Under the Gun Read Free Page A

this
     year the temperatures were unseasonably warm. I loved the opportunity to bare skin
     that spent the majority of time cuddled in fleece; Nina hated it. I suppose I would,
     too, if every ray of sunshine made me sizzle and smoke.
    Vampires have sun-free immortality; we breathers have flip-flops, tank tops, and skin
     cancer.
    When the morning DJs rattled off a string of hotter-than-usual temperatures for the
     rest of the week, Nina’s lip curled and her nostrils flared.
    “God, I hate global warming.”
    As we inched closer to the police station, my heartbeat started to speed up. Once
     we pulled into the lot, I was fairly certain my spasming heart would bolt right out
     of my throat. I swallowed hard and tried my most ordinary grin on Nina.
    “Did you put your jeans in the dryer again?” She cocked a quizzical eyebrow then hovered
     one perfectly manicured fingernail in front of my perma-grin. “You’re looking a little
     pinched in the face area.”
    I dialed down the grin and killed the engine.
    Though the Underworld Detection Agency is firmly hidden beneath thirty-five floors
     of earth and concrete, the very idea of it—and of me, walking through a place that
     catered to a magical, mind-reading clientele with a secret the size of the Titanic —made my heart pound and my palms sweat.
    Some days I wished I had stuck with my childhood dream of becoming an Avon lady or
     a pony.
    I closed my eyes and chanted to myself: I’m good at keeping secrets, I’m good at keeping secrets....
    And I am.
    I’ve kept the lid on the entire existence of the demon Underworld, the fact that my
     roommate is a vampire, and once, when I was on a plane from New York, the winner of American Idol . But walking through an office staffed with the undead, the unearthly, and the unable
     to keep their noses out of my 100-percent-normal, breather mind, is a different story
     entirely.
    I felt the surge of pain before I heard her voice. “Jesus crap, Nina, what the hell
     did you do that for?” I rubbed at the rapid bruise I was sure was forming on my rib
     cage where Nina had zinged me with her index finger.
    “You were doing your weird, freight-train breathing again. Are you okay?”
    “It’s called relaxation breathing, and I’m just trying to center myself.” My eyes
     darted to the police station’s double doors. “I need to act calm and normal or people
     are going to suspect something’s up.”
    Nina leaned over and pulled the biggest hat I’ve ever seen out of her shoulder bag,
     then worked to arrange it on her head. Finally she turned to me and smiled. “Soph,
     if you walk into the Underworld Detection Agency acting either calm or normal, everyone
     is going to know something is up.”
    Touché.
     
     
    Like I said, the Underworld Detection Agency is housed in the same building as the
     San Francisco Police Department, but nestled a cool thirty-five floors below. The
     thin veil that separates the “breathers” (anyone with a beating heart and the breath
     of life) and the Underworld inhabitants allows our elevators to go straight on down,
     while theirs sticks to Lower Lobby and above. Hence, the San Francisco Police Department
     doesn’t even know we’re here.
    But not many breathers do.
    My hand closed around the door handle and a shiver went through me—this one had nothing
     to do with Sampson, nothing to do with my promise. This one was all about Alex Grace.
    His face flashed in my mind: that cocky half smile, those sweet cherry lips—the surprised
     look on his face when I walked out of another man’s apartment clad in little more
     than an oversized soccer jersey and a handful of last night’s clothing.
    We’re not together; we had “the talk,” I reminded myself. I didn’t do anything wrong.
    But deep down in my gut, I was sure that I had.
    I prayed that Alex would already be in his back office, head down, working away—oblivious
     to the fact that I, Sophie Lawson, traitorous woman, walked