Page 3 of Soulmarked (Hellbound and Hollow #1)

2

FIRST SIGHT

I pushed through the heavy steel door of The Haven, letting the familiar atmosphere wash over me. The underground bar hummed with the low murmur of hunters' conversation, punctuated by the clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter from the darker corner booths. The air was thick with the smell of aged whiskey, gun oil, and secrets.

A hunter's natural habitat.

The Haven wasn't much to look at, but that was the point. Hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn's industrial district, it was the kind of place that didn't exist unless you knew where to find it. The walls were bare concrete, marked with protective sigils cleverly disguised as graffiti. Ancient weaponry hung between bottles of top-shelf liquor, each piece telling its own bloody story. The bar itself was solid oak, scarred and stained from decades of use, but still standing strong. Just like the hunters who drank there.

Alejo “Lex” de la Cruz sat perched on his usual barstool like he owned the place, which he did, among other things. The Dominican-American information broker cut an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored suit, dark skin a stark contrast against the crisp white fabric. His signature rings caught the light as he raised a glass in greeting, that infuriatingly knowing smirk playing across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes sparkling with amusement. “If it isn't my favorite Irish murder machine. Looking a bit rough around the edges tonight, querido. That werewolf pack in Queens really did a number on you, didn't they? I told you to bring backup for the alpha.”

Instead of responding to his teasing, I dropped my prize onto the bar with a dull thud, the severed hand of the werewolf I'd just killed. Its fingers were curled stiff in death, bloody fur matted against gray skin.

I tossed down a second item beside it, a chunk of flesh I'd carved from the creature's chest. The demon mark burned into the skin still pulsed faintly, black sigils twisting in the dim light like living things.

Lex's smirk vanished. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

I watched his usual bravado fade as he studied the mark, one ringed finger tapping an anxious rhythm against the aged wood. The change in his demeanor was telling. I'd known Lex for years, and very little rattled him. He'd built his empire on being unshakeable, the man who knew everything worth knowing in New York's supernatural underground.

“That shouldn't be possible,” Lex muttered.

“Educate me then,” I said, methodically cleaning dried blood from my silver blade. “Why not?”

Lex exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “Werewolves and demons don't mix. They can't. A werewolf's spirit is too... wild, too primal. It doesn't allow possession or outside influence.” He gestured with his glass for emphasis. “It's like trying to brand iron already marked by another forge.”

“Then explain this.” I tapped the mark with my knife's point.

The sigils seemed to writhe slightly at the contact, though maybe that was just the bar's poor lighting. Or maybe I needed to ease up on the whiskey. Probably both.

“Could be anything.” Lex's voice carried careful skepticism. “Cult markings, dark magic gone wrong, hell, even a bad tattoo. What makes you so sure it's demonic?”

“Besides the fact that the wolf said 'the prince rises' right before I killed him?”

“And you're sure that's what you heard?” Lex's smile held more doubt than humor. “No chance you were maybe seeing what you wanted to see? Hearing what you expected to hear?”

“Been hunting long enough to know demon marks when I see them.” My voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. “This isn't my first rodeo with infernal sigils. And unlike some people, I don't need glasses yet.”

“Yeah, but a prince?” Lex shook his head, though he did pull out his phone. “That's a big claim, even for you. Princes don't just show up in Manhattan marking werewolves. There'd be signs, omens, hell, half the supernatural underground would be talking about it. Maybe weather patterns, electrical storms, cattle deaths, you know, the whole apocalyptic shebang.”

I rolled my shoulder, feeling the fresh wounds from the fight protesting. Pain was settling in like an old enemy, familiar and unwelcome. After fifteen years of hunting, you'd think I'd be used to it. But some nights hit harder than others, and this one was shaping up to be particularly interesting.

“Look, I'll ask around,” Lex muttered, scrolling through incoming messages. His expression suddenly shifted, that dangerous glint returning to his eyes. “Oh, now this is interesting. Got a fresh vampire sighting downtown, near Purgatory. Probably nothing compared to your demon prince, but might be worth checking out.”

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Vamps are a dime a dozen in this city, especially around the clubs. Almost as common as rats or politicians.”

“Sure, sure. But this one got spooked. Some CITD agent was already watching the scene.”

