Page 5 of Hunted

Good.

He twists his head to see me better in the dark and exhales sharply. ‘You’re Eira Cross.’

I flash him a grin. ‘In the flesh, unfortunately for you, buddy.’

His eyes are too bright, pupils wrong, the telltale shimmer of a predator who thought New Orleans would forgive him anything.

He spits at my boots and tries to shift again. The cuffs hum in warning. He slumps.

I glance towards the curious faces at the far end of the alley, then at the bartender leaning out his door with a towel in hand and a question in his eyes. I give him a look that says handled.

He nods, already forgetting.

The phone vibrates again.

I swear under my breath and haul the vampire up by the chain connecting the cuffs, dragging him towards the van idling around the corner.

He resists until I press two fingers to the hollow of his throat and let a sliver of power bleed through the glove.

He stills.

He knows what I’m capable of even though he’s too much of a chauvinist to accept it. That part always amuses me.

The colossal underestimation until the truth punches them in the throat.

‘You’ll be comfortable if you stop squirming like a worm,’ I lie. ‘Or… you’ll be alive,’ which is the part that matters.

After securing him in the back, I run a quick scan to confirm containment, and shut the doors.

Then I lean against the bumper and finally pull my phone free.

Three missed calls.

A fourth buzzes through my hand.

I let it ring out and take a breath I don’t need. The night presses in, thick and familiar. New Orleans likes its monsters close. It feeds them and teaches them manners.

It taught me well too.

The Revenant Agency taught me the rest.

I didn’t start here, or anywhere that would make sense if traced back far enough. I learned to disappear before I learned to hunt, to make my name a rumour that never stuck, to move through rooms without leaving a mark.

The agency liked that.

They like results more.

Tier Seven doesn’t come with applause, just heavier files and longer nights. My handler calls me reckless because it’s easier than calling me effective. My peers call me untouchable because it keeps them from asking questions.

I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in contracts, clauses, and power that answers when you knock in the right places. I believe in getting paid and leaving before the mess cools.

My phone buzzes again.

For fuck’s sake.

I glance at the screen, and my stomach tightens in dread.

It’s the Revenant Agency – New York Office.