Laurell Hamilton - Hit List

Edward and I both looked at Olaf, and at his wrist. It wasn’t at an odd angle, so it wasn’t a bad break, but he was holding it still, and a little stiff against his side.

“Is it broken?” Edward asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“How bad?” Edward asked.

“Not too bad.”

“Will you be able to use a gun?”

“It’s why we all practice left-handed, isn’t it?” Olaf said. Which meant no.

“Fuck,” I said.

“You didn’t mean to break his wrist, did you?” Edward asked, looking at me.

I shook my head.

“I saw in the woods how much faster you are. I think you’re stronger than you realize, too. I’d be careful how hard I hit people if I were you.” The look on his face was so not happy with me. I couldn’t blame him. I’d just crippled one of his backups, and one of our most dangerous marshals. And I hadn’t done it on purpose. I lived with, trained with, sparred with, hunted, and killed shapeshifters and vampires. When was the last time I’d worked out with someone who was human? I couldn’t remember. Shit.

“I’ll take him to the hospital,” Bernardo said, “but what do we put on the paperwork?”

“Tell them it was a lover’s quarrel,” Olaf said.

“Over my dead body,” I said.

“Eventually,” he said.

“Don’t be a sick fuck, Olaf,” I said.

“I know what I am, Anita,” he said. “It’s you who keeps fighting the truth.”

“What truth is that?” I asked.

“Don’t do this,” Edward said, and I wasn’t sure which of us he was talking to.

“You hunt and kill just like I do, like we all do. There is no one in this room who is not a murderer.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” and my voice showed the truth of it.

I had the satisfaction of Olaf looking surprised. “Then what makes you different from me?”

“I don’t enjoy killing; you do.”

“If that is the only difference between us, Anita, then we should date.”

I shook my head and stepped back. “Take him to the hospital, Bernardo; get him a cast, get him a pill, get him fixed, just get him out of here.”

Bernardo looked at Edward. He nodded and said, “Do it. Call me from the hospital and let me know how bad it is.”

Bernardo left, shaking his head. Olaf said, “I owe you for this, Anita.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked.

“Of course it is,” Edward said. “Now you get the fuck out of here. You”—he pointed at me—“stop talking to him.”

We did what Edward said. The question was, how long could I work with Olaf and not talk to him, and what would he see as payback for the wrist? Had I finally made him stop thinking of me as his girlfriend and just as a victim, or had some weird rivalry set in? Either choice was a bad one. Multiple choice should have at least one right answer, but some people only come with wrong answers. Some people are like rigged tests where you can only fail. One way or the other, I was going to fail with Olaf and one of us was going to die. Great; the Harlequin were trying to capture me, Mommie Darkest wanted to destroy my soul and take over my body, and now one of the people on our side wanted to either fuck me, kill me, or a combination of both. Could things get any worse? Wait, don’t answer that, I know the answer. The answer is always yes. It can always get worse. Right now the Harlequin hadn’t captured me, Mommie Darkest hadn’t possessed me, and Olaf and I were both still alive and hadn’t fucked each other; when I looked at it that way, it wasn’t a half bad day.

WE WERE ALL set to go hunt the bad guys our way, with muscle from home to back us, and then we both got phone calls. We were called into the office to explain ourselves. I’d never been called by any marshal brass to explain myself before. When I asked Edward if it was a first for him, too, he just nodded. We were actually going to ignore the calls, but some police officers in marked cars showed up with orders to escort us to the “meeting.”

“Who’d you piss off while I was unconscious?” I asked Edward.

“To my knowledge, I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

“I was unconscious, so it couldn’t have been me.”

He’d shrugged, and we’d gotten in his SUV to follow the nice officers to talk to our superior officer. Technically, we could have refused, but it would have put the uniformed officers in a really awkward spot. We tried to leave my homeboys out of it. Edward and I would go down to talk to the other marshals, and my guys could settle into their hotel rooms. But the uniforms had orders to bring in Marshals Forrester and Blake and the illegal backup. The moment they said it that way, we got a clue as to why we were being called to explain ourselves.

It was Marshal Raborn who had tattled on us to Teacher. It wasn’t his warrant, so it wasn’t his business. But just because it wasn’t Raborn’s warrant didn’t mean he wasn’t being a pain in our ass. He’d made enough fuss that we were back at the local marshal offices discussing things, rather than trying to track down the killers. My “illegal” backup was out in the hallway like high school kids waiting for their turn to get yelled at by the principal. It was a colossal waste of time and resources. Night would fall, the vampires would rise, and we were stuck playing departmental politics. Perfect.

“You can’t just let her bring in a bunch of hired muscle and say they represent the Marshals Service,” Raborn said. He was talking to his immediate supervisor, Marshal Rita Clark. She was tall for a woman, but not as tall as Raborn’s six feet. She was in better shape, though; there was no extra weight on her lean frame. Her brown hair was cut just above the shoulders in a careless mass of curls that was less a hairstyle and more just the way the curl worked that morning. Sun had tanned her brown and given her lines around the eyes and mouth, but they suited her, as if every smile or laugh she’d ever had was there on her face, so you just knew that she would rather laugh than frown. But the look in her gray eyes let us all know that though she preferred to laugh, she didn’t have to. The fact that she was Raborn’s boss was nice. One of the things I liked about the Marshals Service was that the normal branch had more women than any other law enforcement unit in the country. They had also been one of the first to allow women to join them. I liked that a lot.

She said, “Marshal Forrester ran their names by us before Marshal Blake’s backup landed. We’ve done background checks on all of them. They don’t have criminal records, and technically under the new law it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“It should matter,” Raborn said, and he was standing again, pacing to the side of her office, which was enough bigger than his that he had room to pace, if he was careful.

“Perhaps,” she said, watching him pace, “but the way the law is written, it doesn’t.” She looked from his nervous, angry pacing to Edward and me in the chairs in front of her desk. Edward gave her the good-ol’-boy Ted smile. I gave her calm, patient face. If I were a boss, who would I like better, the angry man pacing in the corner like a problem about to happen, or the two calm, smiling people who seemed reasonable? I knew what my vote would be, and looking into Marshal Clark’s serious gray eyes I was betting she would agree with me.

Raborn came to lean his hands on her desk and sort of loom over her. I watched her eyes narrow so the smile lines deepened. If I’d had that look aimed at me by someone who could fuck up my day, I might have backed off. “Look at them out there; they are thugs, or worse. Just because they’ve never been convicted of a crime doesn’t make them innocent.”