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One of our PEACE team members, Cameron, looks down behind the unmarked Impala, where Duffy, one of our new werewolf recruits, is bleeding out.
“Everybody stay down!” I hiss.
Cameron looks down at one of the stray bullets and retrieves it, his skin burning as he picks it up. He immediately drops it.
“They’re using silver now?” He growls. “What the hell?”
Trembling, Ren charges toward the gunmen, targeting one of them as they reload.
“Wait!” I snarl.
This has all the makings of a terrible plan, but I charge in after him anyway, knowing that you do not abandon your partner in the line of duty.
Imbued with all of my rage toward Ren for doubting me, and with the possibility that Quinn too could be a target, I dash, arms extended. I knock two of the vampires down to the ground, then swoop up to knock down a third. Taking care not to splinter myself, I drive stakes into all three of them, as Ren handily disperses the fourth, knocking him to the ground.
“Still think me capable of this nonsense?” I hiss at Ren.
Before us, the doors of the warehouse remain shut, and now the internal light sources have been extinguished.
The other members of our force meet up with us there, standing before the great metal doors of the distribution center.
“Okay,” Ren whispers. “Clearly, they know we’re here, so we don’t have the element of surprise anymore. Is Duffy okay?”
“What I want to know,” Cameron says. “Who the hell put you in charge?”
Ren shakes his head.
“You know captain’s on vacation, and this whole operation was short notice,” Ren says. “We had to move fast.”
I look toward the metal doors, now opening before my eyes, and the snarling, smug, and emaciated face of Alistair Whitewood, backed up by at least a dozen men.
“Welcome,” Alistair leers. “Why don’t you come inside and let’s have a chat?”
27
QUINN
Every aching movement is a reminder of Caspian, and how he ravages me. My muscles are sore from overexertion and from tearing, Caspian having broken and reassembled me repeatedly over the past few days. It aches to bend over - it aches to walk.
But these aching movements don’t pain me, or cause me regret. Instead, I feel the bittersweet pangs of nostalgia, because I no longer feel captivated solely by a dream. These aches are tangible proof of his existence even beyond his normal trinkets.
They make me feel alive in everything I do.
“I’m gonna need you to pick up the pace, Quinn,” Rory says. Our manager stands in the back kitchen, cooking and observing us. He will jump in as needed, but he seems to prefer the allure of the ovens, especially since our cooks have repeatedly called in the past few days.
A new table of people pours into the bar. We are behind, with four tables of people still expecting their food. The room is a discordant melody of commotion, with discussion of current events and vocalized complaints filling the room.
“Is our waitress coming back? It’s been like fifteen minutes. Does she remember we’re here?”
“...hear there’s an increase in vampire attacks. Makes you wonder what the hell PEACE is doing, if they even do anything at all.”
“Maybe we should just leave?”
“...can’t believe you’re already going to college. I’m going to miss you so much.”
Normally, I enjoy hearing people’s daily accounts of their lives, because it makes me feel part of something bigger - makes what I do here seem significant. But with Caspian’s introduction into my life, I don’t feel quite so insignificant anymore. These people’s stories, as terrible as it sounds, have just become the background noise that separates my waking life from my dreaming life.
As I rush to the back, carrying the pizza that table two ordered thirty-five minutes ago to them, I imagine Caspian’s shadow, entering through the back kitchen. I imagine him seated somewhere in the crowd, debating whether to approach and ruin me, or whether to walk back out as though I hadn’t seen him.
