wasn’t anyone I knew, and there’d be less guilt on my part if I managed to smash the car into a wall and kill him. I can be mercenary, but I’m not heartless.
“It’s called reckless driving, asshole!” We were on a direct collision course with a taxi. I swerved at the last moment, swearing. The man in the back did the same, more loudly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone but him, and I’d settle for shaking him up enough that he wouldn’t chase me when I ran. “I know I’ll survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?”
“You’re going to kill us both!”
“That’s the idea!” It was actually fun, in a fatalistic sort of way. I smiled grimly as we wove in and out of traffic, watching the near misses become less miss and more near. There’s nothing like a good high-speed car chase to get the evening started off right, even if there’s technically only one car involved.
“Stop this car right now, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I turned down another one-way street. We were going with the flow of traffic this time, if you ignored the fact that I was doing ninety when everyone else was doing twenty-five. “Hit me? Honey, if you take the wheel away from your Auntie Toby while we’re going this fast, we’re both going to die—that means you and me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you’re willing to die.”
The figure in the backseat pulled back, snarling, “Pointy-eared bitch . . .”
“Actually, I’m a pointy-eared slut. Only purebloods get to be bitches.” I swerved left, and heard him hit the side panel. “Are you still not wearing your seat belt?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You’ll have to get in line.” Somehow, we’d wound up driving half on and half off the sidewalk. That was fine by me, as long as the pedestrians kept getting out of our way.
This time he just snarled. Fine. He was getting pissed and I was getting tired, and it was time to stop. I slammed my foot down on the brake, bringing the VW to a screeching halt as I undid my seat belt with one hand. The shocks were definitely going to be a write-off, but it was almost worth it—I hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
My unwelcome passenger hit the back of my seat with a resounding thump. I caught a brief glimpse of his angry snarl, thin lips drawn back from oversized yellow teeth, before I was out the door and on my way down the street, not looking back.
Fear and adrenaline are a runner’s best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man’s voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn’t going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs—they don’t attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they’d tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I’d be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.
The bullet hit the back of my left shoulder just above the collarbone. I screamed, staggered, and forced myself to keep going. It took a second for the pain to settle down into a single throbbing ache, one that broadcast, loud and clear, the fact that I had bigger issues than the fact that a hired thug was taking shots at me in the middle of a San Francisco street: The bullet had been made of iron. I could feel the burning its passage left behind, and I focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron . . . nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening’s death. I didn’t need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.
The street was almost deserted—just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther