On the Prowl by Patricia Briggs

Author:Patricia Briggs [Briggs, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, General, Romance, Fiction - Romance, Romance - Fantasy, Short Stories, Novels; other prose & writers, Science Fiction And Fantasy, Paranormal, Occult fiction, Romance & Sagas, Horror fiction, Fantasy - Short Stories, Occult fiction; American, Short Story, Romance suspense fiction
ISBN: 9780425216590
Publisher: Berkley Books
Published: 2007-08-07T03:39:52+00:00

Chapter 3

IT had been a long time since he'd been shot, but the sizzling burn of the silver bullet was still familiar. He hadn't been quite fast enough—and the crowd of people made sure that he couldn't go after the car that had taken off as soon as the gun had fired. He hadn't even gotten a good look at the shooter, just an impression.

"Charles?" Beneath him, Anna's eyes were black with shock and she patted his shoulders.

"Was someone shooting at us? Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, though he couldn't really assess the damage until he moved, which he didn't want to much.

"Stay where you are until I can get a look," said a firm voice. "I'm an EMT."

The command in the EMT's voice forced Charles to move—he didn't take orders from anyone except his father. He pushed himself off of Anna and got to his feet, then leaned down and grabbed her hand to pull her up from the frozen sidewalk.

"Damn it, man, you're bleeding. Don't be stupid," snapped the stranger. "Sit down."

Being shot had enraged the wolf in him, and Charles turned to snarl at the EMT, a competent-looking middle-aged man with sandy hair and a graying red moustache.

Then Anna squeezed his hand, which she still held, and said, "Thank you," to the EMT and then to Charles "Let him take a look"—and he was able to hold back the snarl.

He did growl low in his throat, though, when the stranger looked at his wound: never show weakness to a possible enemy. He felt too exposed on the sidewalk, too many people were looking at him—they had acquired quite an audience.

"Ignore him," Anna told the EMT. "He gets grumpy when he's hurt."

George, the werewolf who owned the restaurant, brought out a chair for him to sit on.

Someone had called the police; two cars came with flashing lights and sirens that hurt his ears, followed by an ambulance.

The bullet had cut through skin and a fine layer of muscle across the back of his shoulders without doing a lot of damage, he was told. Did he have any enemies? It was Anna who told them that he'd just flown in from Montana, that it must have been just a drive-by shooting, though this wasn't the usual neighborhood for that kind of crime.

If the cop had had a werewolf's nose, he would never have let her lie pass. He was a seasoned cop, however, and her answer made him a little uneasy. But when Charles showed him his Montana driver's license, he relaxed.

Anna's presence allowed Charles to submit to cleaning and bandaging and questioning, but nothing would make him get into an ambulance and be dragged to a hospital, even though silver-bullet wounds healed human-slow. Even now he could feel the hot ache of the silver as it seeped into his muscles.

While he sat beneath the hands of strangers and fought not to loose control, he couldn't get the image of the shooter out of his head. He'd looked

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