Once Bitten (Shadow Guild: The Rebel 1)

And I had one clue tucked away in my pocket.

Now or never.

I reached inside and withdrew the matchbook. It was the first time I’d touched the thing with my bare skin, and a vision flickered in my mind’s eye.

The man.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a lethal elegance that scared the crap out of me. His coat looked almost like a cloak, and his longish dark hair cast his face into shadow. I caught the barest glimpse of sharp cheekbone and full lips.

He

still held no weapon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the killer. He was connected to this somehow.

And we were still connected to each other. I could feel it, a tug of recognition. Of desire.

I frowned at the crazy feeling. I hadn’t wanted someone in so long, I figured I’d turned to stone.

Apparently, I hadn’t. And something about this man made my body sit up and take notice. I vibrated like an engine at the mere sight of him.

“Are you coming?” His voice rolled low through my head.

Holy crap. “Are you talking to me?”

The man in the seat in front of me shot me a wary look, and it broke my concentration.

The vision was gone.

Panting, I put my head between my knees.

That guy could talk to me through my visions. He’d said basically the same thing as last time, but not exactly the same thing. Which meant that he wasn’t just a shadowy repetition of something.

We were really interacting inside my mind, which had never happened before.

I shivered and sat up. Unfortunately, I couldn’t force objects to show me visions. They showed me what they wanted to, and while the visions often had a bearing on what I was interested in, they didn't always. And not all objects had information to share. I still had no idea why, but I no longer worried too much about it.

I flipped the matchbook over and read the back. The letters seemed to shimmer, a fancy ink that was almost holographic.

The Haunted Hound Pub

67 Winslow Lane

Covent Garden, London.

I grinned. My first clue. I looked up at the map plastered above the train windows, realizing I hadn’t even checked which line I’d got on.

Not the right one.

I stuffed the matchbook back into my jacket and stood, shuffling between the people to reach the door. It took two station changes and an excruciating delay on the tracks, but I made it to Winslow Lane about two hours later. I ended up having to jump the turnstile on the way out because I hadn’t had enough on my Oyster card to get all the way to this stop.

A guard spotted me and shouted. I sprinted toward the exit stairs, getting lost in the crowd, though it was relatively sparse at this hour. I’d been on the Tube long enough that the crowd had changed from the late-night partiers to the early-bird businesspeople. It was easier to blend amongst the sea of black suits, and I ducked my head low as my heartbeat thudded.

The sickly yellow lights of the Tube station gave way to the watery early-morning sunlight. While I’d been on the train, the freaking day had changed.

I could no longer hear the security guard shouting. Thank God he’d given up. My heartrate slowed.

I followed the flow of people onto the street, my senses on constant alert. Anxiously, I tugged the hood around my face. The group that I traveled with poured onto the pavement, and I let them sweep me away from the station entrance.

Covent Garden was beautiful at this time of day, the historic street wide and almost empty near the main market. The businesspeople had all faded off to different parts of the neighborhood, but the Victorian Market stood alone, green metal and glass looking like something from the past.