rot, it wasn’t the spoiled-meat smell of the Jackals that clung to him.
“A dead guy.” He said it so casually, she knew he must be thoroughly freaked-out. “He was poking through the downstairs library, looking for books on necromancy. Maybe he was looking for a good post-grave skin care regimen.”
Justin came back in with the whiskey. “Oh, hey,” he said, seeing Val tending to Chaz’ cheek, “I should’ve thought to do that back at the house. I’ll, uh. I’ll remember for next time.”
Chaz’ scent got spiky.
He’s upset.
He hid it beneath a layer of sarcasm. “Let’s hope there isn’t one, buddy, yeah?”
“Oh! No, I didn’t mean . . .” Justin passed Chaz the glass and retreated to the armchair. “Anyway, that thing was strong, Val. I got it off of Chaz and chased it out, but I’m glad it didn’t stick around to fight.”
Ice rattled against the glass as Chaz lifted it, clicked on his teeth as he drained its contents. That prickly scent came again as Justin spoke, telling her the rest of what they’d seen, but it subsided as the whiskey worked its magic. As she looked at Chaz’ battered face, and at the post-adrenaline shine that haunted Justin’s eyes, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu swept over her.
Her first year in Sacramento, she knew nothing of the Brotherhood. The vampire who’d turned her had a coven of four, and Val made five. They were a bunch of idiots who were going to be young forever, partying their way through the neon-lit nights of the nineteen eighties and beyond. He didn’t tell them about other vampires, or anything else that went bump in the night, and they didn’t care enough to ask.
They didn’t know about the Brotherhood; they didn’t know about the Jackals. They had no way to know a Hunt was happening right in their own neighborhood until the night they’d come home near dawn and found their Renfield—a local girl who wasn’t quite ready to give up the sun—beaten within an inch of her life on their doorstep. A Jackal had seen them, figured they were with the others, and decided to send a message. The Brotherhood wasn’t far behind. A Sister, Delilah (who would someday be Val’s closest friend), healed Carrie’s wounds. She explained who they were as her companions—another vampire Val had never met, a man whose arms were covered in tattooed runes, an old man who looked like a preacher out of a western—milled about, looking for the Jackals’ trail. Delilah spoke about the monsters threatening the humans, and how the Brotherhood hunted them down. How they could always use more help.
That was when Val learned there was more to unlife than eternal parties. It was when she’d joined the Hunt, and it was her life for the next twenty-odd years, until she got out. She got out and came east so she didn’t have to Hunt anymore. Didn’t have to risk losing the people she loved. For nearly a decade, she didn’t. She’d opened her bookstore and lived a quiet life mostly away from vampires and their politics, away from monsters, away from a life of violence and bloodshed. Until the Jackals came to Edgewood on Elly Garrett’s heels, and she’d almost—
almost
—been drawn back in.
She’d refused Ivanov’s offer to rejoin the fold not only because she wanted nothing to do with the
Stregoi
, but also because the Hunt didn’t need her. Now, though, looking at Chaz’ face, bruised for the second time in a month, she thought maybe it did, after all. And it needed her right here in Edgewood.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Looks like I’m heading out tonight after all.” She glanced longingly at her magazines, at the TV buzzing away behind her. On the screen, the man in the panama hat was crashing through the bushes—seemed like the bear wasn’t taking his shit. The cameraperson had to have nerves of steel, to stand there and film it all.
“Heading out?” Chaz scowled when she pushed him back down in his seat. “Did you hear the part where
“A dead guy.” He said it so casually, she knew he must be thoroughly freaked-out. “He was poking through the downstairs library, looking for books on necromancy. Maybe he was looking for a good post-grave skin care regimen.”
Justin came back in with the whiskey. “Oh, hey,” he said, seeing Val tending to Chaz’ cheek, “I should’ve thought to do that back at the house. I’ll, uh. I’ll remember for next time.”
Chaz’ scent got spiky.
He’s upset.
He hid it beneath a layer of sarcasm. “Let’s hope there isn’t one, buddy, yeah?”
“Oh! No, I didn’t mean . . .” Justin passed Chaz the glass and retreated to the armchair. “Anyway, that thing was strong, Val. I got it off of Chaz and chased it out, but I’m glad it didn’t stick around to fight.”
Ice rattled against the glass as Chaz lifted it, clicked on his teeth as he drained its contents. That prickly scent came again as Justin spoke, telling her the rest of what they’d seen, but it subsided as the whiskey worked its magic. As she looked at Chaz’ battered face, and at the post-adrenaline shine that haunted Justin’s eyes, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu swept over her.
Her first year in Sacramento, she knew nothing of the Brotherhood. The vampire who’d turned her had a coven of four, and Val made five. They were a bunch of idiots who were going to be young forever, partying their way through the neon-lit nights of the nineteen eighties and beyond. He didn’t tell them about other vampires, or anything else that went bump in the night, and they didn’t care enough to ask.
They didn’t know about the Brotherhood; they didn’t know about the Jackals. They had no way to know a Hunt was happening right in their own neighborhood until the night they’d come home near dawn and found their Renfield—a local girl who wasn’t quite ready to give up the sun—beaten within an inch of her life on their doorstep. A Jackal had seen them, figured they were with the others, and decided to send a message. The Brotherhood wasn’t far behind. A Sister, Delilah (who would someday be Val’s closest friend), healed Carrie’s wounds. She explained who they were as her companions—another vampire Val had never met, a man whose arms were covered in tattooed runes, an old man who looked like a preacher out of a western—milled about, looking for the Jackals’ trail. Delilah spoke about the monsters threatening the humans, and how the Brotherhood hunted them down. How they could always use more help.
That was when Val learned there was more to unlife than eternal parties. It was when she’d joined the Hunt, and it was her life for the next twenty-odd years, until she got out. She got out and came east so she didn’t have to Hunt anymore. Didn’t have to risk losing the people she loved. For nearly a decade, she didn’t. She’d opened her bookstore and lived a quiet life mostly away from vampires and their politics, away from monsters, away from a life of violence and bloodshed. Until the Jackals came to Edgewood on Elly Garrett’s heels, and she’d almost—
almost
—been drawn back in.
She’d refused Ivanov’s offer to rejoin the fold not only because she wanted nothing to do with the
Stregoi
, but also because the Hunt didn’t need her. Now, though, looking at Chaz’ face, bruised for the second time in a month, she thought maybe it did, after all. And it needed her right here in Edgewood.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Looks like I’m heading out tonight after all.” She glanced longingly at her magazines, at the TV buzzing away behind her. On the screen, the man in the panama hat was crashing through the bushes—seemed like the bear wasn’t taking his shit. The cameraperson had to have nerves of steel, to stand there and film it all.
“Heading out?” Chaz scowled when she pushed him back down in his seat. “Did you hear the part where
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