Page 3

THE MOTEL IS a neon-lit dump. Okay, maybe it's not as bad as it could be, but on the grand scale of cleanliness, this ranks below the median. I'm not even going to try to guess when it was last renovated, because I'm not sure it has ever been; I can feel myself age just standing in it, as if the walls were oozing decay.

Asha doesn't seem to think so, though. She drops her bags next to one of the queen-sized beds, pulls out her beauty case, towels, and sleeping gear, and has everything stowed away before my mind fully digests the disaster of Golden Sixties wallpaper, orange carpeting, and sandy beige bedsheets. And considering the amount of garbage popping up in our headlights when we pulled into the parking lot, I don't even want to think about what this place will look like in daylight. My bourgeois parents wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like this, and I'm starting to understand why.

"Don't make that face, puppy. It's clean, quiet, and we have our own parking space," Asha admonishes lightly and disappears into the bathroom. The door falls shut with a wobbly clack, and I get to experience firsthand how flimsy the walls are. I can hear everything. Which means I'll be celibate for however long this stint is going to take. The idea of her hearing me jacking off under the shower is just... nope.

I throw the door a dark glare and start unpacking. My suit jackets and dress shirts go into the dresser, as do my two additional pairs of shoes. My two backup-pairs of sunglasses go into the safe, right next to Asha's IDs and passport, though I bet that all of those are fake and are just there in case someone breaks in. On the other hand, her real name likely isn't even Asha, so it doesn't really matter. The sports bag full of weapons goes under the bed, minus my favorite Glock G17 semi-auto, which will go with me tonight. It's the one thing I splurged on besides my shades, and I haven't regretted it so far. One can't be too stingy with personal safety.

Most hunters pick their clothes as if they're members of a special-ops team. Dark colors, hunting or military gear, very assassin chic. I don't. I might not go full bird of paradise on my wardrobe, but I prefer tight black jeans, dress shirts, and knee-length, modern, vaguely gothy waistcoats. If I could get away with it, I would add a hint of black eyeliner, but I attract enough attention as it is. Being recognized right away isn’t always a good thing.

For our last agenda stop for tonight, I pick a straight white dress shirt, dark gray skinny jeans, and a fitted black waistcoat made from a very thick cotton poly-blend with an almost corduroy feel to it. The cloth is just heavy enough not to flap around at the slightest breeze when I walk, but still light enough to hide my gun if I stand still. The extra-heavy coats recommended by the Hunter's handbook may make me look athletic and even make it harder to bite (or scratch) through, but they also bulge over my holster. I am usually more interested in defusing a situation, and visible guns really don't help with that, so lighter cloths it is. Soft black boots round out the ensemble. I also brought my steel-capped TreadAir's, but for today, I don't think I'll have to kick anyone—or anything—that hard. Hopefully.

Asha yowls some kitschy pop song in the shower, and I snicker as I tuck and tighten my shoulder holster so it doesn't bunch my dress shirt too much. Wrinkles are a bitch to get out without a steamer, and I may be crazy, but not crazy enough to pack that thing for a few-day-trip. Asha will tease me when she sees I'm hipster-suited up, but I don't care. Her smirk is addictive. And what ideas my mind conjures at the sound of her splashing around in the shower will never happen. I'm star-struck and that's all there is to it.

With the sleek pistol safely tucked away and resting against my ribs, I sit down to study the tablet again.

Going on a murder spree and getting caught doing it is a glaring breach of Contract, with a capital C for impact. And everyone knows what it means. Every supernatural being has the duty to keep all of them a secret from humanity, in constant fear of another Inquisition. Every supernatural group has the duty of controlling their own and safeguarding them for their own best interest, lest there be all-out war between the supes themselves.

The idea of the Contract is ancient even by vampire standards, a higher ideal meant to govern and regulate the actions of all those not mortal. But as with most high ideals that are voluntary, nobody paid the Contract much mind. Until the Hunters came to be.

The Contract's rules may have been introduced by the supernaturals, but it's the Hunters who took it upon themselves—ourselves—to enforce it. Violently. One would think that being pursued by a torch-swinging mob of people would be enough of a deterrent to keep frisky supernaturals at bay and in hiding, but this is where free will makes its annoying entrance. Monsters will kill, hunt, maim to their hearts' extent until someone puts a stop to it. And we Hunters may not be immortal or, most times, supernatural, but hunting, killing, safeguarding, is what we were bred, trained, shaped to do. The blood crusades of the dark ages and witch wars in the sixties pay testament to our abilities. Sadly, they also show that we do not know boundaries.

Nowadays, things are much more civilized than in the good ol' times. Most of the supernaturals know that showing the world they exist will eventually result in a very unhappy meeting with Hunters, and those who don't will get schooled by their regional leaders at the first hint of a fuck-up. They usually know shit has gone down before we do, and if they can help it, they will take care of the troublemakers before we even arrive. Makes things a lot easier for us.

