Chapter 11
Tobias frowned at the greasy laminated menu after Jake left for the restroom.
They’d been in this bar a lot lately, asking veiled questions about a possible cursed object.
The food wasn’t that bad. The fried pickles were apparently good enough that Jake had wanted to drag them back here even with the case mostly wrapped up, but if Tobias never had to eat one of those weird sweet-sour things again, he’d be just as glad.
He was debating the merits of a cheeseburger (generic, but trustworthy) or something called “The SUPREME Smelt Platter” when the hunter walked in.
The man had gray at his temples and a slight limp; he looked innocuous enough, but Tobias felt gut-punched.
He saw Tobias at the same moment that Tobias’s breath-stealing panic supplied a name: Henry Miller. He’d been in on a few interrogations when Tobias was in Freak Camp, always with another hunter or two. Tobias would have classified him as an asshole, but not a sadist.
But for hunters, and with Jake out of sight, all bets were off.
Tobias could spot a hunter by the way they moved, how they looked around a room, confident that they could kill anything that gave them trouble.
He imagined he could see the freak-killing aura that hung on their plaid overshirts and rough jeans.
Maybe someone had gotten a photo of him from some surveillance tape (inside or outside of FREACS) and passed it around: Watch out for Hawthorne’s monster.
Because, of course, he was still a monster in their eyes. None of them cared about the truth about Tobias Wright. According to the ASC and government records, he would always be a verified freak under the control of Jake Hawthorne.
Hunter Miller grinned at him and sauntered over to the bar.
His clothes were rumpled, as though he had slept in them, and Tobias could see the butt of a weapon (maybe a knife, probably a gun) at the small of his back even under his overshirt.
He leaned toward the bartender, flashing his ASC ID.
“I’m looking for freak activity in the area,” he said, still grinning, like the man should be in on the joke. “Seen anything?”
The barkeeper, a tall, built man with tattooed dragons crawling over his right arm, stepped away from the ID. “No, nothing like that.”
Competent hunters didn’t flash the ID. The supernatural made people nervous, which meant that hunters made them nervous.
Jake had other reasons not to use ASC identification (and Tobias had frankly refused to let Jake get him a fake), but the lack of information the badge produced was the main reason they usually asked their questions without coming out as hunters.
Hunter Miller looked around again, more obviously this time, and he made a show of surprise when he saw Tobias at the bar. “Well, if I don’t see a monster, right here in your own little establishment.”
The bar, already hushed, went electric in its silence. Tobias felt every eye turn toward him.
He and Jake had had six years of mailed and face-to-face threats, petty hassles.
Most vividly for Tobias was the time someone left a dog leash hanging off the side mirror of the Eldorado; he’d managed to pick it up gingerly and toss it in the trash before Jake saw it.
To a certain point, Tobias was . . . accustomed to hunters and their power games.
He had a system for dealing with it that usually led to the lowest number of injuries for everyone.
But he still hated how his stomach clenched and lungs constricted when he saw them.
In their eyes, he would always be Jake’s monster, and Jake a freakfucker. Facing their sneers and hatred, he heard a distant, snarling voice telling him he wasn’t worth it, that Jake deserved better.
For Jake, and for himself, he told that voice to go to hell. But it never really shut up in a moment like this.
Trying not to provoke the hunter or further alarm the watching civilians, Tobias took a careful breath and fixed his eyes on the beer bottle before Jake’s seat.
“Don’t worry, civvy,” Miller said, still pitched so the entire bar could hear him, “this monster is under control. Right, Tobias?”
When the hunter came within a few feet, a familiar nasty smile on his face, Tobias looked up and stared him straight in the eye.
“Jake has given me permission to retaliate against anyone who touches me without his approval,” Tobias said, holding eye contact.
“That includes hunters.” Actually, Jake’s words had been something along the lines of You hit first and ask questions later, Toby, but he knew his version was less likely to start a fight.
Miller looked surprised. Instead of going for the seat next to Tobias, he took one over an arm’s length away. Not so brave when someone talks back, Tobias thought.
“Who said I wanted to touch you?” he said. “That Hawthorne’s seat?”
Tobias glanced at it and Jake’s half-empty beer. “Yeah.”
The hunter grabbed the beer, rolling the edge a little on the table, fingering the neck and watching Tobias. In the part of his mind that was neither running through fight-or-escape routes nor hyperventilating from fear, Tobias wondered whether Miller was trying to threaten him or turn him on.
