Hannah Jayne (33 page)

“Will?” I whispered, grasping his hand. “Please hold on. Please.”

I kill everyone I love, I thought. I made love to him, and then I shot him.

I swallowed hard and Will blinked up at me, coughing, using the back of his hand to wipe at the blood and spit on his lips.

“Will!”

“Oh, love.” Will struggled to sit up. His face was scratched and bruised, and bits of rust-colored blood dried in his hair, around his nose, was liquid at the corner of his mouth. His rubbing at it only made it worse.

“I thought I shot you.”

“Hands where I can see them!” someone barked.

The cop cars were on us and I shielded my eyes against the overwhelming wash of headlights and raised my hands. There were two squad cars with six cops in fighting stance, knees bent, guns drawn. Behind them came a parade of flashing-light cars—an ambulance, a fire truck, more cop cars. My heart exploded in overwhelming joy, and relief washed over me in cool waves.

“Put them up!”

My heart did a double thump and I thought about explaining, but I saw those muzzles at the ready. I raised my arms higher, until I realized all of the officers had their guns trained on Roland. He reluctantly, slowly pulled his hands from where they had been—cradling his butt—and I saw that they were covered in blood.

“She shot me!” he screamed, bits of spit flying out of his mouth as he aimed a blood-drenched index finger at me. “That crazy bitch shot me in the ass! Arrest her!”

Two officers I’d known from Bettina’s crime scene rushed to me and Will, beckoning over the paramedic while another cop cuffed Roland and read him his rights.

I licked at my paper-dry lips. My tongue stung the broken skin as I looked at the officer rushing toward us. “How did you—how did you know it was me?” I asked him.

Officer Romero draped a thick, itchy blanket over my bare shoulders as the paramedic helped me up.

“There was a disturbance reported.” He looked almost sheepish. “I knew you were one of Alex’s people.” His sheepish look turned into a small grin. “And the one most likely to be in a disturbance. Also, someone named Athena Bushant called you in as a missing person, likely in danger.”

“Who’s Athena Bushant?” Will wanted to know.

I laughed—a weird, high-pitched, got-out-with-my-life laugh. “Athena Bushant, the great vampire-romance writer.”

The paramedics tended to Will first, while I chanced a glance at Roland, who was being laid belly-first on a gurney. His gunshot ass faced upward, while a professional-looking paramedic cut his pants off as though he wasn’t still ranting.

“Isn’t it illegal to shoot someone in the ass? Isn’t this America?”

“Sir, you need to calm down. You’re making the blood loss worse.”

I immediately made a mental note to send a donation to the San Francisco paramedics.

They had rescued me on more than one occasion and I was grateful—but having to tend to Roland’s butt was a whole different level of public service.

After one of the officers dropped Will and me at our apartment building, we trudged through the vestibule in companionable silence. When we came to our doors, he took my arm—still covered in six inches of industrial-grade blanket—and pulled me to him, resting his cheek on the top of my head.

“Quite a day, wasn’t it, love?”

I just nodded, my head heavy with exhaustion and stinging from the paramedic’s Mercurochrome. Will looked down at me and slid one bandaged hand underneath my chin, raising my lips toward his. He kissed me softly and I kissed back—briefly. When I pulled away, tears were stinging my eyes.

“I should get inside,” I said without looking back.

“Oh my God!” Nina screamed when I let myself in. “I was so worried about you!” She gave me a brief once-over before smashing me to her. Her eyes filled with tears. “We’re so, so sorry.”

I stiffened and pulled back. “We?”

Nina looked over her shoulder, heart-shaped lips pursed in a modest pink smile. “Harley and I.”

I felt anger roil through me. “Nina, Harley’s the reason—”

Harley held up a hand. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. I should have known. Roland had become really controlling and paranoid in the last few cities. He would disappear for hours and mutter about how he was going to ‘clean things up.’ He said he saw things—ridiculous things—demons, gremlins. I just thought he was drinking. I never imagined he would—would peg you for a vampire.”

A little breath of hysterical laughter passed my lips.

“Vampire?” I said, feeling the laughter rise in my throat. “That’s why Roland came after me?” I said, playing along.

