Page 13 of Bite Back
ASHER
Hunting down targets is my least favorite part of being a slayer. When my target is there in front of me, I can weigh everything. Who they are. What they’ve done. What they’ll do, if I don’t stop them.
I’ve never regretted a kill.
But when I’m tracking a target down, it feels different somehow. Like I’m a predator stalking my prey. So many hunters live for the thrill of the chase. But I hate it. It makes me feel like I’m no different than the bloodsuckers I’ve been sent to deal with.
The difference, of course, is that I don’t hunt, don’t stalk, don’t kill without good reason. I only take down vampires who have repeatedly crossed the line. Ones who took multiple lives and show no signs of stopping.
Sometimes I think hating the hunt is what makes me so good at it. Since I don’t relish it, I push myself to locate—and eliminate—the target as quickly as possible. Efficiency is the name of the game.
Which is how I find myself outside a dive bar that was listed in the subject’s file.
The bar’s a beaten down brick building with a door covered in peeling red paint.
Cracks spiderweb the windowpane, and even at seven p.m., it looks busy.
Unusual. Most bars that cater to vamps only open in the late hours of the night, after the sun has set.
Even though older vamps can navigate the daylight perfectly fine, somewhere along the way, it became fashionable to continue a nocturnal existence among many.
I cross the threshold of the bar, my eyes sweeping the room.
Definitely unusual. A motley assortment of supernaturals fills the space.
A pack of wolves cluster towards the front of the room, absorbed in a game of pool.
Some strung out looking ghouls perch by the bar.
A gaggle of witches laugh and talk animatedly over by an ancient pinball machine.
That’s when I spot her. The woman, the vampire, from the club last night.
She’s as striking in the daylight as she was under the neon glow of the club lights. Her long hair is wound up into a messy bun, loose, wine-colored tresses dangling down to kiss her neck and forehead.
I can hunt vampires no problem, but, apparently, faced with her I want to hide.
I turn to head out, and that’s when she spots me. Her eyes widen as she fixes her gaze on me. I exhale slowly. Maybe that’s all this is. An awkward moment. Then she rises from the table.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I wince internally at the sharp tone in her voice.
I debate how to respond. I could still leave. I don’t know this woman. I don’t owe her an explanation. But I want to give her an apology for the shitshow that last night turned into.
I’m not here for that though. I’m here to find a rogue vamp. And I intend to do just that.
“Looking for Luka Morgan.”
If I thought her eyes had widened before…now they’re bugging out of her head. “Why?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “To kill him.”
“No.” Her eyes gleam like diamonds, cold and hard.
“No?”
“You’re not going to kill him.” As though this is up for debate. Which it isn’t.
“Oh, I absolutely am. I never fail an assignment.” I square my shoulders and inch into her space. I refuse to break eye contact.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” She flashes a wicked smile my way. “You’re not going to kill him. I am.”
It clicks.
Who this woman must be. Why she wants to kill Luka.
Delilah Carter.
There wasn’t a picture included, but her name came up in the file as a possible contact, a possible girlfriend, a possible victim. My stomach lurches. Given her reaction, I can fill in the blanks.
Shit.
My mind combs over the possibilities, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle.
She crosses her arms. The motion’s jerky, lacking the characteristic fluidity of vampires.
She’s not at home in her body yet. Which means, she’s new, very new.
That, plus the pounding music and reverberation disguising her lack of heartbeat, explains why I mistook her for a human.
It also means she might be the last person to see Luka. Or, at least, the last person I have access to. I should interview her at minimum. She probably has so much information, so many details I can benefit from. Plain and simple. “I need your help.”
Maybe I should have worked up to that. Apologized more. Because her answer comes before I even finish my sentence. “I won’t.”