“Buffalo.”
“Crap.” Nina shrugged. “Ordinarily, I would do anything for you, my breathy friend, but I have a date and you have an overactive imagination.” She blew me a kiss and turned on her heel, leaving in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and stale plasma.
“Don’t choke on a blood clot!” I yelled to the back of her head.
It was half past six when I processed my last intake form. For a community that still depends heavily on divination and medieval prophecies, our computer system was surprisingly up to date. Unfortunately, that date was 1992. I was ready for chocolate pinwheels and a snuggle with my trusty pup, ChaCha, and dreaming about sinking into a mountain of sweet-scented bubbles when I walked out into the parking lot, deserted except for a couple of squad cars, an abandoned Buick, and my modest Honda Accord. I sank my key into the lock when I heard a soft cry on the wind. It was mild, but loud enough to cut through the constant city din of police sirens and honking horns of tourists, and it seemed to be coming from the alleyway that separated the police station from the rest of the looming buildings on the block. My hackles went up, prickles that started at the base of my calves and stopped at the top of my head. I licked my suddenly dry lips and took my key into my hand, taking a tentative step toward the alley.
“Hello?” I asked. “Is someone there?”
I heard the distinctive crunch of feet on gravel and then another wince. As much as I wanted to avoid another naked Vlad-and-Kale situation, something inside me was drawn, desperate to help. Before I could think better of it, I ran into the alley. My footfalls echoed heavily between the buildings, and the limp wail, the crunching gravel, was gone.
“Hello?” I asked again.
My voice bounced off the wall and was cut off by my own scream.
Something hit me hard, cracking against the back of my head. I pitched forward, my palms and chest making contact with the damp cement. Beads of gravel dug into my skin. My knees throbbed and I tried to cry out a second time, but my breath was gone and my mouth was filled with the hot, metallic taste of blood. Someone yanked me, flipping me over so my tender skull smacked the cement. Bright white light burst in front of my eyes. I felt the urge to vomit, to cry, to wail, but my eyes began to focus. I saw my assailant above me, both hands hugging a sharpened dowel, both coming directly at my chest. There was an “oof!” and a scream, and the sharpened edge of the stake dug at my collarbone and slid over my breast.
“Run, Sophie!”
Will’s English accent was hot as it sliced through me and I tried to kick away, or assumed I was kicking away. I saw him dive at my attacker, heard the hollow sound of the wood dowel clunking to the ground; then I heard footfalls—hurried, echoing, as my attacker took off across the parking lot, with Will in tow. Bitter tears flooded my eyes, stinging the shallow fresh cuts on my cheeks. I looked down to where my blouse was torn. The red angry welt puckered like pressed lips underneath my collarbone.
“Are you okay?” Will asked in a breathless pant as he jogged back to me.
I pressed the pads of my fingers against the hot tear on my skin and nodded. “I think so. What was that? Why are you here?”
Will’s eyes were on my chest, on the wound. He brushed over it with his thumb and smiled up at me. “It doesn’t look so bad.”
“How did you know to come to—to my rescue?” Will clasped imaginary lapels. “I’m a Guardian, love. That’s what I do.” He plucked a piece of gravel from my hair. “And I was having a pint across the way. Can you stand?”
He offered me a hand and I pushed myself onto shaky legs.
“Now what on earth would make you step into a dark alley at night?”
My bottom lip started to tremble and all I could manage was a pitiful shrug. “Did you see who it was?”
Will wagged his head. “Bloke was fast.” He crouched, rolled the dowel toward himself, eyebrows raised. “And he tried to club you.”
I took the dowel in my hand and touched the chiseled, whittled end; then I touched the purpling wound on my chest. “No, he was trying to stake me.”
Chapter Six
I pushed open the door and Nina was under my nose in a heartbeat, coal black eyes wide and glistening, hands splayed.
“I smell blood,” she said.
“Your hair. It’s black again.”
Nina pushed a glossy chunk of her back-to-black hair over her shoulder, showing off the skinny, beaded strap of her silver evening dress.
“What happened?” Her nostrils twitched. “Why are you bleeding? Will, why is Sophie bleeding?”
Will ushered me into the house. “Someone attacked her in the alley.”
“At work?”
I nodded, and Nina used her forefinger and thumb to pull the neckline of my blouse aside, exposing the purpling wound. “What is that?”
“He—he tried to stake me,” I said, rubbing the tender scratch.