span of time. And it was gaining.
“How did it track us in a car?” I asked.
“It was following me,” Isleen said. “I killed another this morning. I may have failed to properly wash its kin’s blood from my tires.”
“You drove over it?”
“Through it, actually.” The corners of her mouth quirked. It was almost a smile. “Hold on.”
She said it too late and yanked the wheel hard left. I slammed shoulderfirst into the impacted door. Needles of pain danced up my arm, and I cried out. My back hit the dash. I slipped and found myself in the uncomfortable position of being stuck ass-down on the floor, with my feet in the air.
“Apologies,” Isleen said.
“Is it still gaining?” I asked.
Alex peered out the rear window. “Yeah. What the hell is it?”
“No idea,” I said, tugging myself up. No small feat, given the zigzagging pattern Isleen was making through traffic. And I couldn’t imagine what passersby thought of the animal chasing our car down the street.
“It is a vampire and goblin crossbreed,” Isleen explained. Her tone remained even, without a hint of the panic that was singeing my nerves at the very idea of such a combination. “The two species are not sexually compatible, but with the advent of genetic cloning, many things are possible.”
“There’s something else in there, too. I know goblins run faster on all fours, but this thing’s got some beast in it.”
“It is possible, but I do not know its exact origin, or how many more exist.”
“Wyatt and I killed one, so that’s at least three,” I said, climbing back to a semisitting position on the front seat. “The miracle of modern science.”
“ ‘A malady of modern science’ is a more appropriate euphemism.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Got any weapons?”
“In the glove compartment.”
Naturally. I popped open the dash, expecting the customary assortment of registration papers, napkins, trash, maybe a parking ticket or two. Instead I was presented with a slim leather case containing the registration and insurance cards, and nothing else. I felt along the edge of the lining until my nails caught. I ripped it away and found three Glocks.
“Center weapon,” Isleen said. “The bullets should be able to pierce the hound’s hide.”
The gun was too heavy in my hand—a foreign object I hated using. I flicked off the safety. One centered kick popped out the fractured door window, and we left it behind on the street. Isleen made another sharp turn. I held on to the door handle this time and managed to keep my bearings.
My head, shoulders, and arms went out the window. Air blasted my hair in front of my face, creating a curtain of brown that was difficult to see through. Missing my old, short hairstyle, I took aim at the snarling hound and fired.
The bullet struck its left foreleg. Murky blood and flesh exploded from the wound. The hound wailed its pain and fury, drawing back thin lips and fixing its wild eyes on me. I aimed for those eyes. Squeezed the trigger. The car hit a pothole and bounced, and the shot went wild. My ribs slammed against the door.
“Goddamnit,” I said.
“Apologies,” Isleen replied.
From Alex, I got, “Jesus, Evy, be careful.”
Third bullet hit the same foreleg, a few inches higher. Blood trailed in a slick stream, but didn’t slow it down. Give me a blade and an open field any day. Guns were just a pain in the ass.
“Stop missing,” Isleen said.
“Would you like to do this?” I tried to get another bead on my target. The damn thing was learning, weaving now, making sure I couldn’t get him in my sights. “Shit.”
Isleen snorted—a surprising sound from her. “Hold on to something.”
The car surged forward. I clutched the smashed door so I didn’t fall out the window. We flew through an intersection to the tune of honking horns and screams. The hound leapt neatly over the hood of a braking sedan, hit the pavement, and was promptly struck head-on by a careening van. The van came to a sudden halt, but the hound’s body rolled. It came to rest against a street sign on the far curb.
An ounce of hope was quickly shredded as the hound crawled back to its feet, seemingly unfazed by its collision. It continued to track us, oblivious to the shrieking pedestrians. Every scream echoed in my ears. It was the most blatant display by a Dreg I’d ever seen. No way the brass could explain this one away.
Of course, I’d said that about the gremlin strike and been wrong.
“Didn’t work,” I said to Isleen. “Got any more ideas?”
“Just one.”
Brakes squealed. She spun the car, turning my side to face the street we’d just come down. I used the momentum to leap through the window. I tucked my head down and struck the pavement on my left shoulder, followed through with the roll, and came up unsteadily on my knees. Ungraceful by my standards, but probably the most acrobatic thing Chalice’s body had ever managed.
The world spun, but I steadied fast. The odors of burnt rubber and oil stung my nostrils, sharp and cloying and immediate. Screams faded into the distance. My vision tunneled, focusing only on the rampaging hound, leaving bloody prints everywhere it stepped. I raised the gun, using my left arm to steady it. A car horn honked somewhere, muffled and unimportant.
Down the sight of the revolver, I gazed at the hound. At its chest and hair, to the point where its heart should reside. Each step forward widened the target, but I didn’t need a large field. I had him. I felt it. I squeezed the trigger.
A dark blur on a bicycle toppled over, shrieking in pain.
I screamed. The hound leapt over the flailing biker and landed in a crouch, ready to spring. Epithets poured from my mouth, streaming faster than I could properly articulate, my fury dripping out with each syllable. The hound pounced, its massive body on a collision course with mine. I tucked and rolled without waiting, counting on the hound’s speed to carry its mass over me. Heavy feet hit the pavement. I came up and fired.
The back of the hound’s head exploded, spattering the side of the car with bone and hair and gore. Its body jerked as it fell, still fighting out of instinct even though its brain was gone. It twitched once, twice, then lay still.
“Evangeline, we must go!” Isleen shouted from the car’s interior.
Her commanding voice snapped me back. I stood, fist tight around the gun. Onlookers stared from the safety of sidewalk benches and parked cars, wide-eyed and openmouthed. Some were on their cell phones. No one made a move to help the young man on the bike, who clutched his bleeding thigh with both hands.
I’d shot an innocent.
As a Hunter, it was my duty to protect Joe Citizen. Innocent bystanders were not to become victims of the Dregs and their violence. Yet I had brought that violence on someone by my own hands. I expected revulsion, but felt only pity. Pity that, while shot and in pain, this man would never know the extent of what had happened that day. Getting shot sucked, but being ripped to shreds by a rampaging hound from Hell was a fate far worse.
“Someone call an ambulance,” I said, even as I heard the first faint sounds of sirens.
“Evangeline!”
“Evy, come on!”
Feet first, I slipped back into the car and into a spattering of dark blood. It was on the dash and the edge of the seat, the odor almost more than I could bear. Isleen sped away. I let myself fall back against the seat, still clutching the gun. The muzzle was hot; it scorched my chest. I didn’t care. The heat felt good. The sirens faded.
Alex squeezed his broad shoulders between the seats. Worry clouded his gentle eyes. He touched my cheek, featherlight. Affectionate. “You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
He took quick visual stock and seemed to realize I didn’t mean physically. I wasn’t injured. I just wasn’t okay, either.
“You didn’t shoot that man on purpose,” he said.