“So, where is he?” Miller asked. “Finally decided to stake you out to catch other monsters?” He leaned forward, grinning. “Or did Hawthorne decide your ass wasn’t worth the trouble? I always thought it couldn’t live up to the hype. Never got a chance for a test ride, though. He ever loan you out?”
Tobias rolled his head slowly around his shoulders to loosen tense muscles.
It had been years since he’d honestly been afraid that Jake would leave or use him.
He rarely even had nightmares about it anymore.
Even so, comments like that—offered like clockwork if a hunter found him when Jake wasn’t around—still made him twitch, an old scar that didn’t so much hurt as remember the pain.
“Caught you, didn’t I?” Tobias said. “Guess I draw out the nasties.”
Miller’s lip curled. “Watch your tongue, freak, or I’ll cut it out.”
Tobias saw Jake come out of the bathroom and pause to assess the situation.
Jake’s right hand slid toward the gun at the small of his back, and Tobias wished that he could give their abort signal without alerting the hunter.
As it was, he didn’t want to look away from Miller’s face.
The man would take advantage of any distraction.
“I don’t think Jake would be happy to hear you talking like that,” Tobias said. He pitched his voice to carry. The civilians already knew this was a hunter problem; might as well make sure they knew that Tobias wasn’t a runaway monster. “And he’s a hunter too.”
Behind him, Jake’s face changed. He looked around the bar, saw the crowd that was carefully not looking at the little drama unfolding, and slid his hand from his gun to his knife. Then he made his move.
“Hawthorne dishonors the name,” Henry Miller spat. “He’s no better than the monster he fucks.”
“Damn right.” Jake grabbed Miller by the shoulder and rested the bare blade of his hunting knife against the other man’s neck. “I’d tell you to say that to my face, Miller, but if you turn around I’m going to sever your spine. You good, Toby?”
Jake in place, Tobias could let some of his nerves, and temper, show. “Could be better. Jake, you should show your ID to the barkeep.”
“I think he knows I’m legal, Tobias.”
“Your other ID,” Tobias corrected.
Jake understood, pretty damn fast. “Could you get it, Tobias? I’m a little occupied.”
Tobias stood, walked past Miller and behind Jake.
He was very aware of all the eyes on him, the civilians that were surely terrified—of Jake, of the asshole, of him, what difference did it make?
He reached into Jake’s jacket, sliding his hands up his shirt to the pocket where he kept the ASC ID.
Somewhere else, Tobias might’ve kissed Jake’s neck, brushed his nose against Jake’s ear; he missed the comfort that would have brought him.
Instead, still moving slowly, he withdrew the ID and held it out to the bartender.
“Jake Hawthorne is an authorized hunter with the Agency of Supernatural Control,” he said, working to look unthreatening and polite. “My name is Tobias Hawthorne, and I’m under Jake’s complete control, both practically and legally. There are papers in our car, if you need the proof.”
The barkeeper stared, first at the ID and then up into Tobias’s face. “N-n-no, that’s fine.”
Tobias nodded, still trying to look as calm and restrained as possible, even as his nerves were tight enough to break, stiff enough that it was almost painful.
He didn’t mind saying it. But the way Jake reacted when Tobias referred to himself a monster—even indirectly, even just for show—hurt him more than the words ever could.
Tobias looked back to Jake. His face was stony, expressionless, and his knuckles were very white on his knife.
“Anything else, Jake?” Tobias asked.
Jake’s jaw clenched, and Tobias moved back to him, slipping the ID into Jake’s front jeans pocket, then sliding his hand over Jake’s arm, down his wrist, until he could tighten his own hand around Jake’s on the knife and pull it back just a hair.
“Please, Jake,” he whispered, then flickered his eyes around the room. “Civilians.” We don’t need anyone else getting hurt.
Jake looked at him, eyes hard and oddly blank. Then he looked away and leaned over the hunter’s shoulder.
“You want us, you piece of shit, we’ll be outside,” Jake said into his ear. “But after that, you come within fifty feet of us again, you so much as say Tobias’s name, and the knife won’t stop at your collar, you understand me?”
The hunter let go of the half-full beer, and it tipped over and sloshed over the bar and onto his leg. He licked his lips. “Yeah. I got it, Hawthorne.”
Jake stepped back. “Good. Come on, Toby.”