Page 5 of Bite Back

ASHER

Dozens of trainees and slayers fill the practice range today, milling about on the fluorescent green artificial turf. Buckets full of sharply honed wooden stakes dot the range, ready to be sunk into the dented red and black bullseyes.

I just need to be normal. Whatever that means.

I’ve never been normal. That’s the whole goddamn problem.

My stomach churns, bile burning up my throat and coating my mouth in bitterness.

Pathetic. I swing my arms at my side. Do I normally walk like this?

Is this casual enough? Too casual? My body feels like a marionette that I’m puppeteering.

Keeping my head down, I reach into the nearest bucket and select an ash stake. My fingers trace the swirling knots down the smooth taper. The back of my neck prickles, and I turn around. Everyone’s watching. Of course they are.

I don’t know if I can blame them. My best friend, Claude, once described me as “disgustingly perfect.” My stomach lurches. Not anymore. Not since I fucked everything up spectacularly.

I grind my teeth. The silence roars in my ears, and dozens of eyes bore into me.

I’ve overheard the whispered condemnations, felt each knife slide into my back.

Maybe I was never that good after all. Or maybe I was so good it wasn’t a mistake.

Not really. Maybe I messed up on purpose. Maybe I was corrupt. Maybe I wanted it.

I didn’t.

I didn’t want any of it. Not for the vamp to escape. Not for myself to get hurt. Not for Claude to get turned.

But it did. And now I’m left trying to figure out how the fuck I move forward from this absolute shitshow.

I hold my head high and take a deep breath.

I fix my gaze on the black dot. I can’t afford to miss, not with everyone staring.

I pull my arm back and loose the stake with mechanical precision.

I may not have practiced in weeks, but the motions are ingrained in my body.

The stake hits, piercing dead center. And the next one and the one after that.

Warmth spreads across my chest, and the knot in my stomach loosens.

I peer around. Everyone’s gone back to their training, thank fuck.

That’s the thing about perfection. It’s actually pretty boring.

I don’t stop until I empty the entire bucket.

I grasp the last stake in my now sweat-coated hands, rolling my wrist to stretch my aching muscles.

It feels good. Not as good as a real hunt, but I relish the soreness of a good training session.

After a while, my mind goes quiet and my body takes over.

I like that. I pull back my arm, my muscles screaming in protest. I aim and release. A low chuckle escapes me.

Dead center. Again.

After I’ve finally had my fill, I hit the showers.

The older parts of the Academy have character, boasting high ceilings and pointed Gothic arches, but most of the facilities, like this locker room, were funded by an influx of money from terrified human donors when knowledge of the supernatural spilled into public knowledge twenty years ago.

They’re spare and spartan, all gleaming white tiles.

And thankfully they’re empty because I’m the last one here.

Again. Hot water pours over me, unknitting the knots in my tight muscles.

I know I don’t have the body others expect me to have.

People expect slayers to have a carefully sculpted physique.

But I’m more about function than form. Don’t get me wrong, I’m plenty muscular and athletic.

But athletic isn’t a body type. I train my body to do what it needs to, not to look any particular way.

I know some of the other slayers cultivate that cut look.

To each their own. But being bulky and brawny suits me just fine.

I don’t need an exposed six pack to be the best.

Scars crisscross the broad expanse of my chest, raised under my fingers as I soap up.

I do my best to avoid injury, of course, but it comes with the territory.

Plus, some dark part of me likes to collect scars.

They cover me like a map of where I have been and what I’ve done.

Who I’ve killed and who I’ve saved over my nine years as a hunter.

Each new scar represents my personal effort to make the world a little safer.

They’re like badges of honor that I’ve earned.

All except the most recent one. Two tiny prick marks along the base of my right collarbone.

I scrub over them, covering them for a moment under the foam of my soap.

They’re fainter now, two light pearly dots, only a few shades lighter than my skin tone.

Hardly noticeable among the constellations scattered across my skin.

I like it that way. I don’t need everyone to know.

The whispers from the other slayers about what they do know are bad enough.

Still, though, the memories sweep over me. Memories from that night, the night Claude was turned, and the other one, the night I lost my family, all tangled together in my mind. Rusty soap suds circle the drain, and a metallic scent coats my nostrils.

I blink. No. Clear foam runs down the drain.

For the longest time, I didn’t think I’d be able to do this, to be a slayer, after what happened. I thought I was broken. And maybe I still am. But that’s exactly why I’m able to do this. Why I need to do this. Why I won’t let another bad night derail everything I’ve worked for.

I flick off the faucet. I don’t like to dwell. I shake my head, droplets flying from the dark strands of my hair that kiss my shoulders. During the day, I usually draw my hair back. I need it out of my face, nice and neat in a bun so I can focus. But for now, the tendrils hang loose to air dry.

I towel off and yank on a shirt and sweatpants and then grab my gym bag, slinging it over my shoulder on my way out. I used to bunk on campus, but that got old fast, so I moved out at twenty-two and have had my own place for the last four years.

Even though it’s the last days of summer, the night air carries a decidedly autumn-like chill. I traverse the streets quickly, winding my way through the narrow sidewalks. Thankfully, my studio’s not too far from campus, just a few blocks over in Greenwich Village.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my posture straightens as I read the message.

