Page 70 of Hunted

Direct transposition. No scenic route. No staggered jumps to shave off cost.

‘Good thing I had a hearty breakfast,’ he mutters. ‘Running towards or away this evening?’

I pull up the landmark image on my phone. ‘First stop, Louisiana.’

‘Exact location?’

I show him.

He whistles through his teeth. ‘That’ll cost you a pretty penny.’

I smirk.

He says some version of that every time I summon him. It’s practically in the job description.

Licensed Transpositional Couriers are genetically altered to lose spatial memory three hours after transporting cargo or personnel. It prevents them from being coerced into revealing locations under duress.

Weirdly, if they’re travelling alone, the memory sticks just fine. Apparently the universe has a sense of humour.

‘You know I’m good for it, Tezra. Shall we?’

He nods and unfastens the looped restraint from his belt.

I step forward and secure myself into the hook lock. It isn’t strictly necessary as long as physical contact is maintained during transposition, but Tezra insists on protocol after losing one panicked rider mid-shift and nearly losing his licence.

Apparently, interdimensional liability insurance is a nightmare.

He tests the lock once. ‘Ready?’

‘Yep.’

He hears the sharp edge in my voice and says nothing.

Teleportation is not for the faint of heart. Some describe it as having your soul vacuum-sealed and dragged through a keyhole. For me, it feels like compressing every nerve in your body into a single violent pulse, then detonating it.

It lasts seven deeply unpleasant seconds.

But compared to dangling by my throat over Manhattan rooftops or having an ancient vampire test the structural integrity of my mind? I’ll take it.

Especially when it ends with me a thousand miles away from him.

The world tears sideways.

Sound inverts. Light fractures.

Then – heat, humidity, river water and stale asphalt.

Louisiana.

Tezra steadies me as my knees threaten betrayal for half a breath. I detach from the hook and adjust my jacket as though I’ve stepped out of a cab rather than through the fabric of space.

The pawn shop sits exactly where the records and my memory said it would. Sun-faded signage. Barred windows. Security camera angled lazily over the door.

I walk in and make sure the camera sees my face clearly, browse, ask pointed questions about archived sales from six years ago. Drop the alias I used, and defended a little too vigorously today, casually into conversation. Make it look like I’m chasing something personal. Frustrated but professional.

I let the shop owner grow uncomfortable, then irritated. Let him grouse and deny knowing anything.

To create a receipt, I buy a cheap silver chain I don’t need.