Hannah Jayne (23 page)

“That’s a lovely sentiment for an instrument of death,” Will said, smiling nervously.

“Our bullets?” I asked.

“It’s kind of a family business.”

I felt like someone had let all the air out of the room.

Feng’s cheery smile swirled in front of my eyes. Will slid a chair underneath me, just as my legs went wobbly.

“You’re werewolf hunters?” I asked breathlessly.

Feng beamed with something that looked shockingly like pride.

“There’s barely a dog left in the city, thanks to my family.” Feng gestured to the large, painted family crest behind her. The surname Du was intertwined with the American spelling, a stylized painting of a wounded werewolf dying behind the heavy black print.

On a daily basis the Underworld Detection Agency processed at least a dozen vampires coming or going, a good handful of zombies (more, lately), plus a smattering of all other matter of demon. But werewolves were rare.

Now I knew why.

“My family has been here for over a hundred years. We were sent to America—San Francisco, particularly—to deal with hordes of dogs out here.”

“Werewolves,” I said, meaning to correct her; but Feng just nodded, as if I was asking just to make sure.

“We’ve been tracking and hunting for thousands of years.”

“And the bullets?”

“They’re specific to what we do.” Feng tapped the bullet. “The silver cuts through the fur and pierces the flesh—the only thing that will. Our bullets explode inside and launch an elephant-sized amount of tranquilizing poison. The dog just lies there until they bleed out.”

I was horrified, completely forgetting to hide it, until Will came up behind me and began massaging my clenched shoulders. He nuzzled my hair; his lips brushing my ear.

“Stay calm,” he whispered. And then, to Feng, “She’s just a bit jumpy, this one. Doesn’t like anything with fur. Had to toss her UGG boots in the rubbish bin. That was a terrible Christmas, wasn’t it, love?”

“So, do you have a werewolf problem?” Feng wanted to know.

“No, actually it was just a curiosity.”

I swallowed down the bile that lodged in the back of my throat. “Do you sell the bullets?”

“Yeah. Not too often, though. Occasionally people get worked up and start buying if there are dog sightings. Or we get an onslaught of buyers anytime a werewolf movie or Twilight comes out. Man”—Feng shook her head—“those Team Edward girls are ruthless.”

“Can you tell us who bought this bullet?”

Feng’s lips turned down. “Look, I’m really not in the business of advertising my client list.”

“There’s a whole list?” My voice was a hoarse whisper, betraying my discomfort.

“So, do you want to buy or what?”

“Yes. Yes, of course we do.” Will’s voice sounded a million miles away as my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

I squinted in the sunlight when we left Feng’s lair. Will clutched a paper bag full of werewolf-killing bullets; I stumbled with a numbness which started in my feet and went up to every follicle on my head.

“They’re werewolf hunters, Will.”

He took my hand and pulled me across the street. “I know that, love.”

“Do you think they had something to do with Sampson?” I asked.

“One crisis at a time.” Will hailed a cab and stuffed me in it, sliding in behind me.

I let out something halfway between a chuckle and a gasp. “One crisis at a time.”

“And we aren’t even a step closer to solving this one.”

“Well, actually ...” I unbuttoned my sweater and slid out the rubber-banded, handwritten wad of receipts that I filched from Feng’s countertop while she showed Will her selection of bullets.

Will stiffened; surprise registering all over his body. “You stole them?”

“I don’t suppose I could get away with saying I’m borrowing them, huh? Besides, the woman choked me. She owed us something.”

Will sat back, clearly looking pleased. “Looks like you’ve got a little bit of street cred, after all, love.”

I felt myself grin. Sophie Lawson, True-Life Badass.

“I just can’t believe you stole something from a woman who decorates with deadly weapons and tracks demons for a living.

My knees shook a little bit. Sophie Lawson: Badass, as Long as She Doesn’t Think About It.

Under Suspicion

Chapter Seventeen

I let myself into my apartment and was pleasantly surprised to find the only inhabitant was ChaCha, who did berserk circles around my ankles. She finally settled into a bowl of Alpo and I shrugged out of my clothes, took a hot shower, and oozed into some comfortable clothes. I popped a Lean Cuisine into the microwave and watched it spin, trying to keep my mind off Bettina, Kale, who had just been let out of the hospital, and what was going on in the Underworld.

I must have fallen asleep somewhere between my knockoff spicy chicken enchiladas and an Extreme Couponing marathon, because suddenly I was being shaken awake. I scrunched my eyes shut, and from far away I heard Nina’s assertive voice.

