Avery
I ducked beneath the table as a second, closer explosion blasted my eardrums and debris rained down all around me.
Don’t shift. Don’t shift.
I couldn’t smell how many there were with all the noxious fumes and drywall in the air, but I knew I had mere moments before whoever had orchestrated this attack would be upon me. Judging from the location of the explosion, they were either terribly incompetent assassins or aiming to take me alive. I had a bad feeling it was the latter.
I yanked my backpack down from the bench seat and dug through it. I took the silencer off the gun and double-checked that it was loaded before securing it in the outer pocket. I snagged one flashbang and two hand grenades and inserted earplugs before zipping the bag up. When two more seconds went by without another explosion, I wrapped the fingers of my left hand around the iron base of the table. Holding the two grenades in my right hand and leaving the stun grenade positioned at my feet, I swung the table up and straight back into the diner’s street-front window alongside my bench seat with all my might as I sprang upright.
Releasing the table as the glass window shattered, I quickly crouched back down, pulling the pin from one of the grenades as I did so, and tossed it over my shoulder through the broken window front while I began counting off seconds in my head. I’d flung it just far enough to clear the sidewalk but not reach too far into the street.
Thank fuck Wyatt’s needy fling had caused him to be all the way on the opposite side of the street when the kitchen had exploded. I hoped that as soon as he realized what was going on, he’d be smart enough to know that he could best help me by staying away and taking cover right now. I kept him out of these attacks as much as possible. Helpful as he might try to be, the few times he’d been present he’d only proved a liability. Wyatt was simply not cut out for active duty.
At the count of two seconds, I pulled the next grenade pin out. I couldn’t see for shit, but I knew that if anyone was still alive in the kitchen, it wasn’t anyone I wanted to survive, so I threw the second grenade straight into the cloud of smoke and debris still billowing from the destroyed rear wall of the restaurant. At four seconds, the grenade outside detonated.
Drawing my gun, I looped my arms through the backpack straps so that it was loosely secured to my front over my chest, snatched up the flashbang grenade, and withdrew the safety pin at seven seconds—right after the kitchen grenade went off.
At nine seconds, I felt the vibration of heavy footsteps pounding against the sidewalk outside just before the glass front door shattered. I threw the flashbang toward the shattered front door a second before I jumped through the broken window front.
I hit the concrete sidewalk rolling and gained my feet crouched behind the cover of a parked car.
Five huge, armed werewolves in human form were on the sidewalk outside the diner, illuminated by the glow from streetlamps. They were all teetering on their feet from the effects of the stun grenade—which I could count on to disrupt their equilibrium and disorient them for only five to ten seconds. I shook my earplugs out and encountered the grating sound of multiple car alarms going off as I took aim and rapidly fired at ankles, faces, kneecaps, and nuts.
A civilized shot to the chest often took hours to kill a werewolf. I went for immediate pain and incapacitation.
“Over here!” I heard Wyatt call to me from his car across the street.
Oh, Jesus, no. I ducked down and stole a glance in time to see him waving at me—motioning for me to run over and get in his car—as if we could make so easy a getaway right now. He was going to get himself killed.
I turned my aim on him and shot out the back window of his car, hoping he’d get the clue to bail and that I could somehow fool the wolves into assuming he was just some idiot good Samaritan I didn’t know.
A bullet hit the car I was ducked behind, drawing my attention back to the front of the diner as three more disoriented wolves filed out of the broken entryway. Eight total. Nice. It seemed it was to be my lucky number of wolves per attack today.
Disoriented and disabled as the first five should have been, some of them were already firing back—albeit poorly—which was a very bad sign. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was because two of them hadn’t been injured at all by the shots I’d immediately delivered. In fact, the blond one I specifically recalled shooting in the face didn’t appear to have so much as a scratch on him—which was impossible. I knew I hadn’t missed.
Wyatt had learned abroad that werelocks were a virtually indestructible form of werewolf. I had an unsettling feeling that I was staring at my first werelock opponent in the flesh. But I had to be sure.
I had three bullets left before I’d need to insert a new clip, and just a few more seconds before the effects of the stun grenade would wear off. I shot the same blond wolf in the face again, just as he was taking unsteady aim in my direction. To my horror, he jerked his head only slightly as the bullet hit his cheek … and bounced right off. Then he swatted the air in front of him as if he were shooing at a fly.
It was time to run.
I dove across the sidewalk and took off at a sprint down the alleyway adjacent to the diner. Behind me, I caught the sound of squealing tires peeling away from pavement. I prayed it was Wyatt regaining his common sense.
Five blocks. I could make it five blocks to the parking structure. I was a fast runner. The werewolves would be slower, recovering from the flashbang. And they couldn’t scent me. Two of the first five were most likely werelocks, which was bad news. I didn’t know the status of the other three yet.
My canines extended as I ran, as did my claws.
Don’t shift.
Don’t drop the gun.
I didn’t have a change of clothes, and I desperately needed the contents in my backpack that was still strapped to the front of my chest. Although it was night and few humans were about, shifting would complicate everything.
I cut down a side street before racing through another dark alley in an effort to throw them off. Three more blocks. I would make it.
