprung to her feet and began smacking smoking Vlad with a rolled-up US Weekly.
“Oh my gosh!”
Vlad dropped the blanket and raised an eyebrow at me, nostrils flared. “I’m on fire.”
I tried to think of something soothing to say, but came up blank. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Did you see the news?” Vlad asked.
Did you see the news? should be a basic, non-sweat-inducing question. And for most people, it is. But for me, it is nothing less than ominous and I had the sudden desire to jump in my Tae Bo fighting stance, or at the very least call Jennifer Garner as Sydney Bristow in for backup. I swallowed, finding my mouth immensely dry. “Did something happen?”
“Uh, yeah. The weather! The sun?” He gaped at me when my reaction wasn’t a mortified as his. “This heat wave is supposed to last all week! It’s supposed to be sunny in San Francisco. For a whole week!”
“All week?” Nina groaned, then flopped back on the couch, fainting goat style. Sampson edged away from her.
“What are we supposed to do cooped up in this house all week?”
“It won’t be so bad, guys,” I said. “We’re well stocked with blood bags and we’ve got cable and”—I rummaged through our junk drawer—“almost an entire deck of Uno cards! It’ll be like summer camp!”
Vlad and Nina glared at me, now both shoulder to shoulder on the couch, Sampson wedged at the end.
“Fun!” I said, injecting as much joy into my voice as I could.
No one moved.
“Okay,” I said on a sigh, “I’ve got to get to work, so . . . call me if you need anything.”
Nina reached out and clamped a frozen hand around my wrist. She looked up at me, her eyes an impossible black, wide and mournful. “Tell the world I said hi please.”
I blinked. “Um, okay.”