“Fine. If you’re going to play sleep, things are going to get rough.”

I felt fingers on the collar of my sweatshirt inching slowly toward the naked skin of my neck.

“Wake up, Sophie... .”

I thought that if I could just keep my eyes closed a little longer, then it would be a new day and this would all have been some terrible dream.

“I warned you... .”

Nina plunged both hands down the neck of my sweatshirt, pressing her palms and icy fingers against my once-warm skin. I jumped and howled and landed with a thud between the couch and the coffee table.

I glared at Nina, and she grinned at me, her fingers raised like six-shooters. She blew each pointed index finger and tucked them into imaginary holsters. “I warned you.”

I rolled my eyes and kicked the plastic enchilada tray onto the floor; ChaCha pounced on it with gusto. Nina beelined for her bedroom, a tiny tornado of slick black hair and flying couture.

“We don’t have much time.”

“For what?” I helped myself to a marshmallow pinwheel. I had eaten a Lean Cuisine, so I deserved it. I took two.

Nina had done a marathon makeover in eight seconds. She had slipped into a body-hugging black dress and slid a lacy black skirt on over it. Glovelets, fishnet tights, and an Art Deco brooch weaved into her hair finished her look.

“You look amazing!” I complimented, slightly jealous that the same outfit would make me look like a ballerina hooker.

Nina blew out her “I can’t eat you, but I could smack you” sigh, and I jumped back a quarter inch. She rubbed her forehead. “Did you forget about tonight already?”

I fished in the marshmallow pinwheel bag. “Forget what?”

“Our date!”

I chewed, relishing the feel of oozing chocolate as it melted over my teeth. “We have a date?”

“We have dates. Plural. Didn’t you get my message?”

I crossed my arms and jutted out one hip. “Were you sending me telepathic messages again? I told you that doesn’t work.”

“I wrote it down here.” Nina picked up the notepad we kept by the phone and waved it at me. “And I left a message on your cell phone and I Facebooked you. I would have sent a carrier pigeon, but I ran out of time.”

“And you’re scared of birds.”

“I’m not scared. I just find them winged and disgusting. Apparently”—Nina snatched the last pinwheel out of my hand—“I should have written it in chocolate and marshmallow. Get ready. Harley will be here in twenty minutes.”

I took the notepad and read: S, We’re going out tonight. Yes, you are. Look cute, six o’clock, Neens.

“I can’t go out tonight. I’m grieving.”

“Over your roots or the death of elastic?” Nina snapped my pajama bottoms for effect.

I crossed my arms, fighting off a growl, and I shook my head. “This whole Underworld violence thing. Aren’t you worried?”

Nina bared her fangs. “Not really. Besides, nothing more you can do but clear your head.

Start with a tabula rasa tomorrow.”

I frowned. “It’s never good when you speak Latin.”

“Come out tonight. If you stay here, you’re just going to obsess and cry and mope, and your pity quota is totally up. Clear your head and get a free dinner. Wear that black dress from Wasteland.”

I groaned. “Why do I have to look cute for your date? I’m going to be like a third wheel. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

Nina brushed past me, stomping into my bedroom. “You’re not going to be a third wheel.”

She was standing in front of my open closet, hands on hips, her fangs working her lower lip as she scrutinized my wardrobe. “Don’t you have anything that’s not from the Talbots

‘Administrative Assistant Collection’?”

I angled myself between Nina and my offensive wardrobe. “Why?”

“Because.”

I fought to hold Nina’s gaze, but her eyes flitted all around me.

“Do I have a date tonight, too?”

Nina nodded. “And you don’t even have to thank me.”

I smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Nina tossed me a silky green dress that lived at the back of my closet. “Put this on and wear your hair up.”

I paused. “Am I going out with one of Harley’s writer friends?”

Again Nina avoided my eyes. “Not exactly. But he’s seriously in the business. I’m borrowing your chandelier earrings, okay?”

“In the business?”

Nina dangled the earrings. “Okay?”

I nodded.

“Now get dressed. We’ve got”—she checked her watch—“fifteen minutes.”

I slid into my green dress. Well, slid with a back-and-forth combination of groaning and yanking—and used a bath towel to dab the new round of sweat under my arms. I’m neither a big fan of double dates or Spanx, so I wasn’t about to spend extra time on glossy lips or smoky eyes (which made me look like a prizefighter who lost, anyway). Instead, I did an understated wash of pressed powder, mascara, and ChapStick. When the doorbell rang, I met Nina in the living room, where she gave me an appraising once-over.

