Hunter's Trail

The werewolf was pressing down on Jesse’s throat, but not quite hard enough to cut off all his air. “Silver . . . bullets . . .” Jesse wheezed.

Surprised, Whittaker sprang back, twisting a little in midair to land in a graceful crouch on the bench of the picnic table. Then he remembered where he was and glanced around. Jesse did too.

No one was watching. Nobody looked out of their windows in this neighborhood.

Jesse stood up warily, not bothering to brush the dead grass off his clothes. He kept his gun out, but pointed at the ground. “Someone . . . someone was attacked?” Whittaker said. His brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to add large numbers in his head. “She said . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

“Who’s she?” Jesse asked.

Whittaker waved a hand. “I meant your girl, Bernard,” he said offhandedly. “She didn’t say anything about attacks when we met the other night.”

Jesse studied the other man. “You’re high up in the pack,” Jesse reminded him. “If you know something . . .”

“Yeah, I’m high in the pack,” Whittaker interrupted, his voice sour. “Because I’m powerful. Too powerful, which is exactly why I’m so fucking dangerous. Nobody tells me anything.”

The werewolf seemed calmer, like his burst of rage had helped him somehow, relieved a little pressure. “Ironically,” he added, “I have much better control as a wolf. But then it becomes worse, afterward. To come back.”

Jesse could see Whittaker giving in and changing between moons, even going against his alpha . . . but his reaction to Jesse’s question hadn’t been faked. He hadn’t turned someone between moons. However, there was still the problem of Terrence Whittaker’s interest in Scarlett.

“I believe you,” Jesse said finally. “And honestly, I don’t give a shit what goes on within the pack.” He stepped closer. “But you need to stay away from Scarlett Bernard.”

Whittaker’s eyes went hollow. “She has a cure,” he said feverishly. “She can make it all go away. She could give me my life back.”

“No,” Jesse said carefully, “she can’t.” It was the truth. Scarlett might be able to change people, but it also might kill her to try. And she could never give this man back what he had lost.

Whittaker looked at him just as Riddell had, searching for signs of a lie. Jesse stared him down. Finally, without breaking eye contact, Whittaker muttered, “We’ll see. You’re just a cop. You can’t keep us away from her.”

Jesse took a deep breath, letting his senses focus on the noise of the neighborhood. He made the calculation, and decided to take the risk. “Maybe I can’t,” he said. Then Jesse raised his gun and shot Whittaker through the meatiest part of the thigh. The werewolf howled and flew to the ground like he’d been knocked down with a wrecking ball. “But I can slow you down,” Jesse added.

If Whittaker heard this, he didn’t respond, because he was busy screaming as the silver bullet burned its way through his leg. As Jesse understood it, the wound would heal slowly, at a normal human rate, at least until Whittaker changed again. And it would hurt like hell.

Jesse got back in his car to head west, back toward the 10 freeway and Scarlett. A half mile away from Terrence Whittaker’s house, though, he had to wrench the wheel to the right, pulling the car across two lanes of angry traffic. As soon as he was off the main lanes he threw open the car door and vomited all over the pavement.

So much for calculated risk.

Chapter 19

“You shot a guy?”

My voice had been too loud, and Jesse made a shushing motion with his hand. Luckily it was four thirty in the afternoon, and nobody else was seated at the little outdoor taco stand on La Cienega. I hadn’t gotten lunch yet, so this was supposed to be a working meal to compare notes on the case. At least, I had thought we were working on the case. Apparently Jesse had decided to appoint himself my own personal assassin instead.

“Just in the leg,” Jesse muttered. “It was a perfect through-and-through. Just to slow him down, buy us a little time.”

“This is not a Johnny Cash song, Jesse. You can’t just . . . shoot people who come after me,” I hissed at him. “You’re a cop.”

“I know,” Jesse said, his voice miserable. He was hunched over his untouched basket of chips and guacamole, his shoulders slumped in guilt or defeat or both.

“I didn’t ask you to step in,” I went on. I couldn’t seem to get my mouth to stop moving. “I didn’t need your help. Molly and I had it covered.”

Now Jesse looked up, his gorgeous eyes skeptical. “For how long, Scarlett? They were just going to come after you again while you weren’t with Molly. For all we know, Anastasia is waiting outside your house right now.”

“They don’t know where I live,” I retorted, trying to keep the uncertainty out of my voice. “But that’s not my point,” I added. “My point is: don’t shoot people.” I took a bite of my burrito and shook it at him for emphasis. “Use your powers for good,” I said, around a big mouthful of chicken and rice.

“It was a bad decision, okay?” he said tiredly. He poked lifelessly at the chips. “For a second there I thought I could play in their league, go on the offensive. But I didn’t become a cop so I could punish people for things they might do.”