“Vampire, Trans Am, handgun.”
“He shot you?” Mallory said, horror on her face.
“That was the handgun part. And I’m fine. Nurse Sullivan fixed it up.” Nurse Darth Sullivan, I thought, wondering if he’d pulled the fabric tight enough to cut off my circulation completely. But since I didn’t think I was playing my best snark game at this point, I kept the insult to myself.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
She showed me her skinned elbow. “And sore rump, but otherwise fine. It’s not every day you get elbowed by a murderer.”
“He got away?” Catcher asked.
“That was the Trans Am part,” Ethan said. “I can describe the vehicle, but it didn’t have plates, so there won’t be much to go on. And we didn’t get a good look at his face. White male, probably six feet tall. Slender. Dark hair, thick beard.”
Mallory must have noticed my worried expression. “You sure you’re all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I assured her. Or would be, as soon as my arm began to heal. The pain had already changed, from a sharp-edged sting to a throbbing, dull ache.
We turned our attention to the man on the ground.
Shifters could heal human injuries if they shifted into their respective animal forms. If they were capable of shifting. I guessed the victim hadn’t been able to manage it.
“He wasn’t here very long before you left,” Catcher said. “He was still warm.”
“I felt some kind of magic,” Mallory said, looking down at him. “I don’t know what it was, but there was something here.”
There was no outward sign of magic here—just the shifter and the vampire. Ethan looked at her quizzically. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”
She shook her head, blew out a breath through pursed lips. “No. Never. And I gotta say, it’s freaking me out a little bit. I’m not sure I want to be the girl who can suddenly sense death.” She put a hand on her chest, her mouth screwed into an “O” of horror. “Oh my God, what if I’m the new Grim Reaper?”
“You aren’t the new Grim Reaper,” I said. “And not to be more grim, but there are a lot of people on the planet, and I’m pretty sure someone is always dying. Can you feel anybody else?”
Mallory blinked. “Well, no, now that you mention it. Which is a relief.”
“So you felt it because of this shifter’s proximity,” Ethan said, “or his magic.” He glanced at Catcher. “Did you feel anything?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t. But she’s more sensitive than I am that way. Which is fine by me. We called Chuck,” he added.
My grandfather, Chuck Merit, was Chicago’s supernatural Ombudsman, a human who acted as a liaison between the Chicago Police Department and the city’s magical populations. Catcher was one of his employees, as was Jeff Christopher, a tech-savvy shifter and mostly white-hat hacker.
“We called Gabriel, too,” Catcher added. “That seemed like the best thing to do, all things considered.”
Ethan nodded. Gabriel Keene was the Apex of the North America Central Pack of shifters. This shifter was in his territory, so he was most likely one of Gabe’s people.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Catcher put a protective arm around Mallory, pulled her closer. But she wouldn’t have anything to fear from Gabe. He’d sheltered her, retrained her, after her addiction to black magic threatened to destroy her.
Sorcerer and shifter had become allies, too. And now a vampire threatened to strain the Pack’s relationship with all of us.
I’d like to have a look around the alley, I told Ethan. Why don’t you stay here with them? I glanced back at the ever-growing crowd. The fewer people milling around in whatever evidence is around here, the better.
That’s a good thought, Ethan said with a nod, and pulled a pocket-sized black flashlight from his pocket, handed it to me. It wasn’t a Cubs flashlight, but it would do.
“I’m going to check things out,” I said to Mallory and Catcher. At their nods, I switched on the flashlight and moved into the darkness of the alley.
I walked slowly forward, flipping the small but powerful beam back and forth across the ground. Most of it was paved, except for a short stretch behind a row of town houses. Their back doors opened onto a small strip of grass, just enough space for a barbecue grill or an area for pets to take care of business.
The usual suspects were stuck to the broken and stained concrete. Discarded paper, gum, empty plastic bottles. Farther down the alley, cars were wedged into slots only an automotive savant could squeeze into. Bikes were locked onto a forest green rack bolted into the ground, and the smell of beer and fried food lingered above the insistent smell of death.
The railroad trestles rested on square concrete pedestals. The beam of light flickered across one, highlighting what, at first glance, I’d thought was a graffiti tag. But there seemed to be more letters than the few that usually made up a sprayed tag.