Chapter 6
BLAM! The final vampire bites the dust. I don’t even bother to look back to see if the undead creature was able to get anywhere near the badass Monster Hunter before it was cut down. Instead, I jump to my feet and run for the stairs in a blind panic.
“Wait!” Mr. Terminator yells, voice deep and gruff, clearly expecting complete compliance.
I am not waiting. I book it down the hallway, still gripping the shard of wood.
Collin jogs alongside, having no trouble keeping up. “Alvin? What are you doing?”
I ignore him and almost get to the first stair, but the Monster Hunter is so fast, he swings himself in front of me before I can even put a single foot on that OSHA disaster and grabs my shoulders, fully stopping me. He’s well over six feet. I am child-sized compared to him.
“Slow down, buddy. You don’t need to run. I got ’em.”
He’s less than a foot away from me, his shotgun shoved into some kind of back holster peeking out from under his duster.
Without even thinking, I shove back hard against his chest with both of my palms, dropping the stake and using all my strength to try to get out of whatever his “paranormal-creature-smelling” range might be.
But at this point I’m a sweaty mess, I’ve got the weak-ass muscles of a committed couch potato, and his grip is so strong, I don’t go anywhere.
In response, he pulls me in tight, into a full-on hug. (Oh, my God! What’s with all the hugs, scary strangers?!)
“Breathe. Breathe! You’re safe. I promise.”
He squeezes me tighter. I can’t breathe. I am so going to die.
I stop fighting him, and let my body go limp. His hands return to my shoulders. He holds me up, arms extended a bit, so he can get a good look at me with those night-vision goggles. He then jerks his head back with surprise. “Hm,” he says.
And there it is. Game over. He now knows what I am. I drop my gaze, totally telegraphing my plan to knee him in the balls, but it doesn’t matter because our bodies are still so close, I don’t think I could pull it off. I am screwed!
Desperately, I look over at Collin—who the Monster Hunter is completely ignoring, by the way—wondering if the blond boy has any dance steps to get me out of this one.
But he’s just standing there, smiling at the two of us. He then gives me an encouraging nod, like “You’ve got this!”
Thanks, dude.
I’m so caught up with my latest freak-out that I almost miss what the Hunter says next. “Wait. Are you like me?”
I turn back to him. Um, what?
“Um, what?” I say.
He lets go of my shoulders and points at the broken piece of wood I dropped on the floor. “Are you a vampire hunter?”
My jaw hangs stupidly.
He then gives my short, pudgy body another once-over with his eyes. “And… is it just you here?”
Well, at least he’s polite about his absolute and total disbelief that I would have any chance against a vampire.
And he doesn’t seem to see Collin at all.
Which, now that I think of it, probably means that Collin is a ghost. That would explain how the Irish boy knew about the servant’s stairs, and maybe even how he’s creating the phantasmal images without magic.
Of course, I can’t usually see dead people, let alone trip over them—fed or unfed, that’s not part of the incubus power set—which means I’ve probably just figured out what the artifact in my pocket does. For all the good it’ll do me right now.
The Monster Hunter seems to be expecting an answer, so I say, “Uh, yeah. Just me.”
His brows scrunch. “I’m a Hunter with the Peralta Clan. Who are you with?” His voice is deep and gruff, like he doesn’t use it much.
I’m not a good liar. I know this. But I also know that if you’re going to lie, you want to keep as many real details as you can. You’re much less likely to forget what you said, and when you do lie, you can really make it count.
“I’m not a Hunter. Not like you. I’m training to be a magic-using paranormal investigator. I started an investigation, looking for a missing girl, and wound up here. I honestly didn’t know there would be vampires. The wood was kind of… an improvised thing.”
His shoulders visibly relax as I start to make sense in his world. “Right. Well, I’ve been tracking these vamps for a while. Then I heard a scream.” His brows scrunch. “You can use magic?”
Okay… He’s clearly not a man of many words, but it sounds like he might be buying what I’m selling.
It doesn’t seem like he suspects what I am, anyway, at least not yet—which could give me a chance.
Monster Hunters might hate paranormals, but when it comes to protecting other humans, they like to think of themselves as heroes.
Time to lean into that so he doesn’t look at me any more closely.
I take a step away from him, glance down, and scrub the back of my neck bashfully.
“A little. Just passive stuff. I’m not very good. If you hadn’t shown up, I would have been toast.” I widen my eyes and try to straight-up channel helpless, innocent victim. “I can’t thank you enough, dude. You saved me.”
The hint of a smile breaking above his valiantly strong jaw tells me I’m right on target.
He tilts his head and takes me in again.
I know what I must look like: short, baby-faced, sweaty hot mess—just who he’d expect to need extra help in a crisis.
(What can I say? Sometimes being pathetic can work for you.)
He clasps my shoulder again with his strong grip (Gah!
What is with all the touching?!) and straight-up grins.
Underneath those night-vision goggles, it’s frightening.
“Don’t feel bad, bro. Been in a few tough spots myself.
