His teeth are perfectly white and straight. Because of course they are.
Well, I’m in it for keeps now. I have to keep playing along. After jerking forward way too quickly and triggering the seatbelt (Yep! I’m trapped!), I manage to shake his hand, doing my best to give him a firm grip. (The kind I figure he’s used to from his other paranormal-slaughtering bros.) I don’t even bother trying to make up a name. I’m so spun up at this point, there’s no way I’d get a false one out in time without looking suspicious.
“I’m Alvin,” I croak, before clearing my throat. “Nice to meet you. Thank you again, uh, for everything.”
Crap. My voice is so high-pitched, I might as well be five!
But he just gives me another wink and says “Nice name.” He then starts the car, gliding it smoothly onto the street with polished confidence. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
Seriously, the last thing I’m up for is chit-chat at this point. And the more I say, the more I risk tipping him off. So I keep it short.
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Oh. Nice.Good.” I cock an eyebrow at that (it’s clearly weird, right?!) so he adds. “You just looked… younger.”
Ofcourse, I did! Now I can’t help asking: “And how old are you, dude?”
“Twenty-three.” He gives me another one of those smolder-smiles. “Never met a paranormal investigator before. One of my uncles worked with one, though. In Chicago. Said he could do crazy shit. Shoot fireballs, turn invisible, that kind of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, wishingIcould turn invisible.
I’m expecting him to ask me about what kind of spells I can cast (um, zero!), but he actually just keeps going. Drops a whole string of sentence fragments about how this uncle from back East (“Stewie”—more distant cousin than uncle, apparently) and this Chicago PI took out a smallarmy of goblins. I got the impression before that he didn’t talk much, but here he is, practically giving me a full soliloquy. It’s like he’s trying hard to be casual. (As casual as a killing machine can be, anyway.) Or worse, like he’s trying to hide something.
My anxiety cranks up a notch. What if this is all an act, and hedoesknow what I am? Maybe he wouldn’t want to murder me in his car. That’d make an awful mess, right? But I’m sure they have lovely, easy-to-clean dissection rooms back at Monster Hunter Central. Better to put me at ease in the moment so I go there quietly, right?
(And okay, I know I’m probably overreacting! If I’m being honest, he hasn’t done anything, except beoverbearinglynice to me. But I’m telling you, there’s an edge in his voice that makes me feel like something else is going on here, so I can’t help but stew with my head spinning around and around questions like: “What is this dude’s deal?” “What does he really want with me?” And “How exactly can I throw myself out of the car without giving him any warning?”) My anxiety is so freaking triggered, I need to grab my own fingers to keep from nervously tapping on the arm rest.
“Psst, Alvin! Tell him you just want to help people!”
I snap out of my fear spiral and notice Collin is leaning over my shoulder from the back seat, practically hissing in my ear. I must have been spacing out for a bit there. Rafa is glancing over at me, eyebrows raised, clearly having asked me a question.
I really, really, really don’t want to seem weird to this Monster Hunter right now. And I have no idea what heasked me so, as instructed, I say, “Um, you know, I just want to help people?”
That seems to have been the right thing to say because Rafa chuckles, pleased. “Cool.Iwas born into the family business, but you actually sought it out on your own? That’s fire. When did you find out you had magical talent?”
“Good job!” Collin says. “Now tell him, ‘When I was fifteen, I realized I could sense magic, and it wasn’t long after that, I wondered if there was some way I could use what I could do to make a difference.‘”
That is, of course, totally not true. I wasbornwith the ability to sense magic, and it was only after meeting Stryker a few months ago that I got this idea about trying to use my innate magic to help people. Collin is apparently still feeding me lines, which ordinarily would be extremely annoying. But I’m so up my own butt at the moment, I don’t think I could remember what year it is, let alone the cover story I told Ms. Stryker. So, I just repeat Collin’s words like I’m some TV news anchor, which gets Rafa nodding.
“Huh,” he says. “You really sense magic. I know a lot ofparanormalscan do that, but I heard someplace it’s super rare in humans.”
Oh, crap.
My eyes must be as wide as saucers, because Collin squeezes my arm. “Don’t worry, Alvin. We’ve got this! He’s not going to go down any path we don’t want him to. You just need to change the subject. Ask him why he works on his own. They almost never do that.”
Sure, okay, whatever!
“Heh, heh. I guess it is kinda rare,“ I say. “But, uh, so is working on your own as a Monster Hunter, right?”
Rafa frowns, and his face immediately darkens. For a moment, I wonder if Collin just threw me under a completely different bus. But then he says, a bit husky “Yeah. It is.” He glances down, and his eyes look… sad?
Silence then hangs in the air. We aren’t talking anymore (which is a plus!) but for some reason, I feel low-key bad for bumming this guy out.
But Collin is super chipper. “Brilliant, Alvin! Now touch his shoulder and say, ‘What we do. Itcanbe a little lonely sometimes, huh?’”
I glare at the ghost. Where the hell is he going with this? I want to get out of this dude’s car, not bill him for a therapy session. But Collin glares back with meaning, and since apparently I’m in no state to drive this crazy train I’ve got myself on, I ask the damn question. (But I don’t touch Rafa's shoulder. No more touching with the stupid, deadly Monster Hunter!)
Yet again, the script Collin is serving up seems to work. Rafa seems surprised by my response, then smiles back at me. (Less smolder this time, more vulnerability.) “Yeah. Sometimes it can be. That’s something you understand, too, huh?”
