Chapter 5 #2
He leans in slightly, not touching, just there, and says in that low, rumbling voice, “Your scent... it reminds me of first light on bloodied snow.”
I blink.
“What?”
“It is a good thing.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks?” I stammer, my face going warm. “I think?”
“I mean no offense. It is... sharp. Clean. And fierce.”
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, “you smell like bonfires and testosterone.”
He grins.
I swallow.
The space between us vibrates with unsaid things. With tension. With heat.
I should step back.
I don’t.
We just stand there in the too-small kitchen, pretending like time isn’t holding its breath and the walls aren’t shrinking with the heat building between us.
I busy myself wiping the already-clean counter with a paper towel I don’t need, and he sharpens his ridiculous spear with the kind of intensity usually reserved for serial killers and samurai.
I don’t ask how the spear fit into the truck without impaling the upholstery. I don’t ask how it’s glowing faintly now, like it’s got its own personal power source. I don’t ask anything, because the silence between us feels like something sacred.
And then my phone rings.
Because of course it does.
I flinch. Kursk growls.
“It’s just the phone,” I mutter, grabbing it off the counter and glancing at the caller ID. “Damn. It’s Trish.”
Kursk raises one eyebrow. “The one with the glare of a carrion hawk.”
“You really hated that interview, huh?”
“She asked if your madness was hereditary.”
“Fair.”
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
Trish Sanchez doesn’t waste time. “Hey, Olivia. Sorry to bug you, but have you heard what happened behind the bowling alley?”
I blink. “No. Why? Someone throw a gutter ball too hard?”
She doesn’t laugh. “There’s been… another attack. The police aren’t releasing much, but my guy on the inside says it’s bad. Like, 'pieces-missing' bad.”
A cold knot twists in my stomach. “When?”
“An hour ago. EMTs couldn’t save him.”
My eyes flick to Kursk. His face doesn’t change, but something in him tightens. He’s listening. And he knows.
“Did they see anything?”
“Not officially. But the report said the blood trail was cold. Like… unnaturally cold. And someone said there were scratch marks on the alley wall. Deep ones.”
I swallow. “Thanks, Trish.”
“You still think it’s your two-faced monster?”
“I know it is.”
She exhales. “Then you’d better be careful.”
“I always am,” I lie.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch like it’s radioactive.
“Another victim?” Kursk asks.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be. “Behind the bowling alley. Same M.O. Cold blood. Deep claw marks. They couldn’t save him.”
His jaw flexes. He goes back to sharpening the spear, the rasping metal-on-metal sound a lullaby for the doomed.
“I have delayed too long,” he mutters. “I should have been watching the storm drains. The beast nests in dark, damp places.”
“Hey,” I say, stepping closer. “You didn’t know. We’re not gods.”
He looks at me then, eyes burning gold, like I’ve said something sacred. “You take this burden as if it were your own.”
“I saw it, Kursk. The first night. I saw what it did. And I know what it’s capable of.”
He nods. “Then we hunt.”
I throw together a quick pack—thermos of coffee, flashlights, two protein bars, and one small canister of pepper spray I sincerely doubt will help, but makes me feel less naked.
Kursk straps the spear across his back, though the magic illusion keeps it invisible to anyone else.
He doesn’t bother changing clothes. I offer him a shirt.
He scoffs like I handed him a wet diaper.
I drive.
He watches the road like it’s a battlefield.
“I do not understand this vehicle,” he mutters as we turn down Main Street. “It has no creature to pull it, yet it obeys.”
“It runs on gasoline.”
“This is a spirit?”
“No. It’s fossil fuel. Made from ancient, compressed organic matter.”
His eyebrows rise. “You ride the bones of your ancestors into war. Impressive.”
I smother a laugh. “Yeah. We’re all about guilt-based transportation.”
We reach the alley behind Walnut Falls Bowling. Police tape flutters in the breeze, and the area’s been cleared. One cop car remains, probably for show. I park around the corner and kill the lights.
Kursk’s eyes scan the area.
“There,” he says, pointing to a storm drain near the dumpster. “Do you feel that?”
I do. A chill. Not wind. Not air conditioning. Something wrong. Like the temperature dropped ten degrees in a circle around that drain.
We move forward.
Quiet.
He crouches and touches the metal grate. Frost forms beneath his fingers.
“It fed recently,” he whispers.
My skin crawls.
“I should go first,” he says.
“No argument here.”
He draws the spear.
I draw the coffee thermos and wish it were holy water.
We don’t go in yet. Not tonight. Not without better prep. He inspects the scene, cataloging it with a hunter’s eye. He finds a scrap of bloodied cloth—too clean, too intact. He growls.
“It’s mocking us.”
“Like bait?”
“Like insult. The beast is proud. It wants to be seen.”
I shiver. Not from the cold.
We get back to the truck in silence.
Drive home in it, too.
But inside, when the door shuts and the warmth returns, I finally speak.
“We’re getting close.”
“Yes,” he says, not looking at me. “And it will get more dangerous now.”
I nod.
“I don’t expect you to come,” he says. “You have done much already. It is not your duty.”
“Screw duty,” I say, shrugging off my coat. “It killed someone. That makes it my problem.”
He turns to me slowly. “You have more courage than many warriors I have known.”
“And you have more scars than I have ex-boyfriends. Which is saying something.”
He smirks. “Still not a mate?”
“Still not a mate.”
But I don’t step away when he takes a step forward.
I don’t blink when he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
And I definitely don’t stop him when his hand lingers, warm and rough against my skin.
“Sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow, we hunt.”
I nod.
But neither of us moves.
The hunt is getting serious now.
And so is everything else.