Page 55

“Be back as fast as I can,” Adrian says, and then a few minutes later, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the hotel room.

God, the agitation is worse when I’m alone. I grab my phone, pull up the group chat with Chloe and Abi—I could call one or both of them, I guess. I’ve already checked in over text, assured them I’m fine. What I haven’t done is told them about Victor.

Do I want to tell them about Victor?

My thumb hovers over the screen, and I decide no, no I do not. I’m never going to see Victor again anyway.

I pace around the room instead, not that it helps. The air feels too warm and overly stuffy, and the walls seem to pin me. I don’t want to be inside at all.

There’s got to be a bakery or a coffee shop or something like that around here. An excuse for me to leave, to walk off this nervous energy.

I grab the spare key and head out to the courtyard I saw from the window. It’s the right choice; the fresh air is a balm. It smells like October out here. It smells like the woods, like wet fallen leaves and lichen and steel.

It also kind of reminds me of fucking Victor in the middle of the forest, a thought I shove aside.

I go out through the courtyard gate, which deposits me into a narrow alley that I follow back to Main Street, which isn’t as buzzy with people as you’d think. I suppose that’s how it is when your tourist town only advertises itself to the ultra-rich.

I do manage to find a coffee shop, though, and I order a brown sugar latte even though coffee is probably the last thing I should be having, given how antsy I feel. Everything is off. And it’s off because of Victor.

I don’t just mean the murder—excuse me, the double murder. I tell myself that’s part of it, but really it’s the way Victor keeps worming into my thoughts, the way I keep thinking about his hands on my skin and his mouth on my cunt. You like that idea, don’t you? Me killing someone out there?

The fucking truth is I did like it, the idea of him killing. And it shouldn’t surprise me, either. I was raised by a murderer. As an adult, I’ve tried to distance myself from it. But it’s not because of some instinctual sense that murder is wrong.

It’s because I’m not a Hunter. I’ll never be a Hunter. I watched my sister blossom into something more powerful than I can ever dream of, and then there’s just me, human and weak and trying to save the world because it’s not like I can destroy it, not the way my family can.

I stop in front of a French bakery and take a sip from my coffee. The bakery is closed for the day, but the display is still up in the window, all those delicate, lacy pastries frozen in the cold. My reflection overlays them like a ghost, and I blink at it.

I shouldn’t be here. Neither should Adrian. This whole situation is too dangerous.

A shadow flickers behind me, and my throat constricts because I recognize the shape of a man when I see one, especially a man who’s trying to sneak up on me. But before I can whirl around to confront him, a strong arm loops around my waist, dragging me up against a firm, familiar chest.

In the window’s reflection, Victor’s face materializes behind mine.

“What the fuck?” I whip around, facing him, my coffee sloshing out of its cup and burning my hand. My anger dissipates, though, when I see the expression on his face.

Worry. Real, genuine worry. I didn’t think Hunters even experienced that.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, even though I really want to ask, What’s wrong?

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Why are you here?” I repeat, although when Victor tugs me along the sidewalk, his arm still around my waist, I go with him. There’s something reassuring about the solidity of his body pressed against mine. All my jangled nerves suddenly feel calmer.

“I didn’t leave,” Victor says. “I can—I’ll tell you why, but I need to tell you something else first.”

I look at him sideways, and even though his presence might calm me down, those words don’t.

“What is it?”

“Not here,” he says. Then, jerking his head up ahead, he adds. “There.”

We sweep down the sidewalk, past a bookstore and a realtor’s office and a costume shop, the display full of masks from horror movie killers. Autumn leaves skitter around our feet, and I think of the sound of rattling bones and old clothes, and then, abruptly, Victor drags me into a narrow alley, where he presses me up against the wall and brushes his cheek against mine.

I know what he’s doing. I’m not stupid. To someone walking by, we’ll look like two lovers canoodling in the crisp October air. They won’t think twice about us.

“What’s going on?” I whisper against his throat. I can’t stop myself from twining my arm inside his dark coat to press my hand against his lower back. He shifts closer.

“The police are coming to arrest your friend,” he says softly. Quietly. No one nearby would hear him. “For the deaths at the motel.”