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"I'll take that one," I said, pointing to the building directly ahead as I kicked off my stilettos.
He nodded, and blurred into night. I grabbed my heels then ran with vampire speed across the road and into the office building. Hitting the guard telepathically, I made him forget he'd seen me as I ran into the nearest stairwell.
There was undoubtedly more than one set of stairs, but right now, the important thing was getting to the roof as fast as possible. I could track the assassin's scent from there.
I ran up, and up. And up. Ran until my legs were on fire, my lungs burned and my stomach was doing cartwheels. Once I reached the roof, I wiped the sweat out of my eyes, then carefully opened the door. Or tried to. The damn thing was locked.
So much for not announcing my presence to the shooter.
I stepped back, and kicked the door with as much force as my quaking limbs could muster. It was apparently quite a lot, because the door crashed open. The cold night air swept in, freezing the sweat on my skin and wrapping the scent of musk and man around me. The killer was still here.
I sniffed, trying to get a sense of direction. The wind swirled, making it difficult to judge where, exactly, he was. And what he was.
Which was unusual. This shooter wasn't human, because I was sensing his presence. So why couldn't I tell which race he was?
I wrapped the shadows around me and stepped out. The dark night and the nearby lights seemed to sweep around me, and the realization that I was so very high up hit like a punch, making my stomach turn and head spin.
Then a sense of impending doom washed over me, and the sick sensations were lost under the sudden need to save myself. I dove sideways, landing with a grunt on the hard concrete, scraping skin off hands and knees. Something pinged against the metal of the door and sparks flew. The shooter had infrared sight. Swearing under my breath, I scrambled to my feet and ran like hell for the nearest cooling tower. Soft pings followed, nipping at my heels like a terrier.
Damn, damn, damn. Back pressed hard against the cooling tower's metal casing, I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying to get some air into my burning lungs. Trying to control the fear lashing at me. The harsh sounds of sirens bit across the night, mingling with the rumble of traffic. I had to get out of this building before the cops arrived. I couldn't afford to get caught up playing twenty questions.
Swallowing heavily, I concentrated on the strongest noises, zoning them into a separate section of consciousness. Then I zeroed in on the underlying, closer noises. A cricket chirruped to my left. Soft footfalls moved to my right.
I swiped at the sweat running down my face with the sleeve of my jacket, then slipped around the cooling tower and peered over the edge. Nothing but a wide expanse of concrete between me and the cooling tower where the shooter must have stood.
Though the footfalls had ceased, the scent on the wind suggested the man had moved to the rear edge of the stairwell. Maybe he was trying to get around me. Maybe he was simply trying to escape.
I retraced my steps and padded silently to the other side of the stairwell. Once I was close to the corner, I stopped and lowered my shields a little, feeling out the shooter's thoughts. Nothing. He was either mind-blind, or he was shielded against psychic intrusion.
I swore under my breath. So much for taking his mind and rendering him helpless. I'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. I risked a peek around the corner.
He was down the far end, on one knee, gun aimed at the tower he'd just vacated. Obviously, he thought me dumb.
I padded forward slowly, resisting the urge to blur and run at him with vampire speed, not wanting to risk the scream of approaching air giving him a warning.
At the last moment he sensed me anyway, turning and firing in one quick movement. The bullet nicked my shoulder, throwing me back and down, digging a trench in my skin deep enough to lose a fingertip in. Pain hit and I hissed, my vision momentarily blurred by the sting of tears. The bastard had silver bullets.
He hadn't been aiming for Quinn earlier. He'd been aiming for me or Mrs. Hunt.
The click of bullets being reloaded echoed across the night. I caught my balance and pivoted, knocking the weapon away from him. His hand darted to his back. I blurred, kicked him in the balls, then whacked one of the shoes across his jaw as he was going down. Fire leapt across his jaw, meaning the shooter was vampire, even if I hadn't sensed it.
His grunt was abruptly cut as the back of his head smashed against the concrete. His eyes rolled back and he didn't move.
Now that adrenaline had faded, the pain hit again. Swearing softly, I tugged off the dress then called to the wolf within me. Power swept around me, through me, blurring my vision, blurring the pain. But I only stayed in my alternate form for a heartbeat, then shifted back. The wound still stung like blazes, but at least the bleeding had stopped.
I re-dressed then and, holding the stilettos at the ready in case he was bluffing, walked over to the shooter. He was Caucasian, probably early twenties, with black hair, tribal tats across his cheeks, and a ring in the middle of his bottom lip. It was the ring that was the psychic shield. Obviously, someone had done a little updating since I'd last seen one.
I straddled his body, plonked down on top of him, and pressed one heel against his chest, just as a precaution. If he moved, I'd stake him, because I wasn't in the mood for a fight right now. He wouldn't die immediately, because the stiletto wasn't long enough to reach his heart from where I had it positioned. But it would give me time enough to read him. And right now, that was all that was important.
I grabbed the lip ring and roughly yanked it out. Blood spurted. He didn't flinch, meaning he was truly out of it. Not that it mattered. Now that his mind was unshielded, it was mine to play in.
Lowering my shields again, I mentally reached out, touching his thoughts, rifling his memories. He was a contract killer, and had been hired yesterday to get rid of me.
Not Mrs. Hunt. Me.
So much for Misha's damn promise that he'd keep me safe and stop the attacks.
I continued rifling through the shooter's thoughts. He didn't know who had hired him, because the hit had been arranged through an intermediary. A man who had brown eyes ringed with blue and amber, and whose face had the same sort of harsh lines as Mrs. Hunt.
