Hit List by Laurell K. Hamilton

asked.
    “It’s multiple wounds, which means it wasn’t a blade. He used claws.”
    “Powerful enough shapeshifter to change just his hands,” Edward said.
    “Yes.”
    “They’re all going to be that powerful,” he said.
    “I know.” I got towels from the bathroom to press against the wounds. “These are punctures. If they’re deep, her chances of catching lycanthropy are higher.”
    “You’ll have to tell the EMTs when they get here.”
    “I know.” I pressed the towels against the wound and tried to stop the bleeding. Edward kept holding her up and trying to keep her neck from moving. It was the best we could do until the medics got here.
    “What’s our way?” I asked.
    “What?” he asked.
    “You said we’d be able to hunt them our way now. What’s our way?”
    “Violent, and very, very final.”
    I looked at him over Laila’s unconscious body. My hands were already soaked with her blood. I was kneeling in it. “Did you see the speed of the thing?”
    “Incredible.”
    “How do we kill that speed?”
    “Wound it, then chop it up.” He sounded eager.
    “I’m scared, Edward.”
    He looked at me, his eyes empty and cold as a winter’s moon. “I’m not.” I guess he meant it to be comforting, and I guess maybe it was.

6
     
    ONE OF THE good things about wearing the tight, tiny jammies was that no blood had gotten on them. Edward had had to give up his boxers to go into a baggie for the lab. They had let him put on shorts and a T-shirt since his room wasn’t a crime scene. Until the techs were done, my room was off limits. But neither of us had gotten to clean off the blood yet. My jammies were blood free, but the rest of me wasn’t. I had blood on my legs from the knees down, and on my arms nearly to the elbow on one side. Forensic techs had taken samples of the blood on little swabs but hadn’t let me clean up yet. The blood was drying and had that crinkly feeling to it like it always did, as if I could feel it adhering to my skin. I was never sure if that was a sensory illusion or if I could really feel it drying. Either way, I could feel the blood almost catching on my skin every time I moved just right. I wanted a shower. They had given me a blanket to hold around my shoulders in the chill of the night air, but the cement of the open balcony area was damn cold under bare feet. It was also awkward holding my gun in one hand while trying to hold the blanket in place. Detective Lorenzo had offered to let me put my gun in Edward’s room since the crime scene techs weren’t in there, but I’d declined. The Harlequin had tried to kidnap me tonight; I wanted a gun.
    Detective Lorenzo was taller than me, but only an inch or so taller than Edward, about five-nine. His hair was thick, and though cut short it had waves to it. He’d have had to shave his head to not have waves, so that, though short, his hair would never be neat. His eyes were a dark, even brown, his face open and friendly, and cute in that boy-next-door way. He was probably thirty because of the detective shield, but he didn’t look it. There was some bulk under the suit that let me know either he had naturally good shoulders or he hit the gym, or maybe both. He’d been one of the detectives called to the crime scene before everyone was certain it was part of an ongoing federal investigation. Technically the Marshals Service could have kept him out of things, but most of us tried not to alienate the local police if we could help it. The preternatural branch especially ended up being alone a lot in the field. We relied on local police more than most other federal officers, even the rest of the Marshals Service. One of the nicknames among other cops for the preternatural branch was “lone wolf.” On the radio they’d say, “We’ve got a lone wolf on site.” I wondered how the nickname worked when there were this many of us. Can you say “lone wolves” and not sound silly?
    Marshal Raborn was taller than all of us,