Page 8 of Peacemaker

Chapter Three

Don’t Look at Me

I dropped Derry off and headed back to Angus, music blaring, windows down, unable not to speed in the powerful SUV. For that moment, as sweet-smelling air ran exuberant fingers through my short hair, I relaxed.

My cell rang before I could return to my waiting werebull and I sighed, figuring my moment of peace was about to end.

I was right.

“Hello?” I didn’t recognize the number, but that wouldn’t keep me from answering.

“Ms. Sinclair?” The voice was young, female, and hesitant.

“Yes, this is Trinity. How can I help you?” I heard shouting in the background—and the hard voices of angry men—and fear tightened my stomach.

“Um, I’m on Clermont Street. 1352 Clermont. There’s a supernatural in trouble and I don’t like to see people being mean to one of them. I mean, they’re hurting him. The cops took his guns, which is what started it. Now there’s a whole crowd.”

I made a U-turn and kicked the gas. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I think it’ll be too late in fifteen minutes.”

“Call 911.”

“The cops are already here. They’re not doing anything.”

“Is he fighting back?” I ground my teeth as traffic thickened and slowed me down.

“Yes. And he injured a few of them. But more people…oh my God…you should hurry.”

I blasted my horn as I called Clayton. “Move,” I yelled. “Out of the way, assholes!”

“Trinity,” Clayton answered.

“You’re okay,” I said. “Can you check on Rhys and Shane?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Clermont Street,” I told him. “I need backup.”

“I’m not far from Clermont. I’ll see you there.”

I hung up and called Crawford. “Frank,” I cried, when he answered. “One of the supernats is in trouble. He’s—”

“I know. I’m on my way.”

“Call your cops and tell them to control the humans,” I barked.

Then I hung up and concentrated on getting to the city to do what I could to save a supernatural whose worth was less to the humans than a blob of rotting roadkill.

When I arrived at Clermont, I spotted a couple of cop cars parked along the street and saw a group of humans, their bodies blocking the fight.

I jumped from my car and sprinted down the sidewalk, my heart in my throat. I didn’t want to see any supernatural in trouble—but in the forefront of my mind was the terror that it was one of mine.

“Hey,” a man yelled, when I shoved him out of my way. I heard thuds of fists on flesh—I knew well the sickening sounds of a beating—and the memory of Angus being brutalized by a few savage cops battered my mind.

“Move,” I screamed, and when people got a look at my face, they made a path for me. Maybe because they knew who I was, or maybe because they wanted to see what kind of interesting new drama I would instigate.

Or maybe they just wanted me to help the victim—supernatural or not.