Thanks, dude.
I’m so caught up with my latest freak-out that I almost miss what the Hunter says next. “Wait. Are you like me?”
I turn back to him.Um, what?
“Um, what?” I say.
He lets go of my shoulders and points at the broken piece of wood I dropped on the floor. “Are you a vampire hunter?”
My jaw hangs stupidly.
He then gives my short, pudgy body another once-over with his eyes. “And… is it just you here?”
Well, at least he’spoliteabout his absolute and total disbelief that I would have any chance against a vampire. And he doesn’t seem to see Collin at all. Which, now that I think of it, probably means that Collin is a ghost. Thatwouldexplain how the Irish boy knew about the servant’s stairs, and maybe even how he’s creating the phantasmal images without magic. Of course, I can’t usually see dead people, let alone trip over them—fed or unfed, that’s not part of the incubus power set—which means I’ve probably just figured out what the artifact in my pocket does. For all the good it’ll do me right now.
The Monster Hunter seems to be expecting an answer, so I say, “Uh, yeah. Just me.”
His brows scrunch. “I’m a Hunter with the Peralta Clan. Who are you with?” His voice is deep and gruff, like he doesn’t use it much.
I’m not a good liar. I know this. But I also know that if you’re going to lie, you want to keep as many real details as you can. You’re much less likely to forget what you said, and when you do lie, you can really make it count.
“I’m not a Hunter. Not like you. I’m training to be a magic-using paranormal investigator. I started an investigation, looking for a missing girl, and wound up here. Ihonestly didn’t know there would be vampires. The wood was kind of… an improvised thing.”
His shoulders visibly relax as I start to make sense in his world. “Right. Well, I’ve been tracking these vamps for a while. Then I heard a scream.” His brows scrunch. “You can use magic?”
Okay… He’s clearly not a man of many words, but it sounds like hemightbe buying what I’m selling. It doesn’t seem like he suspects what I am, anyway, at least not yet—which could give me a chance. Monster Hunters might hate paranormals, but when it comes to protecting other humans, they like to think of themselves as heroes. Time to lean into that so he doesn’t look at me any more closely.
I take a step away from him, glance down, and scrub the back of my neck bashfully.
“A little. Just passive stuff. I’m not very good. If you hadn’t shown up, I would have been toast.” I widen my eyes and try to straight-up channel helpless, innocent victim. “I can’t thank you enough, dude. Yousavedme.”
The hint of a smile breaking above his valiantly strong jaw tells me I’m right on target. He tilts his head and takes me in again. I know what I must look like: short, baby-faced, sweaty hot mess—just who he’d expect to need extra help in a crisis. (What can I say? Sometimes being pathetic can work for you.)
He clasps my shoulder again with his strong grip (Gah! What is with all the touching?!) and straight-up grins. Underneath those night-vision goggles, it’s frightening. “Don’t feel bad, bro. Been in a few tough spots myself.” His eyebrows raise slightly. “Hold on! Shoulda checked. You hurt?” The fingers of his free hand reach upand quickly slide over and under my chin, which causes me immediately to jerk back in shock.
Dude! Why are you feeling up my face?!
“Sorry…” he says, quickly withdrawing his hand, embarrassed. “I just…Vampires, you know…”
Right. He just wants to make sure I don’t turnintoa monster. Because I’mtotallynot a monsterright now. And I just need to put his mind at ease about that.
“Oh, yeah, right…” I mumble, terrified that this is going to be the moment he’ll catch me out. Who knows, maybe Hunters can sense paranormals through their pores?
I tentatively expose my neck, feeling hella vulnerable, and he glides his fingers smoothly, back and forth, over the veins around my throat. He’s quite thorough and very focused, taking several seconds, even gliding his fingertips around the back of my head. His huge arm muscles flex, and I’m surprised at how soft this gruff warrior’s touch is. It feels like he’s handling fine china. It doesn’t even tickle. But this “bite check” goes on for so freaking long, my heart starts to hammer, which hehasto feel under my skin.
But if he does, he doesn’t say anything, except “You’re clean.” He finally removes his hands with a small pleased smile. But then he just stands there, head cocked a little to the left, gazing at me with those night-vision specs, clearly in no rush to leave.
Crap!Does he know? Why is he just staring at me? Gah!
Time to go!
“Good, good,” I sputter out, feeling the beet-red flush in my cheeks and taking a few more steps away from him. “So, uh…Thank youfor the rescue and everything, but it’s late, and I really shouldbounce…”
He startles a little, like I just woke him from a daydream. “Oh. Right. Of course. I should get you out of here.”
Before I can protest, his hand is on my back, and he’s guiding me through the hole in the hallway wall into what looks like what was probably a dining room, and then out a vacant pantry to the fenced back yard. The solid wooden back door is busted in, which is probably how he got inside. (Um, there were only a handful of seconds between when I screamed and when he showed up. Exactly how strong and fast is this guy?)
He then brings us over a cracked and worn brick path to what had been a padlocked entry through the iron yard fence to the main street. But before he opens it, I see the heavy lock resting on one of the fence posts, twisted open. (Oh, right. He’s very,verystrong.)
