Chapter 7
Seven
Hunter
“What in Hell was that about?”
The sweet taste of Hunter’s lemon-lime hard seltzer hit his tongue as Nathan stumbled his way through the bar's parking lot. Tristan shook his head in annoyance.
“Father Roy has been obnoxious about the gambling hall. But he is a big part of this community. It would be better if we didn’t piss him off.”
Furrowing his brow, Hunter considered Tristan’s words. That didn’t seem right.
“His righteous indignation isn’t why he was so worked up. Something else is going on.”
“It is,” Tyrone said, and Hunter noticed the man for the first time, sitting right there at the bar in his perfectly pressed shirt.
Cocking his head, Hunter waited for more information.
“He had an experience of…something. Supernatural? Religious? Not sure. I’ve never seen him so shaken.”
Not knowing what to say, Hunter took another sip. His beast urged him to help, but he didn’t have a clue how to talk to the priest. Even if he hadn’t been a man of the cloth, Father Roy had a stick all the way up his ass.
Actually, he probably didn’t. If he did, he’d be in a better mood.
But whether it was religious zeal or some kind of personal vendetta, it didn’t matter. The priest hated Hunter. Which was made even more difficult because he was Hunter’s mate.
He ‘d decided not to pursue the man, but he’d assumed he wouldn’t see Father Roy again.
Who’d have thought the guy would come back to the scene of his tantrum at the bar?
Anyone with any self-awareness would have stayed away, and yet here was, back again, ordering drinks steps away from the criminal business he hated so much.
“Well, what did he see?” Hunter asked.
“He didn’t say,” Tristan said, and Tyrone gave him a suspicious look. Hunter guessed the man hadn’t known they were being eavesdropped upon. “Not sure what the situation is.”
“I’m sure you can find out,” Tyrone said, giving Hunter a piercing look.
“What does that mean, you old perv?” Harsh maybe, but Tyrone’s tone had gotten Hunter’s hackles up.
“Old perv?” Tyrone’s voice thrummed with offense. “Just because I’m in my fifties and my dick still works? I’m not the one serving myself up on a platter for a priest.”
“Serving myself up on a platter? That’s not what I’m doing. Right, Tristan?”
Tristan leveled Nathan with a look that spoke of exhaustion at having to deal with hellhound antics. Which Hunter was not engaging in. That’s not what this was at all.
“I’m not,” Hunter continued. “And it doesn’t matter. What were you talking about? How can I find out?”
“You’re supernatural. Some kind of shifter, maybe?”
Hunter locked eyes with Tristan, who merely shrugged. Hunter’s skin tingled as the hair on his arms stood on end. Who was this man? How did he know about supernaturals?
“Not quite. Or at least not exclusively, but that’s not the issue. The issue is how you found out about such things.”
“I’m a lifelong learner.” Tyrone raised his martini glass, now filled to the brim. He leaned over, pressing his lips to the glass to take a careful sip. “But that’s not the biggest question.”
“Oh? And what’s the biggest question?” Hunter was tired of this smug human. First his mate, and now this guy. He wished with all his heart he was somewhere else, maybe flaying the skin off an evil magic user. A particularly screamy one.
“Are you going to let that very breakable priest stumble home in the dark? Especially when some other supernatural could be looking—”
Setting his drink down, Hunter was heading toward the door before Tyrone finished the question.
“—for him?”
Hunter was out into the night air and searching for his mate’s scent without even saying goodbye to Tristan and Tyrone. He wouldn’t let his priest get eaten, whether the sanctimonious asshole liked it or not.
Sometimes at night, Purgatory would take on a disturbing, eerie quality.
There were few places in the world the hellhound feared, and this sleepy little Massachusetts town was not one of them. It wasn’t dangerous. Not to a hellhound.
Yet there was an underlying sense of unease, an undercurrent of hidden secrets and machinations. Ammon had brushed it off when Hunter brought it up, but he trusted his senses.
Hellhounds shared many similarities in the way their powers worked, but each was also an individual. Ammon was a tank. Strength and fire were his bread and butter. In Ammon Strong’s hand, hellfire was a weapon of mass destruction.
Hunter wasn’t like that. Not that he wasn’t strong, but his real abilities lay in his stealthiness and his senses. He was the sneak of the group, slipping through the shadows and skulking around corners.
He wasn’t one to use brute force unless it was necessary. Instead, he hid and waited to push his enemies off-kilter.
His power suited his personality. Some called him unhinged, and maybe he was, but Hunter never said or did anything without a reason. Sometimes the reason was because it was fun to make people uncomfortable.
