9. Alaric
ALARIC
There's a particular sting to a vampire slump.
It's not that I can't get out of bed—my kind rarely sleep.
It's not that my job is soul-sucking. I don't have a soul, so that particular box was checked centuries ago.
The real suffering is metaphysical and deeply embarrassing, like showing up to your favorite blood bar only to discover your usual seat has been stolen by a wispy three-hundred-year-old with a better jawline and more Instagram followers.
I hover in the doorway, surveying tonight's crowd.
Vlad's is a haven for the terminally attractive and the terminally damned, so every visit feels like walking into a parade of genetic jackpots, Pallor of the Month models, and the occasional self-flagellating goth who hasn't yet realized the danger isn't part of the décor.
They're here for the thrill.
The vintage glassware.
The chance to get drunk on blood so cold it'll leave you with the supernatural equivalent of an ice-cream headache for a week.
Even to me—someone who generally occupies the top of this particular food chain—they look younger.
Sharper.
There's a woman with a razor-cut bob and lips angular enough to cut glass, holding court with a genetically ambiguous twink who apparently worked with the Prussian embassy during the wars.
Everyone looks at least ten times more alive than the last time I checked.
Which is especially unfair considering we're all, by definition...
Dead.
Vlad spots me and raises a knobby hand.
The owner is a marble-skinned oddity in an impeccably tailored suit, his face carved into a perfect V but cursed with a regrettable baritone that sounds like he gargles gravel recreationally.
"Grimhaven."
He says my name with the strained politeness of a man who's never quite forgiven me for turning his entire stock of 1943 Chianti into plasma punch for a particularly persistent Swedish countess back in 1948.
I slide onto a stool between two witches sporting matching constellation tattoos and an incubus who's too busy blowing lazy smoke rings to acknowledge anyone's existence.
Vlad appears.
"Business or pleasure?"
"Are they ever different for you?"
"Fair point."
I gesture—very specifically—for the house pour.
Vlad's idea of generosity is a shot glass the size of a thimble.
He slides it toward me with the careful precision of someone avoiding accidental skin contact.
"You look like hell."
"I've been trending that direction."
He isn't wrong.
Maybe I've lost my edge.
Maybe two centuries have worn the shine off my fangs.
Maybe clients aren't looking for dangerous anymore.
Maybe they're looking for someone with a mortgage, a gluten allergy...
...and a respectable LinkedIn profile.
I swallow the drink.
It tastes like regret and Midwestern youth.
College sophomore, if I had to guess.
Second study abroad.
Someone once told me blood carries memory.
That you can taste echoes of a person's life—the steady hum of anxiety, the sweet chemical whine of fear, sometimes even the lingering urge to call your mother.
I've never believed much of it.
Tonight, though...
All I can think about is a woman standing in a forest clearing, looking at me the way you'd look at a car alarm that refuses to stop.
Patiently.
Waiting for it to wear itself out.
Vlad polishes a glass while studying me in the mirror.
"So..."
He smiles.
"What's eating you?
"Or perhaps..."
His smile widens.
"...whom?"
I give him my usual deflecting smirk.
"I took the job because it was supposed to be easy."
I swirl what's left in the tiny glass.
"I figured I'd have delivered the girl by now, collected my fee, and moved on."
Instead...
I sigh.
"She's not like the others."
Not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
"She's built herself this..."
I search for the word.
"...habitat."
Vlad raises an eyebrow.
"The plants. The wards. The spells."
I finish my drink.
"Even the damn dog announces my arrival."
Vlad laughs.
Not politely.
The full-bodied kind that says he's picturing me being chased out of the woods by a particularly determined housecat.
"Alaric Grimhaven."
He shakes his head.
"Getting attached to a client."
He grins.
"That might actually be a first."
I consider ordering another drink.
Unfortunately, dignity doesn't come with a happy hour discount.
Instead, I turn on my stool and study the room.
Monsters relaxing.
Conversation humming.
Nothing unusual.
