Free Under the Gun by Hannah Jayne Page A

something going on in San Francisco and as usual, I had succeeded
     in getting into the middle of it.
    By the time ChaCha and I returned to my apartment, the luscious smell of coffee had
     permeated the whole third floor. I didn’t have the vampire sense of smell that Nina
     and Vlad had, but I was almost one-hundred percent sure I smelled donuts, too. The
     kind with sprinkles.
    “Hey!” Sampson turned when I walked in the door and I had to grin. He was dressed
     in GQ pressed jeans with a dark wash, and a viciously starched button-down shirt. The thin
     red stripes of the shirt were kept clean by a frilly apron with kitschy cherries all
     over it that I had purchased in a fit of Donna Reed-dom (thankfully, that particular
     fit was fleeting).
    I was grinning at Sampson, but his smile fell when he saw me.
    “Sophie, what happened?” He rushed out of the kitchen, and I set ChaCha down and shrugged
     my shoulders.
    “Dog fight?”
    Sampson pulled a mammoth hunk of tanbark from my hair. “Someone attacked you.” He
     began untying his apron. “I knew this would happen. I knew my being here was a bad
     idea.”
    “No!” I leapt forward, wincing, putting my hand on Sampson’s forearm. “This had nothing
     to do with you.”
    Sampson’s face was hard. “I come to town, you get attacked, and it’s just a coincidence?”
    I waved a scratched-up hand. “You wouldn’t believe how often I get attacked. This
     city is really going to hell.”
    Or hell is coming to the city.
    Sampson went hands on hips. “Who did this to you, Sophie?”
    I unhooked ChaCha’s leash and hung it on the hook. “I don’t know,” I said honestly.
    “Sophie—”
    “You said yourself that the people who were after you beheaded and slaughtered the people in Anchorage. I just got a little roughed up.” I forced
     a smile, not entirely sure how the words “beheaded” and “slaughtered” fit into a pep
     talk. “Is that bacon?”
    Sampson finally relented, shaking his head. “Yeah. Coffee, first of all,” he said,
     pouring me a cup, “then eggs, bacon and—”
    “I thought I smelled—”
    Sampson flopped the oven door open, exposing a grease-stained pink bakery box. “Donuts.”
    I slid the box out of the oven and selected a donut. “You made these? Box and everything?”
     I asked with my mouth full.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
    I turned at the sound of Will’s voice behind me. “Uh,” I started. “Uhhhhhh . . .”
    Sampson brightened immediately, giving Will a curt nod. “I’m Joe. Sophie’s uncle.”
    “Right,” I said, nodding spastically and oozing relief. “Joe is my uncle. Joe, this
     is my friend, Will.”
    Sampson stuck out a hand, but Will hung back, studying Sampson and me. He stepped
     forward then and without moving his lips muttered, “If you’re here against your will,
     say spatula.”
    “Spatula?” I didn’t have time to blink or to think about the fact that I had spat
     out what Will defined as a safety word because Will was on Sampson, and ChaCha darted
     from her dog bed, yapping at the rolling cacophony of elbows and arms. Will grabbed
     Sampson in a headlock and eggs went flying. ChaCha stopped her yapping to lap them
     up and I threw myself in the middle of Sampson and Will—groans, growls, and me screaming,
     “Wait, no! Stop! I didn’t mean spatula! I didn’t mean it!”
    There was a throaty growl and then everything stopped: Will’s eyes were huge, his
     cheeks ruddy and carpet burned. His elbow was firmly clasped around Sampson’s throat
     and Sampson’s eyes were truly wild—a look I had never seen and that was all at once
     chilling and mesmerizing. White bubbles of spittle bubbled at the corner of Sampson’s
     mouth and a glistening sheen of sweat beaded on Will’s upper lip as Sampson’s arm
     clamped down hard around Will. I was kneeling on the floor, yanking on Will’s arm,
     palming Sampson’s forehead.
    “Stop it! Stop it!”
    “But I