It’s an alert from the Academy. Rogue vamp spotted in the area, wanted dead or alive.

Six feet, two inches, white, black hair, green eyes.

Five victims left dead in his wake. No doubt, the police are combing the streets as we speak.

But they’re mediocre at best, incompetent and corrupt at worst.

This is what we train for. I survey the cross streets around me.

The last sighting was only a few blocks north.

My gaze darts every which way, sweeping over the area.

A group of tourists in sneakers and I Love New York sweatshirts poses for a picture, camera flashes flickering.

Two businessmen in suits exit a restaurant, clutching briefcases.

A family lumbers down the sidewalk, ice cream cone dripping in the toddler’s hand. Not what I’m looking for.

Adrenaline surges through me. I could go to the cross streets listed and try to do a proper track. But that would waste precious time. Instead, I picture the geography of the city, sketching out possible routes on the Manhattan map I’ve memorized, streets I could trace with my eyes closed.

Those cross streets sit one block south of the nearest subway stop and two blocks from a taxi stand. No point in worrying about the taxi stand right now, not when I’m on foot. The subway though…the possibility intrigues me.

I dash to the end of the block, hooking a right.

There it is. A green wrought iron fence marking a yawning hole in the sidewalk.

Another subway entrance. I pound down the concrete steps two at a time.

I careen into the lobby and hurdle over the turnstile, making a mental note to pay twice next time I go through. I glance at the tracks. Fuck. Empty.

The sign above me, illuminated in digital green, declares it one minute until the next Brooklyn bound train arrives and three minutes until the next Bronx bound.

Shit. I bounce on the balls of my toes. One minute to decide.

Do I board the Brooklyn bound and hope the suspect already boarded?

Or wait for the Bronx bound and gamble that the suspect will still be at the station when I arrive? I play out the scenarios in my head.

Bronx bound’s too slow. I’ll bet on the Brooklyn bound.

A rat scuttles over the tracks, pulling half a bagel in his tiny gray paws. I know most New Yorkers would mock me for saying this, but, honestly, I think the little guy’s kinda cute with his sleek fur and round body. I’m always rooting for the rats. They’re survivors. Like me.

I lean forward, craning my head, for any sign of the train.

The damn sign’s definitely said a minute for over a minute now.

Finally, a glow illuminates the tunnel, light reflecting off the dingy white tile, and the telltale screech of the breaks echoes in my ears, and a rush of heat washes over me.

The train pulls in, and the metal doors open.

I maneuver myself to the last door. Passengers spill out, and I wait, scanning the crowd for anyone matching the description on the BOLO. My eyes pick over the straggling crowd. Nope. No luck.

At the last possible moment, when the doors have begun to slam shut, I dive onto the train.

I’ll take my luck here. The train lurches back to life, pulling out of the station, and my body sways slightly with the motion.

My eyes sweep over the passengers in the car.

An elderly woman, swaddled in a pink coat clutches her groceries.

A young mother bends over a stroller holding her sleeping toddler.

A group of men, who I imagine are heading to the next bar, jostle each other, their uproarious laughter echoing off the wall of the compartment.

I glance at the monitor affixed to the top of the carriage. Four minutes to the next station. Shit. I’ve got to move fast.

I move my way to the back of the carriage, hoisting up the lever to yank open the metal door. Gingerly, I step on to the narrow platform outside the car. The chains between the cars sway and clatter as I hop onto the platform of the next car and pull the door open.

I clear one car after another, evaluating the passengers before moving on to the next one. My heart sinks lower and lower the further I move down the train. That’s just how it is. Sometimes gambles pay off. Sometimes they fizzle.

As I board the second to last car in the chain, I clock the countdown to the next station: one minute until arrival.

That’s when I spot him. Dark, scruffy hair hidden under a ball cap that he’s pulled low to shadow his face.

My heart skips a beat at the small splatter of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, staining his lips an unnatural purple.

I dart toward him, boxing him in. One arm extends behind his body to anchor him to me and cut off his escape. The other clutches a stake to his heart, ready to plunge in at a moment’s notice.

“You’re going to come with me.” I keep my voice low to not disturb the other riders. He raises his head, eyes blinking rapidly, and gives a shaky nod. Now, he’s scared. Could this all have been prevented if he’d felt that fear before he took those lives?

The train shivers to halt, jerking his body towards mine. The tip of my stake makes contact with him, and he winces.

“Easy now.” I speak softly, gently, like I’m coaxing a child. He flinches when the doors squeal open. Cuffing his arm with my hand, I march him off the train. We shuffle towards a column at the corner of the platform.

“You Adam Flanders?”

He moans. Not good enough. I need an answer.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” He raises his eyebrows and casts his eyes up at my face. I offer him a tight smile in return. Reassuring, I hope. “Are you taking me in?”

When we reach the column, I maneuver us so we’re out of sight.

Standard procedure dictates slayers call as little attention to our actions as possible.

Everyone likes it better that way, when they don’t have to experience the mess of it all.

Only when we’re blocked from view do I answer, voice cold and hard.

“No.”

With that, I plunge the stake in.