It was a hobby.
One power he made liberal use of was his ability to travel through the shadows. It wasn’t a true teleportation, like some kind of wizard in a fantasy epic. Instead, he could slip in and out of space, as long as there was a patch of shade in his field of vision where he could land.
Which is what he was doing now.
Father Roy wasn’t a loud drunk, but Hunter didn’t need the man to make noise in order to follow him. The priest stumbled and swayed, slowly traveling in the general direction of the rectory. He took a winding route, as if he didn’t want to go home.
The human had gotten a head start on him, but of all his packmates, Hunter had the sharpest sense of smell. It hadn’t taken long to follow the mix of bourbon and pomegranate and musk to locate him.
Hunter confined himself to the shadows as he flitted from place to place, keeping a few feet away at all times to stay unnoticed.
As he watched, a tingle of lust traveled down his spine.
There was something about this—stalking his prey, hunting his mate—that activated wholly new desires in the hellhound.
The thought of Father Roy not knowing he was there, of catching the man unguarded and vulnerable… his pants tightened at the thought.
This human was going to drive him nuts.
Father Roy mumbled, a rambling monologue pouring out, prompted by alcohol and some kind of emotional distress. Hunter couldn’t force himself to ignore it.
“Stupid jerk, what kind of name is Hunter, thinks he can get by with running an illegal gambling operation across from my church and I’ll just let it happen?
So condescending with his stupid smirk and obnoxious voice and his ridiculous body and handsome face and…
what’s wrong with me? I’m just off, too much happening, what did I even see tonight?
What has Father McDonagh gotten into? Who even is that other priest? I don’t think I—”
Father Roy froze in place, his whole body snapping into a rigid pose as he visibly fought against his inebriation to come to a stop.
“Is-is there someone there?”
Hunter froze as well. Could Father Roy sense him? That wasn’t possible. He was hard to detect in direct sunlight. In the middle of the night, he was untraceable.
The moon lit the street up with a dull silver glow, which was a good thing. There were plenty of shadows for Hunter to hide in.
Hunter tucked himself beneath a large mulberry tree just off the sidewalk. Father Roy would have to be powerful, someone with a great deal of hidden magic, to be aware of Hunter right now.
Unless it was…could the potential mate bond have affected him? As a human, Hunter had assumed the priest would be blind to his presence, but perhaps some part of his soul recognized the connection.
Not that it mattered. Father Roy was a servant of Heaven, and Hunter was a Hound of Hell. Hunter would never solidify the bond. But he needed to be extra careful if it granted the priest awareness of him.
“I can feel you there. Wh-who is it?”
At the words, Hunter’s chest clenched with anxiety. It was rare for him to be found out. It would be easy enough to slip away, but his beast didn’t want to run. The hound inside was reckless, ridiculous maybe, and he was champing at the bit.
“Priest.” Hunter stepped out onto the sidewalk, allowing the moonlight to illuminate him enough to be identifiable. He half expected Father Roy to run or to yell, but the human just stared, as though he’d lost the ability to speak.
Hunter closed the distance between them. As he did, he watched the slightest tremor travel down the priest’s body. Father Roy’s face showed no reaction. Perhaps he was drunk enough that he didn’t notice it.
Hunter did, though, and warmth spread through his stomach at the sight.
This human wanted him. Father Roy couldn’t prevent himself from having a physical reaction. Hunter’s mate was responding to their connection.
Clenching his jaw, Hunter pushed away the excitement bubbling up at the thought. This man was a priest. There was no way he would ever accept the mate bond. Hunter was a demon. An enemy of his God, or at least that’s how Father Roy would see it.
Of course, Hunter was no enemy of the First. A thorn in their side, maybe? He doubted anyone in Heaven even knew who he was.
Well, except for whatever cursed angel had matched him and Father Roy together. What a disaster.
“It’s you…” Father Roy whispered, not moving a muscle as Hunter approached.
What Hunter should do was leave. Run. Get out of town while he could. Not give in to this overwhelming desire.
But Hunter was not a creature of caution. Underneath whatever logic or reasoning his brain could muster lay his true self.
And his true self liked to play with his food.
“Who were you expecting? Zac Efron?” Hunter was close now, close enough to hear the human’s breath catch at the sound of his voice.
“What?” Father Roy took on the quality of a lost child.
“Who did you think would be tailing you in the middle of the night? Kiefer Sutherland? Timothée Chalamet? A reunited BTS?”