Page 38 of Reaper (Quincy Harker Demon Hunter #10)

I ’ve already gone into great detail about my lack of love for bookstores, given my parents’ guest-starring roles in Stoker’s bestseller.

But Barnes & Noble is the kind of bookstore I like the least. If I’m going to hang out around the smell of moldering paper, I at least want there to be overstuffed chairs in dimly lit corners, and maybe a shop cat curling up in my lap while I pore over an antique grimoire.

I do not want a brightly lit sterile environment filled with people who get all their reading recommendations from Oprah or Reese Witherspoon.

They’re fine humans, I suppose, but hardly who I want curating my reading list. But if you have no place else to go and escape the world, I suppose a massive Barnes & Noble is good for that.

Or if you’re looking for a lycanthropic rabble-rouser who all reports say is in league with an underground fight club manager.

Okay, only one report said that, and while “outlaw biker gang leader” doesn’t usually top my list of trustworthy suspects, Xia did a deep dive into my old pal Rachelle’s financial records and saw a whole lot of cash deposits.

So it seemed like she knew a lot more about the underground fight scene in Charlotte than she’d let on at our previous meeting.

So I was sitting in the parking lot waiting on Rachelle’s little were-nerd meetup to end so she and I could have a little chat.

I couldn’t wait inside, thanks to the property damage on my last visit.

Federal contractor or not, businesses could still bar me from entering the premises, and this shop had exercised that right the second I left the store last time.

Which was fine. I had my cell phone, a dozen new episodes of my favorite true crime podcast Morbid , and a flask loaded with twenty-year-old Scotch.

I was three episodes into my podcast binge when my target left the store, fortunately without any of her group members tagging along.

I didn’t feel like beating the shit out of a relatively innocent shifter tonight.

I was trying to save my ass-kicking for people who really deserved it.

Like a were-tigress who sold her people to gladiator-style mortal combat.

Rachelle definitely deserved an ass-kicking, and I was willing to suspend my natural chivalry and aversion to hitting women for another night.

Especially since I’ve fought were-tigers before. They’re tough .

I double-checked that my Glock was loaded with silver-tipped hollow points, tucked it into a shoulder holster, and got out of the car, then immediately ducked down as two men approached Rachelle from the shadows of a cargo van.

I closed my door quietly and snuck around the back of the car as the men approached her.

They stepped into a pool of light and a grin spread across my face.

Jackpot! I said to Becks.

What’s up?

Pete the Prick and the Irish Asshole just showed up to talk to Rachelle. Now I can take them all down, figure out who’s really behind this shit, and really beat somebody’s ass.

Do you ever get tired of beating people up? Becks asked.

I paused. This seemed like one of those questions that mattered, so I stopped to give it some weight.

Normally I’d brush it off, what with the whole “getting ready to take down the bad guys” thing and all, but since we can communicate at the speed of thought, I could spare a moment’s consideration.

This was the woman I planned to marry, so she deserved a real answer.

All the time , I said. I don’t like violence.

I’m very, very good at it, better than almost anyone I know, but I don’t like it.

Nobody that’s not a complete psychopath likes doing the shit I have to do.

I do it because I have the skills, and it needs to be done.

There are a lot of people in the world who can’t look out for themselves.

People who will get stepped on, or run completely over if someone doesn’t stand up and say “no.”

I’ve seen that shit firsthand. I’ve seen what evil people can do to human beings, and it’s worse than any cryptid or para out there.

Humans are some of the most monstrous beings on any plane of existence, especially when they want to hurt other humans.

Throw in the monsters that can’t be hurt by normal means, and somebody has to stand up.

That somebody is me. I don’t fight because I like it.

I fight because I can, and because if nobody fights, we end up right back in the fucking Third Reich.

So yeah, I stay tired of beating people up.

I stay tired of fighting. But I keep on doing it, because there are people in the world worth protecting, and for whatever reason, I’m the one that was given the ability to protect them.

And sometimes the best way to protect the weak is to beat the ever-loving fuck out of the ones that want to exploit them.

There was a long pause across our mental bond, then Becks said, So what are you waiting for? Get out there and kick some ass.

I stood up and walked across the parking lot unnoticed despite making no effort to hide anymore.

The trio of assclowns was arguing amongst themselves about money, and hiding from the boss, and how they were going to relocate the arena, publicize the fights, and get enough combatants to be back up and running next week.

I got about fifteen feet away before I stopped, hopped up to sit on the hood of an F-150, and cleared my throat.

Three heads whipped around, and startled expressions crossed three faces.

I grinned. “You know, I kinda expect this level of oblivious from Pete. He’s human, or at least he claimed to be human.

