Under the Gun by Hannah Jayne

crime scene or the crest of forest they had just searched.
     I bobbed away from my paramedic as I tried to listen in on the officers’ conversation.
    “Desecration,” I heard. “Wild animal.”
    The paramedic turned my palms facing up and began swabbing. “Hold still,” he said
     without looking at me.
    “Who called an ambulance? I mean, those girls were already . . .” I let my voice trail
     off, unable to say the word.
    The paramedic, whose name badge said N. T ORRES, glanced through his lowered lashes at me. “I guess someone was hoping.”
    I wanted to be professional—stone-faced, matter-of-fact. But I knew that somewhere,
     someone was hoping that the police report was wrong, that the body under the sheet
     wasn’t their daughter, wasn’t their girlfriend, that she wasn’t dead. I swallowed
     back a tortured sob.
    “One sick fuck,” I heard the chief say. “Can’t possibly be human.”
    Alex turned slightly and caught me staring at him from the corner of his eye. I knew
     what he was thinking and it made my stomach burn.
    Once the chief had left, Alex came toward me. “Is she ready?”
    N. Torres nodded and I bristled.
    “ She can speak for herself.”
    Alex went on, unaffected. “Great. Are you ready?”
    “Let’s go,” I said, brushing off the back of my pants. We took a few steps. “So, what’s
     the official thought on the attacker?”
    “There isn’t one yet. Once everything gets processed, we’ll have a better idea.”
    “Okay,” I tried, “what’s the unofficial thought?”
    Alex swung his head and blew out a long breath. “I thought that one of these days
     I’d walk into a crime scene that wouldn’t surprise me. Guess today wasn’t that day.”
    I sighed. “I’ll say.”
    We walked the rest of the way up the bluff in silence. I fell behind and trailed Alex
     until we reached the crest. “Geez,” he muttered. “Doesn’t anyone work anymore?”
    I followed his gaze to the looky-loos being herded back by the police and their ineffectual
     metal fencing. The crowd size had at least doubled while we’d been checking out the
     bodies, and a steady stream of cars was clogging the street and the mouth of the parking
     lot.
    I opened my mouth to respond but froze dead when the girl at the very front of the
     crowd caught my eye. Her long, dark hair was impossibly straight and glossy, barely
     rustled by the wind. She stood still, her back ramrod straight, her knuckles white
     from her death grip on the metal top of the fence. Everything about her said she was
     ready to jump, to fight, that at the slightest provocation this woman would snap.
     Everything about her was on high alert.
    “Feng,” I whispered.
    Feng turned as though she’d heard me and her razor-sharp gaze split me in half. There
     was fire in her eyes and a determined angle to her mouth.
    “Did you say something, Lawson?”
    “Uh—” I stumbled. “Nah. Nothing.” I pulled open the car door and slid into the warm
     cab; Alex did the same. “I just think I know someone in the crowd.”
    Alex dipped his key in the ignition and the car roared to life. “Demon or breather?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Nice with the lingo. She’s a breather.” I gestured toward Feng
     with my chin. “Right there. Up front. She’s Chinese with the long hair.”
    Alex shook his head appraisingly. “She’s pretty.”
    I got a weird stab of jealously but shrugged it off. “She’s an assassin.”
    Alex clicked the engine off and he turned in his seat. “An assassin?”
    I nodded, my eyes still on Feng, who had lost interest in me and was staring back
     toward the crime scene. She looked incredibly calm and statuesque among the other
     onlookers; most were shuffling, moving, jockeying for a better view. But Feng stood
     still, her eyes focused as if she could see something no one else in the crowd could.
    I swallowed and faced Alex. “She hunts werewolves. Her family makes silver bullets
     and is responsible for