I wonder though. It took me ten minutes to see the vampire connection, and my clan dispatchers about a month to put it all together, and we're far away from Babylon. So how come the local vampire kiss hasn't taken the fanger out already? Or maybe they have, and we'll pack up and go back home in a few hours? I'm torn about what I would like more.

Asha saunters out of the bathroom buck-naked and I almost drop the tablet. Something weird and shivery worms through my stomach, and my face gets hot, no matter how many calming things I mentally yell at myself. She throws me a weirded-out sideways look as she rummages through her go-bag, but doesn’t laugh. Maybe she forgot I was there. Or she thinks I don't care about casual nudity because I'm gay, but we're not that close. I think.

"You armed?"

I nod, begging the powers that be to stop my blush before I faint from the blood pooling in my head. And crotch. Is there such a thing as a fear boner?

"Good. I've got a strange feeling about this case. Better to be safe than polite." Asha pulls on a black turtleneck shirt and grabs her olive green jeans jacket, then makes a shooing gesture at me. Her heels are both sensible and hot, black and elegant military chic. "You've gotta pick up the pace, puppy. The sooner we get this sorted out, the sooner we can go home."

I want to stay as long as possible; she wants to go home yesterday. Which once more makes me wonder what makes her tick, because usually, Hunters want to make extra sure their job is done. Of course, things wouldn't go as I hoped, but there's still time. I sigh and turn off the tablet, tucking it under my arm. Things could still happen. Exciting things.

CHAPTER TWO

BEING A HUNTER was never my life dream. I didn't even know there was such a thing as Hunters until I got my ass almost eaten by a feral ghoul at 16. He also killed my parents, but the memory of that is fractured and too upsetting to hold on to. Sure, I had my moment of awe when I watched a machete-wielding guy hack the ghoul into pieces like it was the best thing he had ever experienced, but the newness rubbed off quickly, especially after I realized how many people didn't come back from missions and how many new ones arrived each year. Supes like to eat us when we're not paying attention.

On the other hand, it's hard to remember the sad parts of the job when you're staring at a thirty story high rise made from glossy black glass and polished steel, knowing the powerful people inside are afraid of you. That rush is just something else.

Asha stands next to me, checking the nightlife with quick glances to the left and the right while I gawk wide-eyed at the home of the local vampire kiss and wonder where I went wrong with my career choices. My clan's bunker is a damn fine piece of architecture, but it's still a bunker with a bunkery feel, regurgitated A/C air, and very little personal space. If I didn't have to die and become a bloodsucking monster, I would be tempted to join the vampires.

"Gun check," Asha says and steps into the shade of the brutally square main entrance. I take a last drag of my cigarette to calm my nerves and snip it into the gutter, following her into the shade. We both tap our jackets, holsters, and pants pockets to make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. Her hands are calm and quick. I fumble like a five-year-old.

"We're about to meet the best-behaved group of monsters you'll ever see, but don't be fooled. It's just a front to placate us as long as we're face to face with them. They will still gleefully eat your face if you make a mistake, no matter how well they curtsy. Now, what are the five rules for meetings with supe city leaders?"

I can barely control my eye-roll. "No staring at wolves. No speaking wishes out loud around witches or warlocks. No touching vampires. No eating or drinking anything, offered or not. No accepting gifts."

"Good. Our mission is just on the right side of low-priority, so we won't be too much of a threat for now. It'll go smoothly," she says, and frowns. "I hope."

How very reassuring.

THE MEETING ROOM is swanky, but not surprisingly so for a penthouse floor in a skyscraper. A little less expected are the people awaiting us: a surprisingly athletic looking biker, complete with sweat stains and patches on his greasy leather vest, a business lady in a pencil dress, two ragged-looking guys who couldn't be more polar opposites—one looking like a hobo, but almost feminine in his slimness, the other one a mountain of a man with black, spikey hair—and are still obviously a thing, going by the way they chase each other's tonsils, and a... thing. I am positive he’s a man, but he wears some kind of robe-y, dark purple kimono and looks like he belongs on a morgue slab. When his watery blue eyes meet mine, I shudder and roll my shoulders to chase away the cold rush brushing down my back. "Creep," I mutter.

Asha shoots me a deathly glare, and more than half of the room snickers, except for the hobo-looking part of the kissing duo, and Mr. Kimono. Supernatural hearing for the win. At least now I know that I'm not the only human in the room. Not that being basically human means anything when there are witches, warlocks, mages, seers, and God only knows what else.

"Welcome," says the business skirt and shoots us a professional smile. It’s a solid one, though tight-lipped, to hide her fangs. That would be the vampire leader, then. She's pretty in that 40-ish fitness trainer way, with dark red hair and a nondescript face. Chocolate brown eyes, medium-full lips, natural make-up, the whole innocent package. If I didn't know about the powers her kind has, I wouldn't even look twice at her, which is probably the exact reason for her to dress like that. Her ash-gray skirt whispers against her thighs as she steps forward, and I quickly tear my eyes off her legs. Nothing quite like being accused of leering when you're a gay-ish man in a diplomatic meeting with monsters.