Another muffled report bit across the wind. The patch of deeper darkness veered sharply, and the metallic smell of blood tainted the air. The shooter had to have infrared sights—or was a vampire himself—if he was able to see Jared. A third report came, followed by a grunt that was abruptly, chillingly, cut off. The shadows concealing Jared fell away and he slumped to the ground, what was left of his thin features showing surprise.

A growl rumbled up my throat before I could stop it. I halted, hackles raised, trying to act like an everyday dog when every instinct in my wolf soul begged me to run, to bring down the quarry, to tear his flesh and his life from his body. My lips drew back into a snarl, my whole body vibrating with the force of it.

The trees moved, and a man stepped out. He was as black as the night itself, and almost as invisible as a vampire. Yet he wore no shadows, nor did he wear clothes. He was little more than an outline, a figure who had a basic shape but no distinct features.

Just like the man—the creature—who'd attacked me in the hotel room in the Blue Mountains.

Misha had once suggested that a man who leashed the secrets of genetics to make the perfect killing machine could rule the world—or make a fortune creating purpose-built assassins for those who wanted the power to take out the opposition swiftly and easily. Maybe that nightmare wasn't as far off as we'd all thought.

I didn't move, watching the specter of a man, watching the gun he held. He moved to Jared's body, kneeling carefully and feeling for a pulse. Why he bothered I had no idea—not even a vampire could survive having half his brain shot away. As he checked, he kept an eye on me, but not in a suspicious sort of way. His behavior was more that of a man who simply didn't trust—or didn't like—dogs. And the rifle—one of the new runt rifles, which had the power and the range of a rifle, but were only a little bigger than a handgun—was pointed more at the ground than me.

I stuck my nose to the dirt again, sniffing around as I checked who else was in the area. In the restaurant, people were beginning to realize something was wrong. A waiter approaching the corner table stopped abruptly, and even from where I stood, I could see the dawning horror on his face.

A sharp, almost barked, laugh bit through the night, and a rumble of anger rose up my throat again. The shooter rose, his amusement evident in the brief flash of teeth—teeth that were gray rather than white. His gaze met mine, and, for an instant, death stood before me, deciding whether I was worth killing or not. Then the stranger blinked, and the moment was gone.

The relief I felt was almost frightening. As much as my wolf spirit might want to tear this man from limb to limb, the biggest foe I'd tackled with the intention of bring down was the occasional rabbit or fox in the "back to nature" sessions Rhoan and Liander liked to drag me along to. But killing a wild animal as an animal was far different from hunting—and killing—a humanoid. That was a milestone I never wanted to reach—and the major reason for my reluctance to join the guardian ranks.

Then I remembered Genoveve. I'd maimed there, more than once, and could so easily have killed. I knew it, even if I hadn't admitted it at the time.

The shooter took the small pack from his back, broke the runt rifle into several pieces, and shoved them inside. Then he slung the pack back over his shoulder and walked away. Just another man out for a Monday night stroll.

Only this man was a shadow most wouldn't see.

I padded along after him The urge to do more than simply haunt his steps still vibrated through my muscles, but attacking him here, on a main street, simply wasn't an option. The cops had undoubtedly been called by the restaurant, and the last thing I needed was interference from them. This killer was mine to question.

He headed toward the crowded, street-cafe rife environment that was Fitzroy Street, but thankfully didn't turn into it—probably because there was no place for shadows in that brightly lit place He headed for the gardens instead, avoiding the streetlights and paralleling Beaconsfield Parade I looked past him, studying the layout. Up ahead was a rotunda—the perfect place for an ambush. Better yet, there didn't seem to be anyone close, a fact backed up by the lack of human scents on the wind But the wail of sirens could now be heard I was running out of time to do this before the cops got here and started searching the area for evidence.

I shifted shape and wrapped the shadows around me hiding my form and my nakedness The stranger glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Maybe he was a sensitive, and able to feel the caress of magic. Or maybe he was simply ensuring that he wasn't being followed.

When he neared the rotunda, I ran at him Though I made no sound, he somehow sensed my approach, because suddenly he was facing me with a knife in his hand. His growl would have made any wolf proud, and the blade cut through the night so fast it was little more than a blur I slid to a halt and sucked in my stomach. The tip of the knife burned through flesh. Only one metal had that effect on wolves. The blade was made of silver.

I dropped and pivoted, sweeping with one foot, trying to knock him off his feet. He was every bit as fast, leaping over my leg then launching himself at me. He could see me, I realized then, even though I was wrapped in shadows. I rolled under his leap, and cast the cover from me, unable to see the point of wasting energy when it wasn't helping. I lashed out again, and this time he wasn't fast enough, the blow taking him high in the thigh. He grunted, but slashed with the knife. The blade scoured my jeans, nicking my knee. I swore softly, heard his chuckle of amusement. Obviously, his makers had failed to explain that laughing at a wolf in this type of situation was never a good idea. Anger rose in a red rage, and I threw myself at him.

The move caught him by surprise, and we went down in a tangle of arms and legs. He hit the ground first, cushioning my fall, his wheeze of breath whispering dead things and sour milk past my nose. I caught the wrist holding the knife with one hand, forcing the blade well away from my body as I tried to catch his other hand. His almost featureless face stared into mine, his eyes and mouth little more than thin slashes through which only gray was evident. There was no forehead bump, no cheek definition, and no nose. Only two holes that sat in the flat of his face.

His fist thumped into my side, and breath exploded from my body. But I ignored the haze of rising pain, bringing my knee up hard and fast. Like most men, he didn't appreciate a blow to the balls, and that brief moment of utter pain was long enough to hit him unhindered—and as hard as I could—across the jaw to knock him out.

I wrenched the knife from his nerveless fingers, and threw it as far as I could from the both of us. Then I rolled off him, and maneuvered him about until I got the pack off Inside were the various rifle bits. I reassembled it, loaded the chamber, then sat on his chest, my knees pinning his arms as I held the gun at his throat. If he knew who I was, then he'd know I was with the Directorate and more than capable of firing a weapon. And if he didn't know, then the mere fact that I'd assembled the weapon should warn him I knew how to use it.

What he wouldn't know was the fact that I had no real desire to actually use it.

He stirred. I pressed my free hand against his chin, forcing it back, thrusting the point of the rifle harder into the soft flesh of his neck.

He groined, and the thin, almost lizardlike coverings over his eyes flickered open.

"Don't move," I warned, jabbing with the weapon.

Death was back in his gray gaze. "I can't tell you anything."

I raised an eyebrow. "And I'm so believing that."