Page 5 of Bullets and Blood (Hunting Hearts #1)

Chapter Four

That hadn’t gone as planned. Not that Lance had really made a plan. He’d just wanted to see the Hadley heir. That man…that was him right down to the tattoo…but that couldn’t be the man he’d been hunting. Where was the ruthless killer? The cold-blooded hitman for the Hadleys?

Lance had a list of Nixon Hadley’s known kills—human and vampire and shifter.

It was impressive, and the hipster twink serving up wine didn’t match the impression Lance had built up in his mind.

Nor did the man who’d just escorted him outside match the photos of Nixon in a suit, hair short and fangs sharp.

His arm throbbed where Nixon’s fingers had pressed into his flesh. There’d be a bruise before dusk, but he was still alive. He turned to watch Nixon retreat inside to do his job. He had an actual job and not a well-paid one. What was Hadley playing at?

Lance stalked back to the door but didn’t enter.

Nixon looked up, the light catching on the black flames of his glasses. No vampire needed glasses. No self-respecting vampire man would put their hair up in a bun, either. But Nixon had left his sister undefended; perhaps he had no self-respect. Lance gave him a wave and turned away.

He’d survived meeting the infamous Hadley heir. Now all he had to do was bring him home to Melbourne. He walked toward the rental car, knowing he should call his aunt and give her the good news. Success was almost theirs.

But he didn’t.

He sat in the car and stared at the winery entrance, knowing Nixon was just inside.

But not knowing why Nixon hadn't killed him? Nixon could’ve rewritten people’s memories and fled the scene.

Nixon could’ve bitten him when they’d stepped outside and left him to bleed out on the gravel.

Or used his strength to break his arm. Nixon could’ve done any number of things to him, but he’d let Lance walk unharmed.

Everything he’d thought he knew no longer lined up.

Lance closed his eyes, and all he saw was the way Nixon had smiled at him before his alliance had been revealed.

He rubbed his hand on his jeans, then he opened his eyes and stared at his palm.

Oh, to be able to scrub it off and go back to the moment when a smile was worth so much more than their blood.

He lingered in the moment for another futile breath. He had a job. He’d found Hadley. Now he had to make the shot and call in reinforcements. He should put them on standby in case he needed some memories cleaned.

He picked up his phone, stared at the screen, and put it down again, unable to even send a text. He started the car and promised himself he’d call when he got back to the hotel.

But he didn’t go to the hotel.

He drove back to town, to the place Nixon rented—a tiny cottage at the back of another property and parked on the street.

There were no cars in the driveway. When he got out and knocked on the front door, there was no answer, so he slipped around the back to Nixon’s place.

He picked the pathetic lock and was inside in under thirty seconds.

The room was bright and airy, all blue and yellows—not at all what he’d been expecting. There was absolutely nothing that indicated Nixon had millions in the bank. A few clothes were thrown over an armchair. A bowl and cup were drying by the sink.

It was all extremely ordinary.

Where were the weapons?

He opened drawers and looked in cupboards, under the bed, and in the wardrobe. There was nothing there, and beneath the floorboards, there was only air. There was nowhere to store anything.

He checked again, running his fingers beneath the bedside tables, pulling out those small drawers and rummaging through their contents. Socks, jocks, lube, and more hair elastics than he’d ever imagined the bloody Hadley prince owning.

The bathroom was no different. It was devoid of anything that said monster in need of putting down. He leaned against the door and scanned the room. There was no sign that he’d tossed the apartment, but Nixon would know. Not much slipped past a full-blooded vampire.

He might as well write a note on the pad in the kitchen.

He picked it up, trying to see what Nixon had written on it previously. There was a faint impression of dates and times. His shifts, Lance realized. That wasn’t incriminating.

There was no hit list, no vendetta scrawled across the walls. This was the house of a sales rep at a winery. Nothing even hinted at Nixon being a vampire—unless he counted the lack of fruit and veg in the fridge. It was like he’d chased the wrong man across the country for the past six months.

Why are you working, Hadley?

What scheme are you planning?

His aunt was expecting revenge from the two remaining Hadleys. All Lance saw was a man trying to hide.

What was Nixon trying to hide? If he knew where his sister was, there was nothing Lance could find to prove that. That was the Hadley his aunt was most interested in. She didn’t want new Hadley spawn.

He should call his aunt and wait right there. He nodded to himself even though he knew he wasn’t going to make that call.

He should’ve hated Nixon on sight, not wanted to get his number.

And that’s what he wrote on the notepad. His number.