“There’s another shooter,” I tell them. “He’s on the second floor. He’s got an AK-47.”
Karen flashes me a look of hatred before exiting with her psycho son, who has been loaded onto a stretcher. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at her. Her precious baby had nearly shot me in the damn face.
Gods, humans could be so fucking crazy sometimes.
The swat team splits into groups, some taking the stairs we’d just come down, and others heading toward the other staircase.
The rest of us file out the lobby doors, where the summer sun shines on indifferently. A few people are sobbing, while others look as shocked as an outlet.
We are greeted by a host of red and blue flashing lights, guns pointing in our direction, and cops shouting orders.
We comply and are soon deemed not to be a threat.
Then there is nothing to do but stand there and wait while the police do their thing.
Lucy joins me on the sidewalk across the street from our building, the only person who will approach me, as if I was the one toting a gun in the office. The two of us stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the rest of the situation unfold.
More co-workers run out of the building, and Lucy and I sigh in relief as we confirm certain people are safe.
Then, it hits me, and I feel like a shithead for not thinking of him sooner.
Grayson is not out here.
Which means he’s still inside the building.
Maybe it makes me a real butthole, but other than Lucy, I’d trade any one of these people for Grayson James.
I’d met a lot of people in my life, both humans and supes, and Grayson was among the most good-hearted of them all. He didn’t deserve to be gunned down by some vengeful husband and his brainwashed son.
I’m not the praying type, but I send up a prayer to any God that is listening to please let Grayson James be safe. Take one of these other fools, but not Grayson—not sweet, loving Grayson.
The time keeps ticking, and still Grayson does not emerge from the building. With every person that does who isn’t him, my anxiety increases.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Lucy says. “Probably found somewhere to hide.”
But I can hear the doubt in her tone, and her face says she can hear it, too.
After Gods know how much time, the swat team begins to emerge from the front doors, and just from the set of their shoulders, I can tell that they’ve cleared the building.
Then anger rushes through me as I see them leading the other gunman—who is indeed Karen Stansel’s husband—out in zip-tie cuffs. The hatred on the man’s face is hot enough to scorch. I can feel it in my own soul.
It’s amazing to me that these boys in blue can manage to subdue the shooter without lethal force, when my kind were getting shot during simple traffic stops what seemed like every other day.
Fucked up ass world we lived in, that was for sure.
And where the fuck was Grayson?
The next people to exit the building are the medics—the ones rolling stretchers with bodybags.
It takes everything in me not to rush up to them and unzip the bags to see for myself.
One bag.
Then two.
Then three, and four.
No way Grayson James was in one of them. No fucking way.
The death toll continues to climb, not stopping until it reaches fourteen. I realize belatedly that even if the people in those bodybags are not Grayson, they are still people I know, people with whole lives and families who love them.
The most chilling part of all is the ringing of the cellphones coming from within the bodybags. No doubt the news of the situation has spread—what with the vulture-like news crews already surrounding the area—and those ringtones are loved ones trying to get through to make sure their person is safe.
But their person is not safe.
The phones keep ringing and ringing and ringing.
And then I hear it.
A familiar whistle that I’d heard a hundred times before, when Grayson would get a text message.
Coming from one of the bodybags.
11
4:35 p.m.
Fuck this whole day and the horse it rode in on.
I stare into my cup of tea, unable to make sense of any of it.
Grayson James, along with thirteen other people, is dead.
I sit on my couch in my sweatpants, wondering at the way life goes on after events like the ones today. The feeling takes me back to childhood, back to when I’d lost both of my parents in a feud between packs that had claimed not just their lives, but the lives of many wolves.
A knock at my door startles me, my heart jumping out of my chest before I can grab a hold of myself. I stare at the door for a moment, and then sigh when I realize who the caller is.
“Let me in, little wolf,” he says, speaking to me in the telepathic manner my kind share. It’s an adaptation that serves us well when we are in our animal forms, so that we can still communicate with words despite the lack of human vocal cords.
I get up and open the door, looking rather pathetic in my huge socks and sweats, a gray blanket draped over my shoulders.
Akim Algernon stands there, his handsome face as inscrutable as ever, but tension strings his wide shoulders. He looks down at me from his taller height, his muscular form filling the doorway, the simple black t-shirt he wears stretching over his chest and biceps attractively.
The two of us have been mated since we were children, but I’ve always kept him at a distance, have never involved myself with him physically or romantically. I don’t care what tradition says; I don’t need a male to be whole, and I never will.
So, sucks for him.
Knowing this, Akim had backed off years ago, never pushing me, until I was pretty sure