The growl coming from the three-story building above me said otherwise. As did the claws that raked down my back a moment later as a werewolf descended from above and attacked—not in human form.
My leather jacket was shredded like paper as claws sliced the skin from my back. I ignored it. Barely felt it. The burning pain was all but blocked by the rush of adrenaline coursing through me. I knew my back would heal. The more pressing issue was the paw now morphing into a hand that was squeezing around my neck as the wolf who had jumped me regained his humanoid form and took me to the ground.
The contents of my backpack slammed unpleasantly into my ribs and stomach as I hit the pavement, facedown.
I still held my gun, though. And the awkward positioning of the backpack gave me the leverage I needed to twist my arm behind me as my assailant attempted to flatten and restrain my limbs against the ground. I only had two bullets left, but I couldn’t afford to waste time on perfect blind aim with my airway blocked. I pressed the end of the barrel into whatever flesh on my attacker’s midsection I could reach and fired before he had a chance to wrest the weapon from me. He made a grunted noise of pain and surprise, and his grip went slack around my throat.
Hallelujah. He was a werewolf, not a werelock.
I threw my head back into his face. A crack sounded as my skull connected with his nose. Not enough to break it, but enough to distract him further and allow me to throw him off my person and regain my feet as multiple sets of both feet and paws beat swiftly against the pavement in our direction.
The blond werelock was in the lead and coming toward me as I stood. I had one last bullet in the current clip. So I shot at the blond werelock’s nearest companion running in wolf form beside him, banking on that one being a common werewolf and not a werelock. I aimed between the eyes, but the wolf jerked aside and I caught him in the shoulder instead.
He skidded to the ground with a howl of pain, proving my werewolf assumption right. One more momentarily down. Three more standing: two in humanoid form and one running on four paws.
We common werewolves were fastest and strongest in our canine form, so it stood to reason that werelocks were perhaps so strong and fast already that they relied less on fighting in wolf form—particularly when faced with inconvenient human territory settings. It was a fair bet the two in human form were both werelocks.
I’d no time to ponder it further, though, because the blond werelock raised his gun at me and fired. I dove to the side too late to avoid the bullet, so I was surprised when I didn’t feel the pain of a bullet wound radiating through my chest as I hit the ground.
Rejoicing in my unbelievable good luck, I looked up from the ground and caught sight of the true bearer of said “luck”—a young man standing a few paces in front of where I’d stood a moment ago. The bullet that had been meant for me bounced to a stop on the pavement next to a pair of large men’s feet encased in Vans black loafers.
What the—? Where the hell had this guy come from? It was as if he’d materialized from thin air, given how fast he had to have moved in front of me to block the bullet.
More bullets fired from the blond werelock’s weapon, only to bounce off of my would-be savior.
Great. Another werelock.
The newcomer werelock stood at six foot three, possibly taller. Densely packed muscle covered what was visible of his lean physique beneath the threadbare T-shirt and ripped jeans he wore. His short brown hair had wisps of curl to it where it was slightly overgrown on top, and his smiling jaw was covered in a layer of dark scruff. It was only that scruff and the subtle, underlying air of authority and vibration of anger emanating from him that prevented him from looking like some harmless, pretty boy-band member who’d stumbled into the wrong alleyway.
“Fifteen against one starts to look a little desperate, don’t you think?” His deep, American-accented voice was self-assured and infused with humor as he addressed the blond werelock, who seemed to have run out of bullets at last. “She’s either a very important mission for you”—he tilted his head in my direction—“or Alessandra must be paying soldiers in sexual favors again.”
Alessandra! That was it—the name of Alex Reinoso’s sister that I hadn’t been able to recall before. Wait—fifteen? There’d been eight total outside the diner, and I was down to just three plus two partially injured werewolves now.
But as I quickly recounted them in my head, more werewolves that I hadn’t scented before leapt down from the three-story building above and into the alleyway to surround the newcomer. Ten of them.
Shit.
Strangely, the newcomer appeared indifferent, perhaps entertained by this development, whereas the blond werelock smelled increasingly anxious, his eyes locked squarely on the casually dressed werelock opponent in front of him. An opponent who looked as if he’d just strolled off a beach somewhere to join in this supernatural alley brawl. In fact, I was pretty sure he had done exactly that somehow as I caught the faint scent of saltwater clinging to his hair and skin. Along with … was that surfboard wax I smelled?
“A word of advice,” the pretty-boy surfer werelock told the blond one. “I’d retreat now if I were you. Her majesty’s cunt never quite lived up to the legend that preceded it for me. Certainly, it’s not worth dying for, my man.”
Internally, I rolled my eyes. Maybe I’d get lucky and just this once it wouldn’t be about me at all. Maybe they’d all end up fighting over the “legend” that was this Alessandra’s cunt.
The blond werelock laughed. It was more of a scoffing sound. He was nervous as hell, and there was no hiding it. I decided the surfer-slash-boy-band werelock was now the greater threat to me.
While the rest of the alley was distracted by the showdown brewing between the blond werelock and the newcomer, I opened my backpack and quickly rummaged for a fresh bullet clip.
I was not dying today.