That got my attention. The Central Intelligence and Threat Division didn't usually mess with our world. They were the type to explain away monster attacks as gang violence or animal incidents. Hell, they'd probably call a wendigo a 'bear with mange' if it made their paperwork easier.

The CITD operated as one of the government's most secretive agencies, investigating what they considered “unusual threats” to national security. On paper, they dealt with domestic terrorism, organized crime networks, and fringe criminal activities. What made them different from other agencies was their particular focus on cases that seemed to defy conventional explanation.

But for all their advanced technology and classified clearances, most CITD agents remained willfully blind to the supernatural truth. They'd encounter a werewolf attack and file it as “unidentified animal aggression.” They'd document vampire feedings as “ritualistic blood cult activity.” Their reports were masterpieces of creative reinterpretation, transforming the impossible into something their bureaucratic minds could process and file away.

“Since when does CITD handle monsters?” I asked, reaching for the bottle Lex had left within easy reach. “Did they run out of alien abductions to investigate?”

Lex's grin widened, showing perfect teeth that seemed too sharp in the bar's dim light. “Since this particular agent showed up and started poking at things he shouldn't.” He watched me pour another generous measure of whiskey. “Blonde, pretty boy type. Maybe your kind of trouble.”

I scowled, knocking back the drink. The burn helped chase away memories I'd rather forget.

“I don't do trouble.”

“Sure, love,” Lex laughed, the sound rich and knowing. “Keep telling yourself that. But you might want to check this one out. Word is, he's not your typical fed. Something different about him. And I don't just mean his ass in those suit pants, though according to my sources, that's pretty exceptional too.”

I studied Lex's face, looking for the catch. There was always a catch with him. We might be friends, but he was still a businessman at heart. “What aren't you telling me?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Can't a friend just look out for another friend's interests? Maybe try to help him find a nice boyfriend who won't die horribly?”

“Feck off,” I growled, but there was no real heat in it.

Lex was one of the few people who knew about Eli, about London. About why I worked alone these days.

“All I'm saying is, maybe check it out. If nothing else, we need to know why CITD is suddenly interested in our world. Could be connected to your demon-marked friend here.” He gestured to the severed hand, his expression growing serious again. “And Sean? Be careful. I'm not just saying that because your bar tab would bankrupt a small country.”

I stood, adjusting my torn jacket. “I'm always careful.”

“No, you're always ready to die. It's not the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” I shrugged, pocketing a few silver bullets from the counter.

Outside The Haven, I pulled out my encrypted phone, another one of Skye's endless “gifts” that came with lectures about proper security protocols. “Got a vamp situation at Purgatory. You around?”

“Bold of you to assume I'm ever not around.” Skye's voice came through clear and sharp, their typing audible in the background. The nonbinary tech genius had been my eyes and ears for years, though they'd never let me live down the time I'd fried one of their custom surveillance rigs. “Give me three minutes to tap into the club's security feeds. And try not to kill anything until I'm watching.”

I started moving, boots hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm as I made my way toward Purgatory. The club was exactly what you'd expect from Manhattan's elite nightlife scene, all gleaming glass and steel on the outside, corruption and death on the inside. Its neon-red sign painted the streets in hellish light, the bass from within vibrating through the concrete. Perfect hunting ground for the bloodsuckers.

“Got eyes on our target,” Skye reported, their voice all business now. “She's working the VIP section. Some Wall Street type who clearly skips leg day. Based on her pattern... I'd say you've got maybe ten minutes before she leads him somewhere private. And not the fun kind of private.”

“Time enough,” I muttered, checking my gear as I walked. Silver knife, UV grenades, blessed ammunition, standard vampire hunting kit. I'd forgotten a snack though, and that was annoying. Hard to be intimidating when your stomach's growling. “Any sign of that CITD agent Lex mentioned?”

A pause, followed by more rapid typing. “Interesting. There's someone outside the club who's definitely fed, but... Sean, something's off about him. His heat signature is weird.”

That got my attention. Skye didn't do 'weird', they dealt in hard data and concrete facts.

“Define weird.”

“It's like... there's interference around him. Similar to what we see with some supernatural entities, but not quite the same. And he's... wait.” Their voice sharpened. “Sean, he's watching you.”

