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The music coming through my car stereo was slow, Waits singing “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You”, which was sweet and melodic. The pounding of my pulse in my ear bumped the tempo up a few notches, and my mind was racing.
The car slammed into me again, and I yelped. At least no one was in the car with me to see how pathetic I was in a time of panic. Some badass werewolf leader I would make.
Gritting my teeth, I scolded myself for letting my concentration drift. It wouldn’t matter how tough I was or wasn’t if this guy succeeded in killing me. The itch in my palm was a sign of magic, but as I tried to conjure a ward, he hit me a third time, making me lose my place in the spell. This was hopeless. I needed to be able to concentrate to perform magic, and he wasn’t giving me enough time.
Spotting a flash of daytime headlights in the distance, I had a truly terrible idea, one so idiotic it might be perfect.
I veered into the opposite lane, and the sedan followed me, scraping against my bumper, making my car jerk spastically. I was grateful for small favors because my attacker hadn’t opted for a higher car. There was no chance he’d be able to see around me thanks to how closely he
was hugging my ass.
The lights in the distance drew nearer, and I sucked in a breath, issuing a silent prayer to the gods. It was a big gray delivery van, and hopefully the driver had quick reflexes, otherwise we were all in trouble. The van’s horn blared, and I yanked the steering wheel at the last second, hauling my car back into the right lane. The sedan wasn’t as lucky, not expecting the van to be there when I pulled aside.
Both the van and the car swerved, and I slammed on my brakes, sending gravel flying as I hit the shoulder. Tires squealed from all three vehicles, and my car came to an abrupt stop, dust settling around me like smoke. The van skidded to a halt next to the edge of the ditch. The sedan spun around in a full 360-degree turn and came to a stop facing me from a hundred yards away. I got a good look at the driver, a clean-cut blond man in his early fifties. His cold stare showed bitter rage and the unspoken promise that our business together wasn’t through.
He restarted his car and reversed hard, sending more dust and gravel spitting out before he spun back onto the highway and hauled ass out of sight. I memorized his plate number, for all the good it would do me.
A tap on my window made me scream.
The driver of the van was standing beside my door, wearing a pissed-off expression. I considered going for the gun in my glove compartment, but this guy’s bad mood was the least of my worries at this point. My better option would be to play the sympathy card.
I burst out into tears, cupping my face and letting my shoulders tremble with exaggerated hiccups. I rolled down the window and between shaky breaths I said, “Th-thank God. I thought he was going to k-kill me.” I gave the van driver my best wide-eyed innocent expression, hoping my eyes had changed to that really dark shade of green that I’d been told made me look extra sad. Cash once said they turned almost emerald when I was in a foul mood, but normally they were a bright shade similar to celery.
“You okay?” All his rage vanished, and he had the nervous look of worry men often got when they saw a woman cry. Most guys didn’t know how to deal with a sobbing woman, and I was hoping for that kind of uncertain footing.
I opened the door, and he stepped back. He was a big guy, with a round belly and a huge bushy beard growing well past his chin. Under different circumstances he might have been imposing, but he smelled human, and that alone put me at ease. One man I could handle, even if he did decide to try something, but his manner led me to think I was safe enough to assess the damage on my car.
Both of the passenger-side tires were flat as pancakes. Glass glittered up from the gravel at me mockingly. Of course. And me with only one spare. Scooting to the back of the car, I let out a genuine gasp. The whole tail end of the Dart was scraped bare, with a dent nudging the trunk in. The bumper was damn near ready to come off. The man in the black car hadn’t been screwing around.
“Jesus,” the bearded driver said, coming to stand next to me. “That other guy did this?”
I nodded, brushing the warm metal of the trunk with my fingertips. Someone had wanted me dead really badly.
Chapter Four
I managed to convince the driver of the van I would be okay waiting for a tow truck on my own. Since his ride was unharmed and he had a bunch of perishable food in the back, it didn’t take much persuasion, but I could tell the idea of abandoning me bothered him. After swearing I was close to home and well armed, he agreed to leave me but made me promise I’d call his shop once I was picked up safely.
Apparently there were nice people left in the world.
I called 411 and was put through to the only garage in St. Francisville. Luck was on my side because the grumpy-sounding mechanic had no other pickups, and after taking my name and coordinates, he promised to be out to me in less than forty minutes.
I sat on the hood of my car with one of my used textbooks in my lap, trying to focus on the finer points of criminology, but I only managed to absorb every fifth word. By the time I’d read the same page ten times I shut the book with a loud snap and set it down beside me. So much for studying. The nagging worry someone might come back to finish the job was too much for me.
Playing with my phone, I debated for the millionth time whether I ought to call Uncle Callum and tell him what had happened. But the last thing I wanted was him bringing half the pack out here to protect me. It was the middle of the day, and I’d proven to the last guy that I wasn’t going to be an easy target. I doubted they’d try again so soon, and I did have a gun handy this time.
The 9mm Glock had been a gift from Secret on my nineteenth birthday. She said there might be times when magic wouldn’t be the best defense, and having a reliable gun was never a bad idea. Considering all the stuff she’d survived, I was willing to take her word for it. I didn’t particularly like guns, though, so normally I kept it in a lockbox at home.
Right now I was pretty happy I’d opted to bring it with me.
I still preferred to use magic.
For good measure I’d also cast a safety ward in a ten-foot radius around the car. I could hold it in place for as long as it took the tow truck to arrive, if I didn’t exert myself too much.
Being both a witch and a werewolf was an interesting mix, even by supernatural standards. I tried to play down my gifts when I was around the rest of the pack. My grandmother Genevieve and her mother before her, La Sorcière, were both powerful witches, and even though the gene had skipped my mother and sister, I’d gotten it full force.
Sure, having the ability to blow things up with the flick of a wrist seemed awesome, until you did it by accident while shifting into your werewolf form. Blow a few cabins up and suddenly no one trusts you. How was that fair?
I’d learned to control my magic since my Awakening—the werewolf rite of passage cubs went through at age thirteen. Now I could change form without hurting anyone, and I had figured out how to compartmentalize my gifts when I was out with the pack. In the few years since I’d returned from the swamps, the rest of Callum’s wolves had welcomed me into the fold. But if I started tossing spells around and showing off, I wasn’t sure they’d be so accommodating.
