Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Simon stood at the kitchen counter of his studio apartment, drinking protein shake number two of the day.
It was nearing midnight. Prime hunting time. Simon had slept until noon, trained for three hours, researched potential leads for another four, and completed his weapons maintenance routine by sunset.
Now he waited.
His phone vibrated against the counter. Turner's name flashed on the screen.
"You got anything for me?" Simon asked.
"A fresh lead, if you want it." Turner sounded as if he hadn't slept in a while. He was one of the newer hunters, and he probably wouldn't last long.
Few people did.
"Tell me," Simon said.
"Someone spotted a vampire at the Stop & Stock on 12th Street. He left covered in blood."
Simon's posture straightened. "Victim?"
"Unknown. But get this, he's headed to Suds Laundromat. Probably wants to wash away the evidence."
Hiding the evidence was, indeed, classic vampire behavior. Simon had seen it countless times.
What he hadn't seen was a vampire who went to the laundromat to do it.
But there was a first time for everything. Or so they said.
"We think," Turner said, "this might be that Charlie Dracul you've been looking for."
Simon's brows furrowed. He'd been hunting that particular vampire for weeks, ever since he first heard the rumors.
Would tonight be the night he finally got to put a stake through that monster's heart?
"I'll head out immediately."
"Director Harmon specifically requested you report to him first."
"Tell Harmon I'll report when it's done."
Simon ended the call and pulled up the dossier on his tablet. It contained all the intel he had gathered on the bastard that had been terrorizing the city recently.
One rumor claimed that he had drained three people in a single night last month. Another that he kept his victims alive for days, locked up in a warehouse somewhere. Superhuman strength was mentioned.
This vampire might be centuries old.
Especially with a name like Dracul. Other vampires would not let him claim that easily.
Simon moved to the weapon cabinet and selected a silver-plated stake—not a single scratch marred its polished surface—and placed it in a leather holster.
The rest of his gear he packed into a black duffel bag. Holy water. Bright flashlight. Garlic concentrate.
This sucker would not get away.
Simon had earned his reputation as the Organization's most effective hunter for good reason. One hundred and seventeen eliminations in five years. Zero failures.
Charlie Dracul would make it one hundred and eighteen.
Simon went down to the parking garage.
If Charlie Dracul was indeed washing blood from his clothes, it meant he'd fed recently. He would be dangerous.
Good.
Simon liked challenges. They kept him sharp.
He started his motorcycle with a low growl that echoed off the walls. The recent hunts had been disappointingly routine, most of them young vampires who were careless and easily tracked.
Not so tonight.
Simon revved the engine and pulled out onto the street, the familiar cold clarity of the hunt settling into his bones.
By dawn, another monster would be removed from the world.
Only a few minutes later, Simon parked across from the laundromat.
The flickering neon SUDS sign cast alternating blue and pink shadows across the nearly empty parking lot.
Through the large windows, he counted three people inside: an elderly woman folding clothes, a college-aged kid scrolling on his phone, and a slender man in a soaked red shirt frantically stuffing clothes into a washing machine.
Simon's pulse sped up.
That had to be…
He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing against the stake's polished handle.
Something wasn't right.
Most vampires carried themselves with grace. They were immortal predators, eternal killers. Their very presence commanded respect from the people around them, even the ones who didn't know anything about the creatures of the night.
This vampire, though…
Charlie Dracul was scrawny. His shoulders hunched as if he was trying to disappear. He looked nothing like the monster described in the file.
And he seemed to be having trouble getting the washing machine to accept the coin he kept pushing back into the slot.
In fact, he appeared so defeated that Simon almost felt tempted to go in and help him.
But Simon knew better.
This had to be part of some elaborate scheme.
The best predators never looked dangerous until the moment they struck.
Simon had learned that lesson the hard way on his third hunt. The vampire had appeared frail and elderly—until it nearly tore his throat out.
No, Charlie Dracul was meeting his end tonight.
Simon pushed through the glass door, the bell's chime announcing his arrival. The elderly woman glanced up from her folding, then returned to her towels. The college kid didn't look up from his phone.
Charlie's back was still turned, fumbling with the coin slot.
Simon's hand moved to the stake at his belt. In one fluid motion, he crossed the laundromat's checkered floor.
Charlie spun around, finally, eyes wide. His gaze immediately took in Simon's black clothing, the tactical pants, the leather holster.
"Okay, okay, just take whatever you want. I've got maybe twelve bucks and some lint, but you can have it."
What, did this vampire think Simon wanted to mug him?
Ridiculous.
Simon drew the silver-plated stake.
Charlie's words died in his throat. His face went as white as the detergent powder. "Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no—"
"Charlie Dracul." Simon raised the weapon. "Your reign of terror ends tonight."
"Wait, wait!" Charlie threw his hands up, backing against the washing machine. "I'm harmless, I swear!"
As if Simon was going to believe such a cheap lie. "You eat people."
"I eat ketchup!"
Simon blinked. He'd heard many excuses, but that one was new. "You don't eat ketchup."
"Yeah, I do."
Simon's jaw tightened. This was stupid. "How could you possibly survive on ketchup?"
Charlie stared up at him with big eyes. "In a very sad way?"
Simon looked down at the miserable creature. What was wrong with this vampire?
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Simon raised the stake higher. "Every vampire claims they're different. You're all the same."
Charlie's eyes went even wider with panic. Something shifted in his posture—a tensing of muscles, a subtle change in stance.
His survival instincts kicked in.
The vampire's form blurred.
One second Charlie was pressed against the washing machine, the next he was a streak of motion.
Super-speed.
Simon's gaze flicked to the door of the laundromat, expecting to see the vampire try to escape that way.
But no.
Instead of zooming out the door, Charlie missed it by a mile, bouncing off the side wall like a ricocheting bullet.
He slammed into the soap dispenser, sending detergent cascading across the floor, then rebounded into the elderly woman's folding table, causing clean laundry to erupt into the air like confetti.
The college kid dove behind a bench.
Charlie careened toward the front windows, but still, his trajectory was all wrong. He hit the opposite wall with a meaty thud, spun sideways, and crashed through a row of plastic chairs.
Simon stared. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing he could do but wonder.
What the hell was he watching?
Vampires were supposed to be gruesome monsters, not bouncy balls.
While Simon tried to make sense of what he was seeing, Charlie's speed carried him in a wild arc past the front door, straight into the back wall. He bounced off as if he was made of rubber, arms windmilling, and toppled backward into an overflowing laundry cart.
The cart lurched into motion.
Charlie's eyes met Simon's for one brief, terrified moment as he rolled past, half-buried in someone else's clean clothes.
The cart hit the door's push-bar perfectly and burst out onto the sidewalk.
Simon stood in the ruins of the laundromat, surrounded by spilled detergent and scattered socks, watching the most feared vampire in the city disappear down the street in a laundry cart.
The elderly woman picked up a fallen towel.
"Young people these days," she muttered.