Embraced By Darkness (Riley Jenson Guardian 5)

"Not me. I've got a memory like a sieve."

"Especially when it comes to leaving the corn-link on," he said, voice dry as he pushed away from the desk and headed for the door. "You'd better catch some rest once you find out where Wilson is buried, just in case Marg needs your help with the ceremony."

"My help?" I all but yelped. Hell, the last thing I wanted to be doing tonight was wandering about a cemetery helping to restrain a spirit. "Why the hell would she need my help?"

"Because you're the only guardian that can see or talk to souls."

"Marg's a magi. Surely she's got ways and means to communicate with the dead?"

"Your way is more direct. Besides, Wilson may get nasty," he said, as he disappeared out the door.

I muttered obscenities under my breath, then started tracking down Harvey Wilson's final resting place. And really, it wasn't all that hard, because Veronica Ward had given me the clue. She'd said he'd lived in Fawkner. Given Wilson had been an itinerant in life, she could only mean that was where he lived now. In the Fawkner cemetery.

Which is exactly where I found him. I scribbled down the plot number and street address, then signed off the computer and went home. Jack was right. I needed sleep. A look in the mirror only confirmed that. My eyeballs were bloodshot, and there were huge bags under my eyes. Which was never a good look when combined with pale skin and red hair.

The last remnants of the sunset were fading as I pulled to a halt outside our apartment. I climbed out of the car and breathed deep. The air was crisp and filled with the sharpness of oncoming rain. With my luck, it'd be absolutely bucketing down come cemetery time tonight.

Then another scent caught my interest - that of a wolf. A male wolf. It was a sour, almost unpleasant aroma, and certainly didn't belong to anyone I was familiar with. I scanned the pavement, looking for the origin of the scent. A woman struggled along with bags of shopping clenched in each hand, her very human scent tangy and not unpleasant. Further down, a somewhat disheveled-looking man sat on the front steps of a building and smoked something that looked hand-rolled. A joint, probably.

No sour-smelling wolves in sight.

I raised my nose, tasting the slight breeze again. The aroma of rotting rubbish, perfume, and the thick scent of humans rode the air. Underneath all that, the vaguest hint of death and decay - a vampire had passed this way recently, and his unwashed scent still stained the breeze. The sour smell seemed to be coming from my building. Maybe the old biddy who owned it had decided Rhoan and I had been such good tenants, she'd let another wolf in.

The thought stopped abruptly as a sharp sound snagged my interest and got my pulse racing.

The air seemed to scream, as if something fast and deadly was tearing through the dusk toward me.

Fear hit like a punch to the gut. I knew that sound. I'd heard it far too often now to mistake it. I threw myself sideways, but wasn't fast enough by half. The bullet tore into my arm, right through the flesh of my underarm, then continued, smashing into the windshield and shattering it into a thousand different pieces.

Glass flew, the glittering fragments raining around me as I hit the roadside. My chin struck hard, smashing my teeth into my lip, cutting flesh.

As the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, another bullet tore through the air, punching a hole through the still-open car door and pinging off the road inches from my hip.

I swore softly. The bastard had to be up high. He had too good a sight on me to be anywhere near ground level. I scooted forward, my arm burning and bullets pinging around me. And they were all silver, because while ordinary bullet wounds hurt like blazes, they didn't burn like this one was.

Which meant this bastard, whoever he was, knew I was a werewolf. Meaning it was no damn accident I was being shot at.

Could Blake be so angry about me not saving Adrienne he'd sent out a hit?

Probably, but all the same I doubted he was behind the shots. Torment was more his style.

I stopped behind the rear tire and scanned the surrounding rooftops. I couldn't see a goddamn thing... until a shadow moved on the top of the apartment building next to ours. It was moving, half-crouched, along the roof, probably searching for a better angle. But I'd be damned if I was going to let him get it. I scooted around the back of the car, and felt another bullet nip at my toes.

The bastard had found a better angle.

God, if only I'd had a weapon on me, I could have taken the shooter out when he'd moved. But I'd left my damn laser locked securely in the apartment safe this morning, just like I always did. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I'd have to risk running. I blew out a breath, then scrambled to my feet and ran like hell for the building. Bullets pinged against the pavement behind me, but their presence no longer burned. Perhaps he'd run out of silver ones.

But the mere fact that he was still sighting me when I was running as fast as I was physically able meant he had to be something other than human. To human - even wolf - eyes, I'd be nothing more than a blur. But a vamp could track me through infrared vision.

If it was a vamp up there, it'd have to be an older one, otherwise he couldn't be out in the dusk. I slammed through the building's front doors and ran up the stairs. This apartment block was almost identical to ours - a neglected old warehouse that had been converted to apartments and rented cheap to those who didn't mind living near the freeway. Though this building, being on a corner and facing suburbia, had less inspiring scenery than ours. At least we could see the city and the bridges at night from our apartment.

And obviously there were no werewolves living here, either, because the high-pitched squeal of rats was evident as the little bastards went scampering at my approach. Like I was going to stop and eat one of them.

I continued to pound up the stairs. Six flights left me winded. The rooftop fire escape door was padlocked - which was totally against the rules, but often done in old buildings like these to stop the jumpers. We'd had a few jump from our roof, and it was never a pretty sight. Even a cat-shifter didn't have much luck against that sort of drop.

After wiping the sweat from my forehead with a bloody hand, I stepped back and kicked open the door. It rebounded against the wall loud enough to wake the dead, but no welcoming bullet pinged into the opening.