Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Simon's phone buzzed.
Now Turner kept trying to call him.
Simon answered on the fifth ring.
"Jesus Christ, finally." Turner sounded exhausted. "What happened last night? You never called in."
"Still pursuing."
A pause. "Still pursuing? You went after him eight hours ago. You always report within the hour."
"The situation was complicated."
"Complicated?" Turner's voice pitched higher. "How does our job get complicated? You find a vampire, you stake a vampire, you file a report. What the hell happened?"
Simon watched condensation drip down his protein shake. "Charlie Dracul got away."
The silence stretched. "He got away?" Turner repeated. "From you?"
"Yes."
"But you've never missed a target."
Simon didn't need the reminder.
Turner almost laughed. "This'll blow Harmon's mind."
"Tell Harmon I'm handling it."
"You better be. You know he's already talking about putting a team on this."
A team. As if Simon needed help catching one pathetic vampire who survived on condiments and rolled around town in a laundry cart. "That won't be necessary."
"Prove it."
The line went dead.
Simon pocketed his phone and got ready to leave. He would find out exactly what game Charlie Dracul was playing with him.
The Stop & Stock squatted on the corner, its neon sign flickering between "Open 24 Hours" and "Open 2 Hours." Through the windows, he could see someone mopping.
The automatic doors wheezed open. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man with a manager's badge that read "Denton" and an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Help you?" Mr. Denton didn't look up from his clipboard.
Simon approached the counter, adopting his most professional stance. "I'm investigating a violent incident that occurred here last night. A man named Charlie was seen leaving the premises covered in blood."
Mr. Denton's pen stopped moving. He looked up slowly.
"Blood?"
"That's what witnesses reported."
"You mean the cherry syrup?"
Simon kept his expression neutral. "I was told he left here in a bloodied state after an altercation."
Mr. Denton set down his clipboard with the kind of deliberate patience reserved for dealing with idiots. "Kid couldn't figure out how to change the slushie bag. It exploded. The syrup got everywhere."
"You're certain it was just syrup?" It was entirely possible the vampire had employed some mind manipulation tricks to make the people around him believe that.
"Look, buddy." Mr. Denton leaned against the counter. "I don't know who told you there was some 'violent incident,' but Charlie's about as violent as a wet paper towel. Last week, Mrs. Henderson came in here with a nosebleed. You know what Charlie did?"
Simon waited.
"He fainted, and I had to mop around him while he was out cold on my floor. Took fifteen minutes before he came to, then he spent another ten apologizing."
Behind them, someone snorted. A teenage employee emerged from the chip aisle with a mop bucket.
"You talking about Charlie?" the kid asked. "Dude apologized to a door last week 'cause he thought he'd bumped into it."
Mr. Denton nodded. "If you're looking for dangerous criminals, you're wasting your time. Now, you buying something or not?"
Simon stood there, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Either everything about his intel had been wrong or this vampire was extremely good at putting on a show. Which would make him extremely dangerous. Simon couldn't let his guard down. "Where does Charlie live?"
Mr. Denton's eyes narrowed. "I don't give out employee information to random people. You want to harass my workers, get a warrant."
The teenage employee piped up again. "He won't be here tonight either. He's called in sick."
Simon turned and left without another word.
Outside, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the Hunter Organization's database. Three victims drained in one night. Warehouse full of captives. Superhuman strength.
He cross-referenced with police reports from the last month.
Nothing.
No unexplained deaths. No missing persons matching the timeline. No warehouse raids.
Had someone messed with the police database?
His phone buzzed. Turner again.
Simon let it go to voicemail and started walking.
The cemetery gates stood open, as they always did during daylight hours. Simon's feet found the familiar path without conscious thought—past the newer sections with their uniform headstones, deeper into the older grounds where the oaks grew thick and the morning sun barely penetrated.
His mother's grave sat beneath one of those oaks, far enough from the main path that he rarely encountered other mourners. The headstone was simple gray granite, the way she would have wanted it. "Margaret Hale. Beloved Mother. 1978-2012."
Simon knelt in the damp grass and unwrapped the white lilies he'd bought from the all-night grocery. Already they were showing brown edges, but they were the only lilies they'd had. He placed them carefully against the stone, adjusting them twice before they looked right.