Harley nodded solemnly. “He got this idea that there were all sorts of demons and mon-sters roaming around. He said he had to kill them, or the book would be a flop. I didn’t think he was serious. I thought it was more of a stress thing.”

“Vampire,” I said again, feeling my shoulders ache as the laughter shot through my whole body.

“Wow,” Nina said, her eyes intent on mine. “Imagine our little Sophie, mistaken for a vampire.”

Harley laughed, too, now; and Nina followed suit, her small fangs catching the light. Harley was oblivious and slung an arm around his girlfriend, pulling her to his side. “Can you imagine? He actually thought vampires existed!”

“Can’t imagine at all,” Nina said, one eyebrow raised, mischievous lips curling over her fangs. She trailed her fingers down Harley’s arm and laced her fingers with his.

“Oh, honey, your fingers are always so cold.” He brought her pale fingers, entwined with his, to his lips and kissed them. “I told her she should see a doctor about her circulation problem.”

I nodded while Nina pulled Harley behind her. “I’m going to say good-bye to Harley, Soph.

He’s leaving for Seattle in the morning. You going to be okay for a little bit, or should I call Vlad to stay with you?”

Vlad—that reminded me.

“Hey, Neens, there was a pipe in the back of your car. Do you know what that was for?”

Nina’s brow furrowed. “A pipe?” Then she brightened. “You mean the long silver bar.”

I nodded.

“It’s a closet extender. Vlad is helping me add a little closet space. So, should I call him?”

“I’ll be fine,” I told Nina, glad for a little peace of mind, quiet, and clothes.

“That nephew of yours is a really odd kid,” Harley was saying as they walked out the door.

“All the dark clothes and nail polish. Is that what they call ‘Emo’?”

I slipped out of the paramedic’s blanket and dropped it on the bathroom floor, pulled off my underclothes, which had now stiffened with dried soap and blood, and lowered myself into a hot bath loaded with peach-scented bubbles. I felt everything—Will, Alex, Roland—slide off me and drown in the sweet-scented water. I stopped counting the scratches and bruises and instead washed my hair and luxuriated until my skin was puckered and pink. Eventually I got out, wrapping myself up in my fluffiest chenille bathrobe and pushed my feet into soft pink slippers, which Nina had gotten me.

I was making myself a nice evening plate of grapes and peanut butter crackers, when there was a stiff, clipped knock on the door. I considered ignoring it and pretending that I was Sophie Lawson, Normal Girl, spending a quiet Saturday night at home after a trip to the farm-er’s market or something. I imagined anything other than what I had done—anything that didn’t include a public restroom—but the knock sounded again.

I pulled my robe tighter over my chest and yanked open the door, about to tell Will that I wasn’t interested in company.

But it wasn’t Will.

The air was silent, like the entire building was holding its breath. I could hear the electric buzz of the overhead lights, could hear each straining pump of my heart. I swallowed and willed myself to snap the door closed, but my hand was melted to the knob.

My fingers in a solid death grip.

“It’s been a long time, Sophie.”

Under Suspicion

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Hannah Jayne’s next Sophie Lawson novel, coming soon from Kensington Publishing!

He stood in my doorway looking remarkably comfortable, without the faintest glow of otherworldly aura or the oozing, fetid sores I had come to know on those who returned from the dead.

“Sophie.”

He said my name and my hackles went up; I was all at once intrigued, delighted, and horrified.

I opened my mouth and then closed it again, willing the words that tumbled through my brain to form some coherent, cohesive thought, something great and all encompassing enough to explain what I was feeling.

“I see dead people,” I mumbled.

Without conscious thought my arm snapped back and the door clamped shut. I ran backward into my apartment, falling over the arm of the couch and landing with a thump on the pillows, ending in an inelegant heap on the carpet. My pup ChaCha trotted over to me, sniffed, and walked away. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening ...

I was shaking, the mantra rolling through my head as I curled in on my chest, rocking gently. I knew it was only a matter of time before I developed some sort of mystical powers—red hair and an insatiable appetite for chocolate or anything in a take-out box couldn’t be the only things I inherited from my mother and grandmother, who both had been powerful mystics with the ability to tell the future.

“I’m getting my powers.” I licked my lips, terror and joy bounding through me.

That was it.

This was my power.

“I see dead people.”

