Bittersweet Blood (The Order #1)

“Really?”


“Of course, you need to be able to hit something first.”

She held the gun out as she had seen people do on the TV, holding it at arm’s length and sighting down the barrel. “How hard can it be?”

“Let’s go see. The shooting range is right next door, unless you want us to go out and find you a demon.”

“The range will do for now.”

Tara followed him into a long room almost bare of furniture.

Carl took the gun from her. “You need to insert the magazine, like so. Then to load the chamber you pull back the slide, like this” —he demonstrated— “and release it. Easy. Here you go.”

He removed the magazine and bullet and handed the gun and ammunition to Tara. She slotted the magazine, chambered the bullet, and grinned. Carl grasped her wrist, and pressed her hand downward so the gun was aimed for the floor. “Which leads us to the most important rule of all. Never aim your gun at anything you aren’t willing to kill.”

“Oh.”

“Take out the bullets. We’ll have a go without them first.”

He stood right behind her. “Now,” he murmured into her ear, “grip your pistol firm in both hands, but keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” His hands rested on her shoulders, he was so close she could feel the heat of his body through their clothes, and a prickle of awareness ran through her.

“Your feet should be shoulder width apart,” Carl slipped a leg between hers and nudged them apart. “Stretch out your arms, and lean slightly forward, but stay balanced. Now take a deep breath, exhale halfway, hold it, and squeeze the trigger.”

She squeezed, the pistol made a slight clicking noise.

“Okay, let’s try it with bullets. Load up.”

She took the magazine from him and reloaded while he pressed a button. Halfway down the room, a target swung into position. Carl stepped back from her this time, and she took up the stance he had shown her, arms outstretched, feet apart. She closed one eye, sighted down the line of the pistol, took a deep breath, and squeezed. Her whole body jumped at the explosion of noise, and her finger seemed stuck to the trigger. She kept squeezing but at least she was facing the right way.

After what seemed like an age, she felt hands on her shoulders. “Relax, Tara, let go of the trigger.”

Somehow, she managed to relax her finger. Her eyes were screwed tight shut and her arms trembled. She dropped them slowly to her sides, and opened her eyes.

“Did I hit anything?” she asked.

“Probably, but certainly not the target.”

“Oh.” Perhaps this was harder than she’d anticipated. Graham was standing in the corner, grinning. He held Smokey, the cat’s head hidden in the crook of his elbow. She scowled at the pair of them.

“Okay,” Carl said. “Let’s go again and Tara—”

“Yes?”

“Try not to panic, this time.”

The second time wasn’t much better, but at least she kept her eyes open through the whole thing and saw the bullets miss the target.

She stared at the pistol in disgust. “I think it might be broken.”

Carl took the gun from her hand, spun round, and shot a bullet into the center of the target without even aiming.

“Show-off,” she muttered as he handed her the gun back.

After half an hour, Tara hit somewhere on the target every time. She was moderately pleased and didn’t feel quite so helpless. Her hand ached, and she handed the gun over with a sigh of relief. Carl emptied the bullets, slotted it into a holster, and gave it back.

He took her hand and massaged the fingers.

“My advice is, lull them into a false sense of security—”

“How?” Tara interrupted.

Carl eyes drifted over her. “I don’t think that’s going to be the problem. Just let them get right up close, and then blow them to bits.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been kind.”

His eyes were half-closed, a small smile playing across his lips. “Honey, I am never kind.” He took her hand, brought it to his face as he had earlier and breathed in. “If you need any more lessons, guns, knives, hand to hand” —he stroked his thumb over her palm as he spoke, and Tara shivered as sensation shot through her— “just let me know.”

“What was it with you and the werewolf?” Graham said as they got into the elevator. “All that hand holding shit.”

Tara rubbed her hand down her thigh; it still tingled where Carl had touched it. “I was just saying thank you.”

“Well, don’t say thank you where Christian can see.” He looked at her for a moment. “Carl probably just wants to wind him up.”

“Is that wise?”

“Hey we’re talking about a werewolf here. I’m not sure ‘wise’ comes into their decision-making process. He likes Christian, respects him, otherwise he wouldn’t work here, but there’s still friction between the two of them.”