” His eyebrows raise slightly. “Hold on! Shoulda checked. You hurt?” The fingers of his free hand reach up and quickly slide over and under my chin, which causes me immediately to jerk back in shock.
Dude! Why are you feeling up my face?!
“Sorry…” he says, quickly withdrawing his hand, embarrassed. “I just… Vampires, you know…”
Right. He just wants to make sure I don’t turn into a monster. Because I’m totally not a monster right now. And I just need to put his mind at ease about that.
“Oh, yeah, right…” I mumble, terrified that this is going to be the moment he’ll catch me out. Who knows, maybe Hunters can sense paranormals through their pores?
I tentatively expose my neck, feeling hella vulnerable, and he glides his fingers smoothly, back and forth, over the veins around my throat.
He’s quite thorough and very focused, taking several seconds, even gliding his fingertips around the back of my head.
His huge arm muscles flex, and I’m surprised at how soft this gruff warrior’s touch is.
It feels like he’s handling fine china. It doesn’t even tickle.
But this “bite check” goes on for so freaking long, my heart starts to hammer, which he has to feel under my skin.
But if he does, he doesn’t say anything, except “You’re clean.” He finally removes his hands with a small pleased smile. But then he just stands there, head cocked a little to the left, gazing at me with those night-vision specs, clearly in no rush to leave.
Crap! Does he know? Why is he just staring at me? Gah!
Time to go!
“Good, good,” I sputter out, feeling the beet-red flush in my cheeks and taking a few more steps away from him. “So, uh… Thank you for the rescue and everything, but it’s late, and I really should bounce…”
He startles a little, like I just woke him from a daydream. “Oh. Right. Of course. I should get you out of here.”
Before I can protest, his hand is on my back, and he’s guiding me through the hole in the hallway wall into what looks like what was probably a dining room, and then out a vacant pantry to the fenced back yard.
The solid wooden back door is busted in, which is probably how he got inside.
(Um, there were only a handful of seconds between when I screamed and when he showed up.
Exactly how strong and fast is this guy?)
He then brings us over a cracked and worn brick path to what had been a padlocked entry through the iron yard fence to the main street. But before he opens it, I see the heavy lock resting on one of the fence posts, twisted open. (Oh, right. He’s very, very strong.)
He cautiously opens the gate and leans through. After literal gunshots coming from the house, I’d expect to see a serious police presence, probably with guns of their own out. But he says, “It’s clear. We’re good.”
Then his hand is again on my back, guiding me along, like he’s my uncle and I’m five years old.
The only sound is the gentle roll of lonely, late-night traffic on the distant artery of Geary Street.
There aren’t any cops. Doesn’t look like any of the neighbors have even turned on a light.
Does the magic of the house muffle gunshots, too?
I glance back at Collin, fully expecting him to be trapped at the boundary of the fence. I’m no ghost expert, but Stryker mentioned once that hauntings have very specific limits, usually defined by the property line of wherever the person died. But he trots right out after us.
Seeing me catch his eye, he grins and gives me a wink. “See? Told you it would all work out! He’s class, isn’t he?”
Well, looks like the dangerous Monster Hunter has got the ghost vote! But not all of us are dead… yet.
Once we’re on the sidewalk, I quickly twist and wheel myself out from under his hand and, backing away, quietly say, “Okay. Thank you so much. Seriously. I’m going to go find the bus now, or maybe call an Uber. But really, this was great and—”
He raises his palm, clearly expecting me to stop talking. Which I do.
“I’ll drive you,” he says. His voice is low, practically a growl, and he makes it feel like an offer I can’t refuse.
Maybe I should just run. But he’s faster than me. And he’s got a freaking shotgun in the holster on his back.
Before I can debate any more about it, his hand is right back there on my shoulder, leading me down the street.
“This way,” he says.
I debate about arguing with him and pitching a fit. Asserting my autonomy as, you know, an actual grown-ass man who can get himself home all by himself. But considering how committed he seems to be to providing door-to-door service, that would probably make me look even more suspicious.
At this point, he’s either on to me or he’s not.
If he is, there’s no getting away. I can’t outrun him, and since he’s walking down the middle of the street in Arnold Schwarzenegger combat gear, he doesn’t seem at all worried about anyone thinking he’s an active shooter.
If he wanted to, he could just blow my head off.
But if he’s not on to me, and I push too hard, he might start to wonder why I’m so eager to get away from the hero who just saved my life.
I’m supposed to be grateful and trusting, right?
The more I protest, the more he’ll be tempted to question the story that I, myself, put into his head.
It’s my own damn fault for feeding into his stupid ego!
In the PI world, very rarely is “rolling with it” the smart play. But it’s kind of feeling like the only play right now.
We get to his car, which he parked a block and a half away from the house.
It’s a late-model tank-like black SUV with dark windows.
(Because of course he rides like the freaking US Special Forces!) He unlocks the passenger side, and I slide into the front seat before he slams the door, leaving me in a tight, enclosed space where even I smell my own anxiety sweat.
Soon to be with a highly trained Monster Hunter who might sniff me out at any second.
And where I literally have nowhere to hide.
Well done, Alvin. Well done.