Jeremy didn’t head straight for the figure, but circled to the left, trying to get downwind. I watched him, my gaze flicking between his dark shape and the other. It looked like a man, with an oddly shaped head, crouched on the road. His head moved, and I realized he was wearing a hat-a black bowler.

The man grunted. Then he pushed to his feet. A sharp grating sound, then the flare of a lit match. The light illuminated the bottom half of a man’s swarthy face. Thick lips, dark whiskers, a missing front tooth. The match sputtered out. Another strike of a match, then a snap as it broke and a tap-tap as the broken end hit and rebounded off the asphalt. Another grunt. Then the sound of hands rustling over fabric. Searching his pockets for more matches.

“Bloody ’ell,” he muttered in a thick English accent.

I could make out the pale moon of his face as he looked around.

“Huh,” he grunted.

A screen door slapped shut and a beam of light ping-ponged around us. I ducked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man in the street freeze.

“You there!” someone shouted.

The man wheeled and ran.

“Jeremy?” Clay hissed.

“Go,” Jeremy said.

I pushed to my feet and dashed after Clay. Jeremy called after me, as loudly as he dared. I knew I hadn’t been included in his command, but if I didn’t hear him expressly tell me to stop, then I didn’t have to obey. That was the rule. Or my interpretation of it.

When I caught up, Clay just glanced over at me and nodded, then turned his attention back to his prey. The man was heading north, moving at a slow jog. He veered out to cross the road…and ran smack into the side of a parked minivan.

The man stumbled and swore, the oath ringing down the empty street. A quick look around, to see whether he’d been heard. Clay and I stopped, frozen in place. We were both dressed in jeans and dark shirts, and the man’s gaze passed right over us.

He turned back to the minivan and put both hands out, palms first. He touched the side of the van and jerked back with a grunt, as if expecting to touch a wall of brick or wood, not steel. He looked up and down the street, his body tense, eager to be off, and yet…

He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the minivan door. His hands moved across the panel, hit the handle and stopped. His fingers traced the outline of the door handle, and he bent for a closer look but only grunted, making no move to open it. Then he straightened. His hands resumed their exploration of the door. When they reached the window, he looked closer, peering through it. Then he backpedaled, sending up another too-loud oath.

Breath tickled the top of my head and I wheeled to see Jeremy behind me.

“What should we do?” I whispered.

He hesitated, eyes on the figure, about twenty feet from us.

“Clay? Take him. Carefully, and before he reaches the main road. Elena?” He paused, then said, “Help Clay. Make sure you stay back-”

The screech of tires cut him short as a car ripped around the corner. Headlights flooded the darkened street. The man let out a wail of absolute terror and threw himself to the ground-in the middle of the road. At the last moment, the car veered around him. Someone shouted from the open passenger window.

“Go,” Jeremy hissed. “Now. Quickly.”

Clay bolted for the man, with me jogging behind. The man was still on the road, his face pressed against the asphalt. We made it halfway to him, then a second carful of teens careened around the corner. This time, the man didn’t cower in the street and wait to be mowed down. He leapt to his feet and raced for the side of the road.

From there he had two directions to choose from. One would’ve brought him straight into our arms.

He hit the sidewalk and ran in the other direction, heading north again.

Still jogging, I glanced over my shoulder at Jeremy. He hesitated, gaze meeting mine, and I was sure he was going to call me back. After a moment, he motioned for us to keep going, in silent pursuit, and head the man off someplace safe.

Parked

WE REACHED THE AUTO REPAIR SHOP ON THE CORNER JUST as the man crossed the road. He paused and stared up at the replica gaslight streetlamps, then squinted down the street. Clay glanced at me, but I shook my head. Too public.

Seconds later, the man took off again, darting down a narrow road between two yellow brick houses. Before we could sprint across, a short line of cars, released from the stoplight, reached the corner. I bounced on the balls of my feet, leaning and ducking, trying to track the man’s figure as he disappeared down the dark road. The moment the last car passed, we dashed off the curb and to the other side.

He was gone. As Clay raced down the narrow road, I slowed and took a deep breath, getting the scent. Then I followed. When I hit an alley between two tall buildings, the trail ended. I whistled, and veered without waiting to make sure Clay understood. He would.

The alley was clogged with garbage bags, stinking in the summer heat. I skirted around them, and the rows of gray and blue recycling bins, and came out on the east side of Sherbourne. As I paused to find the man’s scent under the stench of the busy street and the garbage, Clay tapped my back, grunted “there,” pointed across the road and strode past me. At this hour, the four-lane road was quiet, and we crossed easily, earning only one polite warning honk from an oncoming driver.

On the other side was a block-sized park surrounding the square-domed Allan Gardens Conservatory. That’s where our target was heading, straight down the rose-lined walkway to the glass building.

Clay glanced at me for instructions. That was how we worked, and it had nothing to do with dominance or power. Put Clay with a werewolf of roughly the same hierarchical position, whose judgment he trusted, and he preferred to follow orders…which was fine because I preferred to give them.