I shrugged and continued down the sidewalk, feeling light and silly. “You say potato ...”
Will stepped around me so he was walking closest to the curb. I stopped and snickered. “Alex does that so I don’t get mud on my petticoat.”
He looked at me skeptically. “Come again?”
“Boys from his time walk on the outside so that girls”—I thumped my chest in a most ladylike gorilla fashion—“don’t get splashed with mud from wagon wheels on their dresses.” I attempted an imaginary dress-fluttering twirl, but instead I stumbled over my own feet and landed against the cold bricks of a boarded-up Zain’s Liquors. I hiccupped and giggled, pointing at the wall. “When did that get there?”
Will wagged his head. “Let’s get you home.” In one quick move I was hanging over his shoulder, my hair flopping in my eyes, arms hanging Raggedy Ann style over my head. I was watching the sidewalk roll by ... until I realized that if I straightened up, I had a perfect view of Will’s rump, and it was quite, well, perfect.
“You know, for a Guardian you’ve got a hell of an—”
But my words were drowned out by the pop-pop-pop as it echoed through the empty city streets. I tried to straighten up, to see the car as it backfired, but Will broke into a run and my stomach thunked against his shoulder. I could feel the beer slosh around in my gut and my cheeks started to burn. I was able to crane my neck and catch the shiny wheel covers of an SUV before Will dove behind a Dumpster, both of us flopping onto the wet concrete.
“Are you okay?”
“Were those—”
There was one more echoing pop! and I saw the sweat beading above Will’s upper lip. My teeth started to chatter. “Gunshots?”
The last shot melted into squealing tires and Will pushed me back as he peered around the Dumpster. I could feel the cold wetness of the concrete seeping into the seat of my jeans, and my palms were rough and stung from hitting the ground, raking through the gravel.
“Is he gone?” I was surprised I was able to get the words out as my teeth hammered together.
“Stay back,” Will commanded.
I did as I was told, holding both my breath and my stomach. I felt my beer and potato skins climbing up my throat. “I don’t feel so good.”
Will turned back to me and did a precursory examination as he knelt beside me. “Are you okay? You weren’t hit at all?”
I shook my head, unable to talk. “Wha-wha-wha,” I mumbled dumbly.
“Don’t move. I’m going to make sure they’re gone.”
Will reached behind him and fished a gun from his waistband. I could feel myself blanch. “Since when do you carry a gun? Fire people don’t carry guns! Is it Guardian-issu—”
Will shushed me, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, parting my fingers to whisper, “I can’t believe you had that the whole time.”
He answered me with a hissed “shhh!” and crept around the Dumpster after cocking the gun once. I heard the safety slide and felt like I needed to pee. My heart thundered in my temples, replaying the rhythmic pop of every gunshot.
“Oh God,” I grumbled. It is happening again.
I could still see Will’s shoes as he crept along the side of the Dumpster, but I felt so incredibly alone. A tongue of icy cold air dipped down the back of my coat. The tears started to fall, and I darted after Will, pushing myself in front of him.
“Sophie!”
“They want me, Will. They’re after me!” I turned to him; tears and snot were mingling at my chin, and my eyes blurred. “I can’t let you get hurt, too!”
Will yanked hard on my arm and I flopped to the concrete, letting out an inelegant “oof!” as I hit the ground.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” I screamed as Will worked to still me.
“Sophie, stop!”
I finally stopped flailing and looked up at Will; he was straddling me, sitting gently on my hip bones. I sobbed miserably.
“All my friends are going to die, and it’s all because of me. I’m going to give myself up. You can’t stop me. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m going to do it!”
I was midway through my suicidal soliloquy when I realized that Will had climbed off me, tucked his gun back in his waistband, and was crouched down a few feet from me, studying the concrete.
I pushed myself up. “What are you looking at?”
“Shell casings,” he said without turning around. “Do you know what shell casings are made of?”
I shrugged, thinking back to the single shooting lesson I had with Alex a year ago. “I don’t know. Brass, right? Aren’t they usually made of brass?”
Will nodded and I crouched down next to him, following his gaze to the litter of shell casings gleaming on the wet concrete.
“They’re usually brass or aluminum.” Will picked up one of the casings and held it up between thumb and forefinger so we could both examine it. “But look. These are made of silver.”
“Silver?”
“Silver bullets.”
I felt my eyebrows go up. “Silver bullets? That’s either—”