Until...
Movement catches my attention near the end of the bar.
A broad-shouldered man in a weathered canvas jacket, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he's about to rebuild an engine with his bare hands.
I don't recognize him.
Not exactly.
He simply lands in that part of my brain reserved for potential threats.
His beard is trimmed with military precision.
Both boots are planted squarely on the floor.
Ready.
Balanced.
Prepared for violence before the room even realizes violence is an option.
Not a vampire.
Not a witch.
A shifter, probably.
Hidden claws.
Military posture.
Professional predator.
He lifts his empty glass.
Vlad immediately pours another.
I catch the exchange.
More importantly...
I catch the tiny tremor in Vlad's hand.
Barely half a second.
Enough.
Then the stranger's eyes meet mine in the mirror.
The atmosphere shifts.
Humans never notice moments like this.
The way conversations seem to stretch.
The way the room cools by half a degree.
The way every predator quietly acknowledges another predator.
I notice.
The shifter notices.
The witches suddenly become fascinated by absolutely anything else.
Vlad tops off the stranger's drink before drifting back toward me.
"Old friend?" he murmurs.
"Not that old."
I keep my eyes on the mirror.
"And definitely not a friend."
The shifter rises with his drink and ambles down the bar until he's exactly one stool away from me.
Close enough.
He turns the seat to face me directly.
His eyes are the tawny yellow you see in a bear a heartbeat after the tranquilizer dart hits—not fully aware, somehow hyper-aware all at once.
"Alaric Grimhaven."
His accent is West Coast.
His cadence is pure Blackthorn Bay.
The kind you only get from spending your entire life refusing to leave.
"Are we exchanging government names," I ask, "or just the ones we use at the county clerk's office?"
He grins, revealing a canine nearly as thick as my little finger.
"Call me Mason."
A beat.
"Mason Weir."
Weir.
The name lands wrong.
I dig through two centuries of reluctant acquaintances until the memory surfaces.
"Deadwood Weir's boy?"
There are rules among predators.
If someone claims blood, you acknowledge it.
Even while quietly calculating how much of theirs you could spill before anyone objected.
He lifts his glass in a mock salute.
"Deadwood retired."
"Boat?"
"Canadian coast."
"You know how it is."
"I do."
I don't.
We sit in silence for a while.
Two men pretending to enjoy the same drink while carefully measuring the distance between them.
Finally...
"Tell me about the girl in the woods."
No preamble.
No small talk.
If this were a movie, this is where the violins would quietly start threatening everyone.
"Which woods?"
Vlad snorts.
There's only one the woods in Blackthorn Bay.
"Don't be cute," Mason says.
"I wasn't born with the subtlety gene."
Fair enough.
"What do you want with her?"
He shrugs.
"Nothing."
A sip.
"Curiosity."
Another.
"New girl turns up in the Forbidden Forest. Rumor says she's connected to Thistlebrook."
He shrugs again.
"People notice things."
"Especially bounty hunters?"
His smile doesn't move.
"Freelance these days."
"The right people know how to find me."
A pause.
"Like your friend Leland Brooks."
Ice slides neatly down my spine.
"He's your client?"
"My retainer."
He rotates his glass.
"He likes pretending he's my boss."
A grin.
"I admire ambition."
The realization settles heavily in my stomach.
Leland hired another hunter.
Either he expected competition...
...or he stopped trusting the first one.
Neither possibility improves my evening.
"She's not what you're expecting."
The words leave my mouth before I've decided whether they're a warning...
...or a challenge.
Mason leans closer.
"I figured you wouldn't hand over a witch."
His voice stays conversational.
"You don't strike me as that kind of man."
A beat.
"I figured you'd skim a little off the top."
He smiles.
"Professional courtesy."
I don't answer.
"So here's some advice."
His eyes lock onto mine.
"You're already one move behind."
He stands.
Straightens his jacket.
Then pauses beside me.
"If you actually want to keep her alive..."
His voice drops another notch.