I felt the words in my mouth, the exhilaration of finally belonging and finally feeling a connection to my paranormal family chipping away at the terror that sat like an iceberg at the bottom of my gut.

The jiggling of the ancient hardware on my front door brought me crashing back to the reality of a doorknob turning in front of me. I stared at it as it moved horror-movie slow, and my blood pounded in my ears. The person on the other end of the door knocked again. This time it was a quick, warning rap and when he pressed the door open, the air that I had gulped in a greedy, terrified frenzy whooshed out.

“What are you doing here?”

He grinned. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

I rolled over onto my back and pushed myself up, my eyes still trained on the man—the apparition?—that stood in my foyer, smile wide, welcoming, and corporeal looking.

“Mr. Sampson?” His name was a breathy whisper that made my bottom lip quiver. “You need me to help you cross over,” I said.

I took a tentative step toward the man whom I had known so well—who had been more like a father than a boss to me for so many years, who had given me my start at the Underworld Detection Agency—whom I had watched being tortured until he finally disappeared, news of his death reaching me months later.

I reached out in front of me, fingers shaking and outstretched, willing myself to touch him, knowing that all I would feel would be a cold burst of nothingness of the displaced molecules that should have been a living, breathing human form.

I stuck my index finger in his right nostril, my thumb brushing his bottom lip.

“Oh, gross!”

“Sophie! What the hell?” he snapped.

My hand recoiled back in near-boogered terror. “Oh my God! Mr. Sampson! You’re alive!”

My heart threw itself against my ribcage and every fiber of my being seemed to expand with joy. I crushed myself against Pete Sampson, feeling his wonderful heart thudding against my chest, relishing the human feeling of his tender, warm skin against my own.

He shrugged me off—gently—and held me at arm’s length. “You look wonderful.”

“You’re alive ... You’re alive.” I mumbled it dumbly again and again until my eyes could focus on the stiff reality under my fingers. I massaged Mr. Sampson’s arms, feeling the ropey muscles flinch underneath his soft flannel shirt, my fingertips working down his forearms until I found his bare skin, his pulse point. I paused, counted.

“You’re not dead at all. You’re really, really alive.”

A smile cut across Sampson’s face—a smile that went up to his milk-chocolate eyes that crinkled at the corners and warmed me from tip to tail. I stiffened, shook his hands off and slapped him across his chest, anger and betrayal walloping me.

“How are you alive? You’re dead. You were dead! I mourned for you! And Alex,” I huffed, a sob choking in my throat, “and Will.” I sniffed, “And I’m the Vessel ...” Tears flooded over my cheeks and dripped from my chin as I hiccupped and quaked. “Will’s my Guardian.”

Sympathy, with just the slightest tinge of amusement, flitted across Mr. Sampson’s face as he took me by the wrist and offered me a stiffly starched hankie. I held it in my hand, my fingers working the burgundy stitching—the letters P and S embroidered elegantly against the white cloth.

“You look so different.”

The Mr. Sampson whom I had known was always freshly shaven and dressed impeccably in tailored suits that highlighted his powerful build. He kept his dark hair close-cropped and slicked back. This man sported a three-day beard peppered with gray stubble and looked un-kempt and disheveled in a wrinkled unbuttoned flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt. He wore a pair of jeans that were a combination of broken-in and over-worn, but as I held the handkerchief to my nose I smelled the faint scent of the Mr. Sampson I used to know—a scent that was spicy, familiar, with just the slightest hint of salt and pine.

Sampson pulled me to the couch and I sat down next to him, leaving just enough space to let him know that despite his heavenly return from death, all was not forgiven.

“What happened to you?” I managed to whisper.

It was then that I noticed the easy laugh lines that had sat like commas on either side of Sampson’s mouth were hard etched now; it was only then that I noticed the latticework of worry lines between his eyes, the thick frown line that cut across his dark brow and the thin streak of gray that sprouted at his hairline, peppering his deep brown hair with a washed out sheen.

“I’m sorry I never contacted you.” Sampson shook his head and stared at his hands in his lap. “I wanted to; the last thing I wanted was to have you—you and everyone else at the UDA—worry about me. But if you knew I was alive, that’s what would have happened. You would have worried.”