As reluctant as I was to admit it—I felt like a nutcase even pondering it as I was a slayer and he was an elder vampire—but Considine was usually formidable, if mercurial backup.
Maybe not now, though, as he hasn’t stepped in to help me.
I felt weirdly betrayed by the idea, so I shifted my attention to the final mercenary—the werewolf on the scent trail—who was circling a dumpster, his eyes glowing.
Later. My team is more important. Is that where they’re hiding—in hopes that the garbage would cover their scent?
If so, they were in a bad spot. What could I do?
Thoughts spilled through my head as I tried to formulate a plan based on what I knew about werewolves, and what kind of advantages I’d need to fight four wolves.
The best advantage I could use now is height. Wolves aren’t big climbers, and they don’t usually look up.
I peered up the apartment wall, and my gaze landed on the fire escape ladder.
It was close enough to the corner that if I leaned over the side, I could still see—and shoot—into the alleyway.
I couldn’t see far enough in to aim at any of the mercenaries, but I only needed to draw them out.
I flicked the safety on my gun, holstered it, then boosted myself onto a stone windowsill so I could jump and grab the lowest rung of the ladder.
Swinging from it made my wrapped cut ache, but I was grateful for all my training as I did a chin up and managed to reach for the next rung up. Another chin up and I was able to brace my upper body on the ladder, making it much easier to wiggle up until I had my feet underneath me.
“Hey, I smell something in here,” one of the werewolves called, his voice echoing oddly.
He must be looking in the dumpster—I have to hurry!
When I was even with the apartment’s second floor, I stopped climbing and pulled my gun out of my holster, my movements as fast and efficient as I could make them.
I hooked my arm around one of the ladder’s rails, braced my feet and legs, then leaned over the side to angle my hand around the brick corner.
I didn’t like that I was hanging over the side—every inner alarm bell I had was going off. But this was my best plan given the situation.
Good thing a handgun doesn’t have too much recoil!
“What’s that?” one of the werewolves said. “A… shirt?”
I squeezed the trigger and shot a garbage can positioned near the mouth of the alleyway.
Four bullets left.
“What was that?” A mercenary growled.
“The slayer, maybe?”
I made sure I took deep even breaths as two of the werewolves hustled out of the alleyway looking up and down the street and sniffing the air.
Aiming, I squeezed the trigger and shot the closest wolf in the thigh—where he wasn’t wearing his soft body armor.
The bullet hit the mercenary and he fell with a cry of pain.
I immediately trained my gun on his cohort—I had to move fast. Werewolves healed slower than vampires, but a bullet would only stop them temporarily.
The second werewolf spun in a circle, never thinking to look up.
I waited, hoping he’d move closer but instead he started to back up into the alleyway. Afraid I’d lose my chance, I shot—hitting him in the bicep.
Down that werewolf went—with a howl of pain to accompany him.