“You’ll love Roland, I promise,” she whispered.

“Roland?” I hissed back. “As in Harley’s agent, Roland?”

“I know he’s not much to look at, but give him a chance. Harley says he’s really a great guy and super-loyal to Harley.”

“Great,” I groaned, crossing my arms. “You get the hot writer and I get Old Yeller.”

Nina pasted on a gorgeous grin and I tried to turn my scowl into something remotely welcoming when Nina opened the door.

“You look amazing.” Harley’s voice, slow and rich, floated through the open door.

I craned my neck to see over Nina’s shoulder and caught Roland’s eye, an unremarkable brown. He smiled at me; then dug into his pocket and pulled out his trusty, yellowed handkerchief. wiping up the beads of sweat that popped up on his balding forehead.

Nina was going to owe me big-time for this one.

“Roland Townsend,” he said to me, offering his surprisingly delicate hand. I took it, and he pumped my arm. “Good to meet you.”

I was about to remind the moist little man that we had met before; but when I opened my mouth, Nina shot me the kind of narrow-eyed, eyebrows-down look that reminded me that behind her MAC Pure Pink pucker was a set of fangs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said.

Harley slapped his hands together. “Shall we go? We’ve got an early reservation at Ruth’s Chris.”

“The steak house?” I said, eyebrows up.

Roland rubbed his bulbous belly proudly. “I pulled some strings to get us a last-minute reservation.”

“Lovely,” I said, shooting Nina a glance that, I hope, said there would be no filet mignon shoved in my purse tonight.

“That sounds wonderful,” Nina purred, completely avoiding my gaze.

Harley reached out for Nina’s hand, and hers delicately slipped into his. His eyes darkened. “Oh, sweetie. Your hands are as cold as ice.”

Nina flashed me a frantic look and I dipped back into the apartment, yanking out two coats. “Our heat has been on the fritz lately,” I said, handing Nina a coat. “The place is an ice box.”

Harley and Nina shared nauseating sweetheart looks as he helped her slip into her coat.

“Let me help you with that,” Roland said, taking his cue from Harley.

“I really think I can—”

But Roland’s girlish hands were on the neck of my coat, yanking it up to my earlobes.

I gritted my teeth. “Thanks so much.”

“Oh, what’s this?”

Will was in the doorway of his apartment, door flung wide open displaying his impressive lawn furniture couture. He was shirtless, shoeless, and balancing a bowl of what looked like Cocoa Pebbles in one hand and a spoon in the other.

Ruth’s Chris be damned—I would kill for those Cocoa Pebbles right now.

Nina wound her arm into Harley’s and batted her big eyes as she said, “Will, you remember Harley Cavanaugh, the writer, and Roland Townsend ...”

“Agent,” Roland said. Then he offered his hand to Will, a business card tucked expertly in-to his palm. Will shook tentatively, retrieving the business card with his spoon hand. He glanced at it. “And there it is right there. ‘Roland Townsend, Agent.’” Will looked up at me with a Cocoa Pebbled grin while I implored him—silently—to tell me that Roland was a fallen angel who needed immediate pummeling.

“Well, you kids have a nice time tonight,” he said, shoving a heaping spoonful of cereal in-to his mouth.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to avoid gaping at Will’s chiseled chest while dodging the beads of sweat Roland mopped up with his yellowing handkerchief. “We were just leaving.”

I stomped down the hall, pausing only when I heard Roland’s raspy breath as his stumpy little legs worked to keep up.

The drive to Ruth’s Chris was mercifully silent, or it would have been, if the gods of dating hadn’t forsaken me. As we inched through the Friday-night traffic, I had to hear about Roland’s meteoric rise to literary agent superstardom—from his humble beginnings floundering and ultimately failing out of junior college in Hollis, Queens, to the brilliant business opportunity that brought him and Harley together. Namely, the fifteen-year high-school reunion of the Hudson High Cougars.

As the maître d’ led us to our table, I tried to get Nina’s attention, but she was too lovestruck to pay any attention to me. She floated gracefully into the chair that Harley pulled out for her, and Roland landed with a wheezing thud in the chair the maître d’ had pulled out for me. I sat down and inched as close to Nina as I could.