Facts.
I need to look at the facts.
Fact one—someone is trying to ignite a war between the supernaturals and humans.
Fact two—someone, perhaps the same person who’s instigating this war in the first place, wants Izzy and Travan. Both of them? One or the other? I still haven’t pieced that together.
And finally—I need to find irrevocable proof that the Hunters are not behind all of these attacks. It started with the murders of those two shifters, after all, with the Hunters’ markings adorning their flesh.
From there, everything spiraled.
However, I did my research into the Hunters in this area, and for the last five years, they’ve been inactive. At first, I assumed it’s because they abandoned ship, so to speak. Maybe moved to a new town.
Now I realize it’s because they’re no longer hunting indiscriminately.
I have no idea what—or who—caused this shift in mentality, but I strongly believe that if I can just get them to listen, we can solve this matter without any bloodshed.
My research led me to an abandoned factory, which then brought me to a used clothing store, which transported me to my current location—a nondescript real estate company. Newspapers claim that they’ve been out of business for four years now, yet cars still line the parking lot.
Taking a deep breath, I reach up to braid my brown curls away from my face, then I glance down at my outfit. Black stretchy pants and a similarly styled shirt. Hideous, but it’ll allow me to fit in better.
I don’t dare glance back at the car—and my friends loitering in a fast-food restaurant’s parking lot—as I cross the street and make a beeline to the front door. I attempt to emulate a confidence I don’t truly feel, pushing my shoulders back and hefting my chin up imperiously.
You can do this, Desiree.
I step inside.
The scent of fresh coffee mingles with the faint trace of printer toner and lemon polish. Sunlight spills through the wide plate-glass windows, illuminating the room in gentle gold and catching on the dust motes that dance lazily in the air.
To the left, a sleek reception desk stands like a command center, its polished surface home to a bouquet of crisp white lilies and a meticulously arranged stack of property brochures. Framed photos of sold homes line the hallway—each one proudly captioned with a date and the agent’s name in gold script. Beyond them, a row of offices stretches, glass walls offering glimpses of desks and rolling chairs.
It looks exactly like…a real estate office.
Someone steps out of a back room and startles when he sees me. Immediately, he narrows his eyes and reaches towards the waistband of his pants—where he no doubt stores some type of weapon. Since I don’t see anything bulky like a gun, I guess it’s a dagger.
“We’re closed,” he snaps curtly.
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Obviously. We both know I’m not here for a house.” I drop my gaze pointedly to his hand, where his fingers are continually flexing. “Are you going to stab me?”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He pulls free a wicked-looking blade, though he doesn’t aim it at me.
Not yet. He simply holds it loosely by his side, tension tightening the furrows between his brows.
“Seriously? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a girl Hunter before.” I give a derisive headshake. “Is that what this is about? Sexism? Because I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly capable of doing everything you can do.” I fold my arms over my chest and scowl. “I thought things were bad in the New York sect, but apparently Montana is ten times worse.”
He begins to sputter, his eyes turning comically wide and his cheeks pinkening. “W-what? No. Of course not.”
“So you greet all your male Hunters with a dagger?” I pop my hip out, the way I often see Izzy do when she’s trying to be sassy.
“Y-you’re just… I mean, I didn’t…” He hastily slides his dagger back into a sheath I didn’t notice prior. The pink in his face morphs into a deep shade of red that slides down his neck. “I’m not sexist. I like women.”
“All you men do.” I finally dare to venture a step forward and then very purposely shove around him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with your sect leader. I have info.”
The man practically falls over his own feet in his bid to please me—or maybe just to not appear sexist.
Gaslighting at its finest, my friends.
I follow him past the row of offices and towards a corner room in the back. This is the only one that doesn’t have any windows.
