I’m stepping outside when Derek yanks me back and shoulders past me without a word. At one time, I’d have grumbled at him wanting to take the lead, put himself between me and the oh-so-dangerous world. That’s changed—for both of us. If he pulled me back, it’s because he saw something.
He stands on the tiny stoop and scans the narrow laneway below the stairs.
“Is there another exit?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“A window. I could take that.”
I don’t suggest he go out the window—he wouldn’t fit. He pauses, weighing the safety of sending me another way against the danger of me going it alone.
“Do you see something?” I whisper.
“Heard. Footsteps.”
His gaze sweeps back and forth like a searchlight. The lane is dark and silent. Or it is to me. His night vision and werewolf hearing mean he’s rightly the person who should step out first.
“You think someone’s staking out the apartment,” I whisper.
“They killed the guy who lived here. After he ripped them off.Now they’re after his sister. Who also lives here.” His voice drops to an almost inaudible mutter. “Why didn’t I expect this? Fucking stupid.”
“We both didn’t expect it, because dealing with drug dealers isn’t really our thing.”
Another muttered profanity. Then, “I’m going down. As soon as I give the all clear, follow. Or if you hear a fight, get over to that coffee shop on the corner. I’ll meet you inside.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. Before he can leave, I catch his sleeve.
“These aren’t supernaturals,” I say. “They may have guns.”
“Yeah, I know. Be careful.”
He slips down the rickety steps, somehow managing not to creak a single one, despite his size. I withdraw into the shadows of the doorway.
Below, the lane remains silent and still. Derek pauses and sniffs the air. A sharp shake of his head has me stifling a laugh. Sniffing an alleyway on a warm night is never the best idea.
He rubs his nose and then inhales again. His head swivels, as if he’s caught a sound. It’s coming from farther down the laneway. He takes one step in that direction. Then he pauses and peers toward the street. A car passes. That must be all that caught his attention, though, because after it’s gone, he’s making his way down the lane.
I lose sight of him three steps into the darkness, and my pulse quickens. I resist the urge to try getting a better look, and I strain to listen instead. This is one thing that living with a werewolf has taught me—use all your senses. Hearing works here, especially when I close my eyes and focus.
I don’t hear Derek’s footsteps. That’s normal. If I were a werewolf, I might pick up the faint scuff of his shoes, but to a human,he moves silently. Right now, silence in general is good. It means he hasn’t found anything. Then comes a cry of surprise, too high-pitched to be Derek. The smack of fist hitting flesh. The thud of a body slamming into a wall. Grunts and groans, none of them my boyfriend’s, but that doesn’t keep me from bouncing on my toes, wanting to clamber down those stairs and see what’s happening.
I know what’s happening. I can tell by the sounds. Derek got the jump on whoever was watching the apartment. Time for me to run. Get to that coffee shop.
That’s the plan. And the plan, frankly, sucks. It’s the antithesis of what I imagined in those movies I’d write someday, where the girl never needed to run while her boyfriend fought the bad guys. But this is the story I’m stuck with. He’s the genetically modified super-soldier, and I’m the girl who can talk to ghosts. One of these things is always better in a fight. The other can fight, but having her there worries and distracts him. That stings, and it will never stop stinging, but the best way to keep him safe is to do as he said—use this diversion to get to safety.
I scamper down the stairs as quietly as possible, which isn’t quietly at all. Derek hears me. I can tell when words punctuate the sounds of fighting. “Why were you following me?” “What do you want?” Meaningless dialogue as he makes sure they don’t hear me.
I creep toward the end of the lane. Duck around the corner, onto the street and—
Hands grab me. I yelp, but one of those hands slaps over my mouth, and before I can even process what’s happening, I’m propelled into a shadow-shrouded doorway and shoved up against the wall. A guy’s face lowers to mine. Pale skin glows from the depths of a hoodie, and that’s all I see. No gun, though. Not in his hands, at least.
“Where’s the girl?” a man’s voice says.
“G-girl?”
“What did you want in that apartment?”
“N-nothing,” I say, faking my stammer. “M-my b-boyfriend said a f-friend of his—”
The guy gasps, head jerking up. I slam him backward, and he stumbles, hand clapping to his stomach, where blood oozes through his fingers.
