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I knew she was just thinking out loud because she understood this was rudimentary knowledge hunters learned in the first year.

“So are werewolves,” I added. “But we’ve got one hunting here too. Maybe even living here.”

“They could be in love,” Donny suggested. “How sweet. Two star-crossed, bloodthirsty monsters falling for each other.”

I laughed, although it could’ve been an explanation, no matter how soap opera-ish it sounded. There weren’t many other explanations for two different species to be in the same hunting ground without killing each other.

“Since I fucking hate a love story, it would give me great pleasure to end it.” I turned from the rune in the tree, no longer able to take the energy it was giving off.

“I’ll do some research, maybe write some fan fic, then get back to you,” Donny said on an exhale.

God, now I needed a smoke.

“Sounds good.” I walked back toward the house, unable to shake the feeling that I was being watched.

When Donny hung up, I turned around, standing my ground.

“Come out,” I called my voyeur, holding out my hands. “I don’t bite if you don’t.”

I waited, not exactly expecting whatever was watching me to heed my invitation, but it would’ve made things easier.

Nothing.

I sighed. Nothing was ever easy.

nine

The day did not yield any more murders, nor did it reveal any answers to the rapid number of questions that were piling up.

My body hurt, and my black eye made it hard to subtly do the rounds, asking about strange women who might’ve made deals with devils for inhuman power. Or seemingly normal men who turned into wolves then ate hearts on the full moon.

Dante had tried to call. Three times. How he got the number for my burner phone was a mystery to me and annoyed me to no end.

I was pissed.

Naturally, that’s when the doorbell rang.

My eyes were throbbing from staring at my laptop, and my throat was burning from breaking into the horrible pink wine I’d promised myself I wouldn’t touch.

“Fuck.” I rubbed my eyes, hissing when I pressed too hard on the mottled one. Ignoring the door door was my first instinct, but my car was in the driveway, and a peek out the window showed Gerald’s patrol car parked behind it.

Eventually, he might have gone away. I owed him nothing. He wouldn’t break down the door if I didn’t answer.

But the spirit of my dead mother seemed to possess me, urging me down the stairs and to the front door in the name of good manners. As if manners hadn’t washed down the sink when I first dyed my hair in a gas station bathroom. Or when I fought off the unwanted advances of a drunk trucker during my first job. Or when I was robbed by a couple of guys at a roadside bar during my second.

If there was one thing I had learned, it was that neither men nor monsters deserved manners—they’d just use them to try to defile or kill you.

Yet there I was, opening the door.

Gerald stood in uniform, a foil-covered casserole dish in his hands. “Sharon thought you’d be hungry.” He ducked his chin toward the food.

It smelled good, whatever it was. Onions, herbs, a lot of butter if Sharon cooked it. My stomach growled.

I took it because I was starving, no other reason.

I didn’t thank him. Rude, I know. My mother would’ve been annoyed. But she was dead, so it didn’t matter.

I caught Gerald’s gaze flick to my black eye, his mouth thinning, questions bubbling up that he swallowed back