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But it was the agent that kept drawing my attention. Cross moved with an awareness that set my teeth on edge. He wasn't just watching the vampire, he was reading her, analyzing her patterns the same way I was. This wasn't some rookie fed stumbling into supernatural territory.

“Jaysus,” I muttered, “what are you, mate? Some kind of hunter in a fed's clothing?”

The vampire finally made her move, all subtle suggestion and practiced grace as she led her stumbling prey toward the back alley. But the moment she moved, Cross did too. His reaction time was too perfect, too precise.

“Ah, shite.” I pushed off from the wall. “Skye, keep tracking both targets.”

“The agent's heat signature is fluctuating,” they reported, tension clear in their voice. “Whatever he is, Sean, he's not entirely human.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“The Easter Bunny is actually a blood-drinking tulpa created by collective childhood trauma.”

“You're hilarious. Keep the chatter for after I've dealt with fangs and feds.”

I followed at a distance, keeping to the deeper shadows where the streetlights couldn't reach. The vampire led her prey out, creating distance from the club's pounding music and watchful eyes. But Cross stayed right with them, moving like a ghost himself.

Then something unexpected happened. Cross stepped out of the shadows, deliberately placing himself between the vampire and her prey. It was the kind of move that should have gotten him killed instantly. Instead, the vampire... hesitated.

I frowned, hand tightening on my knife. Vampires don't hesitate. They're pure predator, all instinct and hunger. But this one was looking at Cross like she recognized something in him, something that made her wary.

“The fuck is going on?” I whispered, more to myself than to Skye.

The vampire's prey chose that moment to realize something was wrong. He stumbled backward, mumbling excuses about calling an Uber. Cross didn't even look at him, keeping his attention fixed on the vampire.

“Run,” Cross said to the man, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet alley.

The man ran.

That should have been when the vampire struck. With her cover blown and her prey escaping, there was no reason for pretense. But instead, she took a step back.

“You,” she hissed, and there was recognition in her voice. “You're the one they've been warning us about.”

I didn't know if Cross responded, but something shifted in his stance. Power rolled off him in waves I could feel even from my position. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, charged with potential violence.

The vampire's control slipped. Her beautiful facade cracked, revealing the predator beneath, fangs extending, eyes going blood-red, nails lengthening into claws. But still, she hesitated.

Then she ran.

Cross pursued immediately, moving with that same unnatural speed. I followed, cursing under my breath as they led me on a chase through Manhattan's maze of back alleys and service corridors.

“Skye, where are they headed?”

“North-northeast, toward the abandoned shipping district. Want me to call Lex for backup? Or maybe the National Guard?”

“Just keep tracking.”

The chase ended in a dead-end alley, the kind of place where bad decisions come home to roost. Brick walls rose three stories on three sides, fire escapes casting skeletal shadows in the dim light. The vampire turned, trapped, her fear and fury rolling off her in waves.

I positioned myself on one of the fire escapes, hidden in the shadows. Part of me knew I should intervene because this was my hunt, my jurisdiction. But another part, the part that had survived this long by trusting my instincts, wanted to see what Cross would do.

The vampire struck first, launching herself at Cross with supernatural speed. Her claws should have opened his throat. Should have ended whatever game he was playing.

Instead, Cross moved like he'd been expecting it. He sidestepped the attack with fluidity, and in that motion, I saw something impossible. His eyes caught the dim light, reflecting it back not with vampire red or werewolf yellow, but with something else, something that made my centuries-old hunter instincts scream danger.

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered, the hunter's prayer slipping out automatically.

What are you?