Chapter 3
Chapter Three
WHEN THE CHEESE GIVES YOU PIZZA
Stupid, pretentious luxury hotel.
That’s what this fucking place is. All gilded corners and gaudy opulence, with gold-plated door handles and a chandelier big enough to bankrupt a small country.
The doorman puffs up his chest like he owns the damn place.
Like he’s guarding royalty instead of escorting out-of-town rich assholes and influencers with fake teeth.
I scoff. He doesn’t even flinch. As if he could ever take me in a fight. I’d have him on the floor before he could even move a muscle.
My boots hit the marble in loud, echoing thuds, turning heads in my direction. My jacket creaks with every step like a warning. A bull in a goddamn china shop. That’s what I am. Except all grit, no polish.
Normally, the Hunters’ Guild dumps me in back-alley motels, the kind with flickering vacancy signs and beds that smell like sex and cigarettes. But this time? They booked me into a fucking palace.
Months of dead ends, burnt leads, and charred Guild dens… eating gas station sandwiches, crashing on moldy mattresses...
I guess someone finally decided to throw me a bone.
I set my black helmet down on the counter, the shiny black surface reflecting the large scar crossing the left side of my face back at me, and give the lady a smile that’s all danger and no warmth.
“Welcome to H?tel Chateau Blanc, Mister…” She trails off with practiced sweetness.
I don’t respond. Just stare.
She blushes but recovers faster than I expect, her customer service training obviously kicking in. She leans forward, just enough to put her cleavage front and center, and tries again. “Did you have a reservation, sir? If I could grab your name?”
I can already tell she’s human. Good. One less complication. The last thing I need is another fucking fang problem.
Usually, women like her don’t flirt with guys like me. I’ve got a scar that splits my face in two, tattoos that say I don’t give a fuck, and a stare that’s made grown men stutter apologies. And yet…
She bats her lashes like I’m a challenge worth taking on.
Cute.
“Smith,” I say. “John Smith.”
A fake name so common, the Guild practically trademarked it. No one tracks a John Smith. Plus it’s used by so many hunters, it’d never be able to be traced back to any one of us specifically.
She taps the keyboard a few times. “Ah, yes. You’re on our penthouse level. Park view.” She gives me a coy smile. “Very exclusive. Can I get your ID and credit card?”
Fucking penthouse?
What the hell is the Guild up to?
At least a view might help with my surveillance while in the city. But coming in and out of the building unnoticed may prove to be… difficult.
Leaning on the glossy counter, I grab my agency issued cards—all in my alias—and hand them over.
Blondie, whose name tag reads Celia, tilts her chest forward even more, batting her long lashes at me while making sure I notice all of her assets as she enters my info.
I give her a once-over. Yeah, she’s got the assets. But she’s the clingy kind—high heels, higher expectations. Not worth the mess. Business and pleasure never mix well.
Besides, I don’t have time for Barbies who want to play house.
I snatch the cards from her outstretched hand, catching the faint frown at my lack of interest and notice with grim satisfaction the gritty arm smudge I left on the spotless counter. I like leaving a mark. Dirt’s honest. So am I.
I smirk to myself in approval, showing teeth, and it must be quite a sight because Blondie’s eyes widen a moment before amping her sultry look up a notch.
So, the perfect Barbie likes it a little dirty too, huh?
Too bad she’s not my type.
She makes one last attempt showcasing her cleavage, while handing my room key, and I purposely ignore it all.
“The elevators are to your right,” she says in a breathy whisper. “Come see me if you need anything.” A beat. “And I do mean… anything.”
I let the silence stretch between us like barbed wire. Then I take the key. No smile. No thanks.
And walk away.
Once I’m out of her line of sight, I drag my fingers down the rune inked on my left forearm. Glamour magic sparks against my skin, climbing like frost before spreading through my limbs and bleeding outward like smoke. A familiar tingle crawls up my spine.
By the time I reach the elevator, my reflection’s already gone from the polished chrome.
Yep.
Invisible.
The glamour is meant to conceal me from supernatural creatures, mostly vampires, while used in combination with dark shadowy corners. But it’s especially useful when trying to avoid pesky humans since their eyesight is so subpar.
It’ll also conceal my comings and goings from any security cameras, which could prove useful if my target decides to track me down.
I snort. It’s unlikely. But one can never be too careful when it comes to fucking bloodsuckers. Their resources are vast, and unlimited.
I make my way up to the eighth floor of the hotel, marked as PH8 beside the elevator button, for Penthouse level eight.
PH8. Fate. Huh.
Interesting.
I don’t have time to ponder the strange foreboding feeling overtaking my spine before the doors ding open and I’m on my floor.
My door happens to be right across the hall from the bank of elevators so a quick swipe and I’m in. I scan the room. Empty. Good. Then I clock every exit, window, and potential blind spot. Force of habit.
When I’m finished, I let out a low whistle.
The place is fucking fannnncy.
The bed is fluffy and inviting. Staring at it, I’m suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Three long ass days of riding on my motorcycle to get here—in the rain—has left me weary.
Typically, I don’t give a shit where I end up laying my head at night, but I'm not one to turn down a chance at luxury, especially when it’s paid for by the Guild.
But I’ll have to savor the luxuries later. Now is when the real work begins. Time to track the bastard who murdered my brother. The one calling himself the Night Reaper.
And my next lead? A shady little pizza joint called Fangerella’s. Word is the sauce’s not the only thing they serve that’s red.
And I’m feeling especially… bloodthirsty tonight.