Bonedust

locked the door behind him. “What you need?”
    “A gun,” he said. “And ammo. Silver bullets.”
    “You hunt werewolves?”
    “Vampires.”
    The man chortled, shaking his head. “You crazy bastard.” He motioned to the glass display case between them, flicking on a light. Fluorescents gleamed in washed-out white against steel.
    Gabriel placed his hands on the case and looked down, inspecting them. They varied in size, shape, and color. His palms squeaked against the glass, leaving smears of sweat. His head spun as he squinted at them. “I don’t know guns. Which one will work?”
    “They all work.” The man—whose nametag read Paba—smirked and Gabriel scowled. Great, just what he needed, a smart ass with a case full of guns. He kept his tongue against his teeth and shrugged, pointing to a small gun. “Ah, has lotsa kick. Blow vamp brains everrrywhere, but trick is: Aim for the heart. Heart shot, then skkkkk.” He made a throat-cutting motion. “Sever the head, burn the body. Voila. Barbeque vamp.”
    “Thanks for that lovely mental image.” But Gabriel smiled. He’d love to watch Jeremie burn, slough to ashes and flutter away on the wind. It was almost too beautiful a death for the cruel bastard. “I’ll take it.”
    Paba removed it and slid it across the case to him. Gabriel touched it gently, stroking fingertips down the sleek surface. Paba then instructed him on how to load, aim, and fire the little weapon and slapped a box of gleaming silver bullets onto the glass top. “Seven zael times two.”
    Fourteen zaels… Damn. But he needed protection—even if he’d never fired a gun before in his entire life. There was no need for a slave to have a gun, after all. He fished out the zaels and lay them down on the counter top. Paba rang him up and handed him a leather holster hanging on a hook on the shelf behind him. Gabriel fiddled with it before Paba sighed, muttered something in another language, and helped hook him up.
    Gabriel walked out of Umbra Ammo with the box in his pocket and the gun sitting snugly at his side, half-obscured by the length of his shirt.
    He stared down at the smeared numbers on the back of his hand, to where they trailed up his arm to his elbow, making a sleeve of ink. They swirled together, mingling amongst each other. Gabriel was so tempted to just find a call and dial the numbers, dial them in order, just to hear Urban’s voice on the other end of the line.
    He decided against it. Shaking his head, he skirted into one of the other shops in Battery City, spending what little he had left on an extra set of clothes and a bag full of non-perishable food that should last him a few days if he didn’t eat like a starving man. His stomach growled hungrily by the time he reached Room 4 and he locked the door before setting everything down on the bed.
    He fished out a big bag of meat jerky. It was heaven on his tongue—sweet spices and salty goodness wrapped up in one. He chewed thoughtfully, leaning back against the pillow. He slid the gun onto the night stand, where he could reach it in an emergency. He ate an apple, then a handful of crackers, and his stomach finally stopped gnawing at him.
    Crickets chirped outside his window, reminding him painfully of the darkness outside. He watched the window like a neurotic dirgehound, jumping at every little thing passing by, certain it was Jeremie. Now that he had a full night—or rather, day—of sleep, he was watchful. And scared. He didn’t dare shut his eyes, hated having to blink. The vampire could be upon him in a matter of terrifying seconds. Oh, Jeremie wouldn’t kill him—but it wasn’t death that Gabriel feared.
    Plus he didn’t like being alone.
    Again, his eyes trailed down to his arm. Goddess, he’d feel so much better with Urban at his side to play bodyguard. He’d stopped that wolf from killing Gabriel in a single shot, but he’d been on the job and Gabriel only had a few coins left to his name. He couldn’t hire the man without money.
    Running a hand through his hair, he stood and began to pace circles in the small room. He rubbed his face, fingers dancing along stubble. With a huff, he headed into the bathroom. Behind the mirror, he found a half used can of shaving cream and a bag of razors. Shutting the door behind him, he got to work.
    He dried off his face and glanced up, into the face of his reflection. Despite the full day of sleep, he had dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked pale and