child.”
Unaware that he had blood left to spare, Ryker was stunned when his cheeks warmed. At the very least, he should have been grateful that it was just the father who had found him, and not his brothers. “My apologies.”
His pale face turned upward, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Here,” he said again, offering a silver flask.
Ryker blinked at him. Surely, the old man wasn’t offering him alcohol, was he?
“For the pain,” the priest assured him. “We’ve no anesthetic, and I’d rather the sisters not alert the police. They remain blissfully unaware of the Church’s...” His hands flourished as he struggled to find the words.
“Extracurricular activities?” Ryker offered with a bemused smile, before throwing back a mouthful of whiskey. Wincing, he lowered the canteen, eyes tapered as he waited for the liquor’s burn to ebb.
Father Stewart bowed over Ryker’s injury, his mouth pursed as he regarded the extent of the wound. “Be grateful it was just your shoulder. It looks as though it was trying to tear your arm off.”
“I had it all under control,” Ryker muttered, eyeing the old man apprehensively as he reached for a small vial of holy water. “The bastard—sorry Father—played dirty.”
“Yes, well, they are beings of darkness and corruption. I doubt they even understand what a fair fight entails.”
Ryker’s lips quirked before he took another long swallow. “Suppose so.”
“Deep breath,” the priest warned, before pouring the wretched liquid over his shoulder.
Searing agony set Ryker’s shoulder ablaze, wrenching a pained cry from him. His eyes slipped shut, his jaw setting as he slammed a clenched fist against the table. Unbearable torment brought spots behind his closed eyes, the world swaying as he fought to keep his balance. How he loathed vampires—only they could make something as benign as holy water so excruciating.
When he finally cracked open his eyes, Father Stewart’s steady fingers were reaching for the kit. Already light-headed, Ryker’s knees turned soft the moment he laid eyes on the thin needle, the metal glinting in the faint sconce light. Give him vampires, werewolves, even malevolent spirits, and he was cold as steel. But the moment he laid eyes on a needle, all bets were off. Not that anyone knew of this fear; he’d rather die than divulge that embarrassing little tidbit.
“Might want to swallow some more poison, my boy,” the priest mumbled, his warm breath ghosting over Ryker’s neck. “This won’t be pleasant.”
It rarely was. Nor was it the first time he’d been stitched up in the church’s basement. His entire family had shed blood down there at one point or another—such was the cost of hunting the paranormal.
Since the Salem witch trials, the Church had been dedicated to eradicating darkness. Generation after generation, they’d put flame to witches, driven wood through vamps, pumped silver through the veins of werewolves. And century after century, Ryker’s family had been the Church’s weapon. Father to son, mother to daughter—each new generation took an oath to purge the world of evil.
More often than Ryker liked, it was his own family that died, murdered by that which they hunted. Stronger, faster and more bloodthirsty, these creatures held the upper hand. His father had fallen ten years ago, his mother six. And yet, Ryker still thought himself lucky. Not one of his brothers had yet to fall. The Bennetts might not have had their parents anymore, but they still had each other.
Tonight, however, he could have been the first. The notion hit home, and for one wavering moment, Ryker wondered how his life might have gone were he not a hunter. Would he have found his happiness with Jenna?
A pinch sundered his thoughts, and, wincing, his gaze dropped to Father Stewart’s hand, watching as the suture sealed the ribboned mess of his shoulder. Feeling green, he diverted his eyes and focused instead on the
Unaware that he had blood left to spare, Ryker was stunned when his cheeks warmed. At the very least, he should have been grateful that it was just the father who had found him, and not his brothers. “My apologies.”
His pale face turned upward, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Here,” he said again, offering a silver flask.
Ryker blinked at him. Surely, the old man wasn’t offering him alcohol, was he?
“For the pain,” the priest assured him. “We’ve no anesthetic, and I’d rather the sisters not alert the police. They remain blissfully unaware of the Church’s...” His hands flourished as he struggled to find the words.
“Extracurricular activities?” Ryker offered with a bemused smile, before throwing back a mouthful of whiskey. Wincing, he lowered the canteen, eyes tapered as he waited for the liquor’s burn to ebb.
Father Stewart bowed over Ryker’s injury, his mouth pursed as he regarded the extent of the wound. “Be grateful it was just your shoulder. It looks as though it was trying to tear your arm off.”
“I had it all under control,” Ryker muttered, eyeing the old man apprehensively as he reached for a small vial of holy water. “The bastard—sorry Father—played dirty.”
“Yes, well, they are beings of darkness and corruption. I doubt they even understand what a fair fight entails.”
Ryker’s lips quirked before he took another long swallow. “Suppose so.”
“Deep breath,” the priest warned, before pouring the wretched liquid over his shoulder.
Searing agony set Ryker’s shoulder ablaze, wrenching a pained cry from him. His eyes slipped shut, his jaw setting as he slammed a clenched fist against the table. Unbearable torment brought spots behind his closed eyes, the world swaying as he fought to keep his balance. How he loathed vampires—only they could make something as benign as holy water so excruciating.
When he finally cracked open his eyes, Father Stewart’s steady fingers were reaching for the kit. Already light-headed, Ryker’s knees turned soft the moment he laid eyes on the thin needle, the metal glinting in the faint sconce light. Give him vampires, werewolves, even malevolent spirits, and he was cold as steel. But the moment he laid eyes on a needle, all bets were off. Not that anyone knew of this fear; he’d rather die than divulge that embarrassing little tidbit.
“Might want to swallow some more poison, my boy,” the priest mumbled, his warm breath ghosting over Ryker’s neck. “This won’t be pleasant.”
It rarely was. Nor was it the first time he’d been stitched up in the church’s basement. His entire family had shed blood down there at one point or another—such was the cost of hunting the paranormal.
Since the Salem witch trials, the Church had been dedicated to eradicating darkness. Generation after generation, they’d put flame to witches, driven wood through vamps, pumped silver through the veins of werewolves. And century after century, Ryker’s family had been the Church’s weapon. Father to son, mother to daughter—each new generation took an oath to purge the world of evil.
More often than Ryker liked, it was his own family that died, murdered by that which they hunted. Stronger, faster and more bloodthirsty, these creatures held the upper hand. His father had fallen ten years ago, his mother six. And yet, Ryker still thought himself lucky. Not one of his brothers had yet to fall. The Bennetts might not have had their parents anymore, but they still had each other.
Tonight, however, he could have been the first. The notion hit home, and for one wavering moment, Ryker wondered how his life might have gone were he not a hunter. Would he have found his happiness with Jenna?
A pinch sundered his thoughts, and, wincing, his gaze dropped to Father Stewart’s hand, watching as the suture sealed the ribboned mess of his shoulder. Feeling green, he diverted his eyes and focused instead on the
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