And I don’t know what you are, you Irish assclown, so you might get a pass, too.

But you, Rachelle? You’re a fucking were-tiger.

In a lot of places, you’d be considered the apex predator.

And you just let me walk up on you like this, without even noticing that the fucking boogeyman is less than twenty feet away?

You should be ashamed. If the were-asshole council found out about this, they’d take away your stripes and make you live on nothing but Meow Mix for a month. ”

“Fuck you, Reaper,” Rachelle snarled, her features morphing as she began to shift. “I smelled you from the second you stepped out of your shitty little Honda.”

“And I heard your footsteps from twenty yards away, you wanker,” Irish added, flashing long incisors at me.

Great. A were-tiger and a vampire. All I needed now was to find out that Pete was actually Oberon in disguise.

It was probably going to take me a while to figure out what he was, though, since he was currently sprinting across the parking lot muttering terrified profanity under his breath.

So I guess he wasn’t King of the Summer Court.

That left just two assholes to fight—a were-tiger in her half-shifted form and a vampire charging me with his fangs extended.

I hopped up onto the hood and leapt straight up, letting Irish shoot right underneath me and slide across the truck, sprawling on the pavement.

I landed right behind Rachelle, who spun in an instant, claws slashing for my face.

Were-tigers are incredibly fast, and even stronger than their natural counterparts, but Rachelle was a city kitty, and she’d obviously traded on her reputation and brute strength to lead her band of misfit weres.

She hadn’t been in many real fights, so when I ducked under her claws and came up to throw two massive right hooks into her ribcage, she let out a yowl that gave every dog in half a mile nightmares.

I sensed Irish coming for me and sidestepped so he went pinballing off another couple of cars before he could adjust his charge and reorient back to where I stood atop a Subaru smirking down at him.

“That the best you got? I spar with Dracula , moron. It’s gonna take your A game to land a punch on me.”

“I’ll show you a fuckin’ A game, you fuckin’ fuck,” Irish snarled, and sprang at me again.

I was impressed. Not with the attack, that shit was elementary at best. But it’s not often I find someone who swears more than me, and this idiot vampire was doing a good job in that category, even if he couldn’t manage to land a punch.

He sailed over the Forester as I dropped to the pavement, and he crashed into the side of a Prius, crumpling the door.

I could almost see the little birdies flying around his head as he lay there trying to make his ears stop ringing.

Unfortunately, that meant I took my attention off of Rachelle just long enough for her to clamp her jaws onto the back of my neck, picking me up in her teeth and giving me a vicious shake.

This was obviously an instinctive move, since big cats often kill their prey this way before they drag it up into the trees to eat. And it works great in the wild.

On prey.

I’m a lot of things, but prey isn’t one of them.

This also wasn’t the first time this month a were-feline had wrapped its teeth around the back of my neck, so I was even more prepared for it than I had been the first time.

Don’t get me wrong, it hurt, and I was going to need to visit my chiropractor in the morning, but it didn’t do any permanent damage.

The same cannot be said for the fireball I launched into the were-tiger’s midsection, which set her fur ablaze and made her drop me in order to let out a screech of pain.

I fell to the pavement on all fours, sprang up, and spun around to land a solid kick into Rachelle’s ribcage.

That cut off her screaming because it hurt too much to breathe.

Her eyes glinted gold, and I could tell she was gathering her concentration enough to shift.

If she managed that, all her wounds would heal, and we’d be right back where we started from.

I made the snap decision that there was only one way to end this fight, and that was permanently.

So I shot her. I drew my pistol from the shoulder rig I wore, and I put two silver-tipped rounds into the side of her head.

She dropped like a stone, dead before she hit the asphalt.

I watched as her form shrank, then transformed, and then I was looking at the body of a dead young woman who had sold out her own people, people who trusted her to help them find community and safety, to a bunch of dickheads who made them fight for blood and money.

Gonna need a cleanup , I said to Becks. I just killed the were-tiger.

What about the vampire? she asked.

I spun around and saw Irish standing there staring down at Rachelle’s corpse.

He looked at me with terrified eyes and opened his mouth to beg for his life.

I shot him right between the eyes. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to his bullshit, and I could beat the fuck out of Pete if I needed to find out who the real boss was.

He’s down, too, I said.

You okay? Becks said.

I’m not injured.

Not what I asked.

I took a beat. Yeah, I’m okay, I said. Some people just don’t deserve to live.

And sometimes I’m the only one around to make that happen.

That’s just the fucking job. I’m gonna scoop up Pete and bring him back to the apartment for interrogation.

We’ll get the boss’s name out of him, then we’re shutting this shit down once and for all.