"Hi, Mom."
The words felt stupid. They always did, but he said them anyway.
"Hunt number one-eighteen should have been last night." He sat back on his heels, eyes tracing the familiar letters of her name. "Charlie Dracul. The Organization's been tracking him for weeks. Allegedly he's responsible for multiple kills. Allegedly he's the kind of monster that would—"
He stopped. The kind of monster that would drain a woman in her own home. The kind he'd been too young, too weak, too human to stop.
"I had him cornered in a laundromat. I had my stake in hand." Simon's fingers found a piece of grass and tore it into small pieces. "And then he ran. But that's not the problem."
A crow landed on a headstone three rows over, watching him with black eyes.
"The problem is how he ran. He couldn't control his own speed, so he bounced off the walls like he'd never used his powers before. And then he left in a laundry cart." The words sounded even more ridiculous out loud. "A laundry cart, Mom."
The crow cocked its head.
"Then this morning, I went to investigate the attack site. His boss laughed at me. Actually laughed. Said Charlie fainted when a customer came in with a nosebleed."
Simon stood, pacing the small patch of grass in front of the grave.
"Something's off. Things aren't adding up.
Turner said they had multiple confirmed sources.
Someone saw him. Someone reported those kills.
" He turned back to the headstone. "But there's nothing.
No bodies. No missing persons. No evidence at all. "
The morning was warming up, humidity already making his shirt stick to his back. Other mourners were starting to arrive. He could hear car doors slamming in the distance, muffled voices carrying on the breeze.
"I know what you'd say." Simon crouched again, straightening the lilies that didn't need straightening. "You'd tell me to trust my instincts. That if something feels wrong, it probably is."
His phone tried to call his attention again.
Simon pulled it out. Harmon.
Suppressing a sigh, Simon looked down at the grave one more time.
"I'm going to figure out what's really going on. Who Charlie really is. And then I'm going to finish the job." He touched the headstone gently, the granite warm from the morning sun. "I promise. I'm still doing this for you. All of it."
The phone kept ringing.
"I have to go. Harmon's going to want answers I don't have." He grimaced. "I'll bring better flowers next time. The fresh ones from that place on Madison you liked."
He finally turned and answered the phone.
"I'm on my way," he said before Harmon could speak.
"You better be. And Simon? I hope you have a damn good explanation for last night."
Simon glanced back once at his mother's grave, all his promises fresh in his mind. "I'm working on it."
The Hunter Organization's headquarters occupied the top three floors of a glass office building downtown, disguised as a private security firm.
Simon pushed through the revolving doors at ten-thirty sharp, his reflection in the polished marble floors looking as composed as always.
Black tactical pants, black shirt, expression carefully neutral.
The receptionist, a young woman who'd started two months ago, gave him a nervous smile. "Mr. Harmon is waiting for you in Conference Room Three."
Conference Room Three. Not Harmon's office.
That meant an audience.
Simon took the elevator to the forty-second floor, using the ride to review his options. He could explain about the cherry syrup, the laundry cart, the manager's testimony. He could present the lack of police reports and the missing evidence.
Or he could keep his mouth shut and take whatever they threw at him.
That was probably the smarter choice.
The elevator doors opened to reveal the familiar sterile hallway.
The walls were white. There was no artwork, nothing that might suggest what really went on here.
Simon's footsteps echoed as he walked past the research labs and the training rooms. A few junior hunters lounging by the water cooler stopped talking when they saw him.
News traveled fast here.
Conference Room Three's door stood slightly ajar. Through the gap, Simon could hear voices.
"—first time in five years—"
"—told you giving him special treatment would—"
"—needs to learn he's not above protocol—"
Simon pushed the door open.
The conversation stopped immediately.
Director Harmon sat at the head of the long conference table, his gray suit as pristine as his carefully maintained silver hair.
To his left sat Madeline Cross, Head of Intelligence, her tablet and color-coded files spread across the table like weapons.
To his right, James Fitzgerald from Field Operations, whose scarred hands drummed against the table in a rhythm that suggested barely contained irritation.
And leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, stood Reuben Stone.