Full Moon Rising (Riley Jenson Guardian 1)

The glass front doors slid open as we approached and the cool evening air swirled in. It was thick with the aromas of smog and humans, but underneath it lay something else. Musk and mint and man. The same combination that had been on the wolf who'd shot me

I stopped and heard something else. A scream of air, as if something fast and deadly was tearing through the night toward us

I threw myself sideways and knocked Quinn out of the way. He cursed, his arms going around me, instinctively cushioning my body with his as we fell to the ground. He grunted as we hit, and his eyes widened. Air hissed, and I twisted around to look. Something cut through the night just above us, something that was wood rather than metal, with a deadly pointed end

An arrow

The fact that it was all wood suggested it had been aimed at Quinn, but the reality was, an arrow in the heart wasn't going to do either of us any good

It hit the glass behind us and ricocheted harmlessly away. Footsteps whispered across the sounds of the night. Our attacker, on the run. I broke away from Quinn's embrace, flung off my bag, coat, and sweater, then shifted shape. In wolf form, I bounded after the bastard

"Riley, wait!"

It was a command, one I ignored. The would-be assassin was running toward South Bank, perhaps hoping to shake any pursuit in the crowd gathered near the casino. Meaning he either didn't realize I was a wolf, or he had no idea just how keen a wolf's hunting sense was

He kept running, looking over his shoulder as he did so, barreling into people and thrusting them out of the way. I loped after him, lithely avoiding the idiot humans who screamed or stepped into my path rather than out of it. The man ahead was another Gautier, right down to the long, greasy ponytail. He was obviously aware that he was being pursued, but he was looking over the wrong shoulder and I was drawing closer and closer. His scent was cloying, the minty smell barely covering the growing odor of death and decay. I wrinkled my nose and resisted the temptation to sneeze

He didn't head over the bridge, as I'd expected, running instead into the Clocks poker machine venue. I shifted shape, retied the shirt, then strode in after him

He weaved through the machines, not quite running. I kept back, out of sight. His scent lingered in the air, a trail I could follow anywhere, even in a venue layered with so many conflicting odors

Another aroma joined the throng - sandalwood. I smiled and glanced over my shoulder. Quinn was three feet behind me, my bag slung casually over his shoulder

His dark gaze was filled with anger as it met mine. "You could have gotten yourself into trouble running off like that." He handed me my sweater, and I put it on as he added, "It might have been a trap."

It still could be. Who knew where Gautier's double might lead us? "That arrow was aimed at you, not me."

"It would have got me, too." He reached out, catching my hand and raising it to his mouth as we walked. The brief caress of his lips across my fingers was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Sweet, and yet at the same time, erotic. "Thank you," he added softly

I took a deep breath, trying to control my suddenly erratic pulse

Ahead, our would-be murderer ducked through a door and disappeared. I looked up at the sign above the door and smiled. He'd gone to the toilet. Perfect

"You mind the door." Quinn handed me back my bag and coat. "I'll have a little talk with our friend."

"Anyone else in there?"

His gaze narrowed slightly, and I knew he was using his infrared vision to check. "No."

"Good."

I followed him in, but stopped just inside, leaning back against the door as it closed. I have to say, the smell of men's toilets was never pleasant, no matter how much air freshener they used. Not that I'd been in all that many, but hey, it was one way of avoiding the queues in the women's during intermission at the theatre or concerts

The urinals weren't occupied, but one stall was. It had to be our man. Why he thought he'd be safe behind the closed door of a toilet was anyone's guess. Maybe he didn't get out amongst vamps or werewolves much

Quinn raised a foot and kicked the door open, then blurred so fast one second he was there, and the next he wasn't. There a brief flurry of sound, flesh smacking against flesh, then a squeak that was more a note of pain than fear. It wasn't Quinn's squeak

Silence fell. No conversation, no nothing. But I knew what was happening. Quinn was raiding the other man's mind

The door behind me bumped slightly, then someone knocked. "Sorry," I called. "Closed for cleaning. Someone vomited."

The gent on the other side cursed and walked away. "You'd better hurry, Quinn. Security will have seen us come in here. We probably haven't much longer before they investigate."

He came out five seconds later and closed the stall door before walking over to the basin to wash his hands. I watched him for a moment, then my gaze drifted back to that closed door and I felt a sudden chill. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes." He didn't look at me, just finished washing his hands, then tore off some paper towel to dry them

"How?" I hadn't heard the snap of bones, so he certainly hadn't broken the other man's neck