"Get her out of those woods."
"Leland's men won't cross the forest line."
A smile.
"I don't have that problem."
Then he walks away.
Slow.
Heavy.
Bear-like.
Like he already knows he'll never have to run.
Vlad wanders back over once Mason disappears into the sodium glow outside.
"Friendly fellow."
"Weir's working for Brooks."
Vlad sighs.
"You think he's hunting you?"
I swirl the blood wine.
Metal.
Wildflowers.
Panic.
I don't panic.
Not professionally.
But there are rules.
Hunter.
Target.
Client.
Prey.
I don't like it when someone flips the board over halfway through the game.
If Mason Weir is involved...
Everything changes.
He's brute force.
No hesitation.
No conscience.
Shifters don't survive by learning diplomacy.
They survive by being the strongest thing in the room.
The only reason he hasn't torn my head off yet...
...is because he's waiting to see what I do first.
He's right about one thing.
If I want Birdie safe...
I have to move her.
Tonight.
The walk from Vlad's to Button Cottage is less than a mile.
It takes me nearly twenty minutes.
Every parked truck looks occupied.
Every shadow suddenly has shoulders.
The moon hangs nearly full overhead, bleaching Blackthorn's narrow streets silver until they resemble veins beneath skin.
The old houses crouch in the darkness beneath moss-covered roofs and centuries of questionable insulation.
Every so often a window glows.
Blue television light.
Warm candlelight.
Tiny reminders that most people still believe the night belongs to them.
At the edge of the forest, I stop.
Listen.
The trees gossip with the wind.
Somewhere nearby, two raccoons conduct what sounds like an increasingly hostile argument over half a sandwich.
Nothing else.
Nothing obvious.
Which worries me more.
Shifters are good at hiding.
They're even better at waiting.
Button Cottage waits ahead, warm light spilling from its windows.
Every curtain drawn.
Like Birdie still believes curtains are enough to keep monsters outside.
I circle behind the cottage, avoiding the front path.
The frog in the little glazed pond watches me with the smug satisfaction of someone who's already judged my life choices.
I tap softly on the kitchen window.
A moment later Birdie appears.
She studies my face.
Then the darkness behind me.
Then my face again.
"You skipped coffee."
The words catch me off guard.
I blink.
"You noticed?"
A tiny shrug.
"You always stop by after a bad night."
She opens the door.
"So..."
Her smile fades as she gets a better look at me.
"How bad was this one?"
Warm bread.
Honey.
Paint thinner.
The unmistakable scent of Dandy's latest artistic disaster.
He sits at the kitchen table meticulously picking seeds off the crust of a sandwich.
He looks up.
"You look like you've been shot."
"Not yet."
I look at Birdie.
"There's another hunter."
"A shifter."
"Mason Weir."
"He's working for Brooks."
Unlike me...
"He won't knock before he comes inside."
Birdie's expression barely changes.
Something behind it does.
"Convenient."
Her voice is calm.
"The man hired to drag me home..."
"...is warning me about the other man hired to drag me home."
"Birdie—"
"It's a trick."
She folds her arms.
"You scare me into running."
"You follow me."
"You finally learn where I really hide."
"He's scared."
Dandy says it quietly.
Matter-of-factly.
Like commenting on the weather.
"I can tell."
Birdie sighs.
"Dandy..."
Too late.
He presses two flour-dusted fingers against the table and murmurs something under his breath.
The spell doesn't feel magical.
It feels inevitable.
Like trying to hold water in your hands.
Truth simply slips through anyway.
"Weir will find you by morning."
The words leave my mouth whether I approve of them or not.
"He doesn't have the forest restriction."
"He has absolutely no reason to be careful with you."
A pause.
One I don't choose.
"I have every reason."
Silence.
The room seems to inhale.
"Every reason," Dandy repeats with the unbearable satisfaction of someone who's just won an argument no one realized was happening.
Birdie looks at me.
I look very deliberately at the floorboards.
"...Forget I said that part."