I stopped mid-step, keeping my movements casual. “What?”

“Your three o'clock, across the street. Blonde guy by the lamppost. The one who looks like he walked out of a GQ photoshoot but could probably kill you with his tie.”

I turned slightly, letting my gaze drift across the street as if taking in the nightlife. That's when I saw him.

Tall. Broad shoulders filled out an expensive suit that somehow didn't quite hide the fighter's build beneath. Blonde hair caught the neon lights, and even in the chaos of Manhattan's nightlife, he had the poised stillness of someone used to being in control.

And he was staring right at me.

“Skye,” I murmured, “run facial recognition.”

“Already on it. CITD database identifies him as Special Agent Cade Cross. But Sean...” They hesitated, which was never a good sign. “There's almost nothing on him. His file's been redacted to hell and back. The kind of cleanup job I usually see with black ops or politicians' love children.”

For a long moment, neither Cross nor I moved. Just two predators, sizing each other up across a street full of oblivious civilians. Then he tilted his head like he was acknowledging my presence.

“He knows what you are,” Skye said quietly. “Normal feds don't move like that. Don't watch like that.”

My fingers twitched toward the knife at my hip. Special Agent Cade Cross wasn't normal, alright. The way he held himself, the awareness in his eyes. This wasn't some paper-pusher who'd stumbled into our world by accident.

Vampires in our world weren't the romantic figures from modern fiction. They were predators, pure and simple, with a rigid social structure that made mortal politics look straightforward. Their Courts ruled each territory like medieval kingdoms, ancient vampires maintaining order through centuries of accumulated power and carefully cultivated fear.

The older ones could pass for human almost perfectly, their inhuman nature hidden behind practiced grace and perfect smiles. Those were the ones you really had to watch for, the ones with enough control to plan, to manipulate, to build power bases that lasted centuries. They played long games, using decades like humans used days, always thinking three moves ahead.

Younger vampires were easier to spot, and easier to kill. Fresh-turned, they couldn't hide their hunger, couldn't resist the pull of blood and violence. They were the ones who usually brought hunters down on their kind, their sloppiness threatening the careful secrecy their elders maintained.

Each Court had its own rules about feeding, turning new vampires, and interacting with the mortal world. Break those rules, and the punishment came swift and final. I'd seen what vampire lords did to those who risked exposing their kind, it wasn't pretty, and it wasn't quick.

The usual weaknesses applied, sunlight, holy water, blessed silver. But stakes were tricky, had to hit the heart exactly right, with enough force to pierce undead flesh. Beheading worked better, if you could manage it. The real trick was getting close enough to try either method. Their supernatural speed and strength made close combat a dangerous gamble.

But they weren't invincible. Their strict hierarchies could be used against them, their ancient politics exploited by hunters who knew the right pressure points. And for all their power, they could still die, could still bleed out on a hunter's blade like any other monster.

“The vampire's on the move,” Skye reported. “What's the play here? Please tell me it doesn't involve you doing something stupid and heroic.”

I studied Cross for another moment. Everything about him set off warning bells, but there was something else too. Something that made me want to know more.

“Keep eyes on both targets,” I said finally. “Let's see what Agent Cross does when the fangs come out.”

“Sean.” Skye's voice held a note of warning. “The last time you got interested in someone...”

“I know.” London. Eli. Some memories never fade, no matter how much whiskey you pour on them. “Just track them.”

“Fine. But if this goes sideways, I'm calling Lex. And I'm putting 'I told you so' on your tombstone.”

I started moving again, keeping Cross in my peripheral vision. The vampire would be the priority, couldn't let an innocent die just because some pretty fed had caught my attention. But after... well, I had some questions for Special Agent Cross.

I repositioned myself in the shadows of a service entrance, splitting my focus between the two targets. The agent remained where I'd left him, scanning the crowd with that trained intensity feds never quite manage to hide. Meanwhile, the vampire worked her mark inside the club. The whole scene was playing out like a well-rehearsed dance.

“Target's blood alcohol level is well past the legal limit,” Skye reported in my ear. “Classic vampire hunting pattern. She's been steering him toward the back exit for the last ten minutes.”

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?