Cynthia’s foot was killing her, the twisted ankle aching with each
step even in a brace and leaning heavily on her cart to take as much
weight of possible off the ground. Overall a rather good result to be
had from having fought a vampire with a knife and won,
but that not lessening the pain any amount. In all
honesty, it only made her
hate that there was another week until she could see her vampire even
more, and that Hank had refused to do the grocery shopping even
one time when
he “worked all day in the sun”.
Maybe Martin could have put up with his dad dying a little early,
wasn’t like she’d be worried about affording the therapy. Hell,
Christopher would have paid someone to do the shopping for her from
New York if she’d thought to call and ask before she reached check
out.
The thought bringing a small warmth to the woman’s check and a
smile to her face, loading in bags even as a woman called behind her,
“ma’am, you dropped some pasta!”
Cynthia sighed, forcing a small smile on her face even as she turned
and started, “thank you so much, you-”
She was already taking the box from the woman before she fully
processed the figure in front of her. Tall, tanned and with a jacket
from a ww2 movie over a tank top and a pair of jeans. Her auburn hair
looking halfway washed recently and still in the manish cut it’d
been when she’d seen her the year before last. A large pair of
sunglasses on her face the werewolf took off to reveal a gaping hole
where her left eye should have gone.
Cynthia’s mind shot to the revolver in her purse, silver loaded in
the first chamber before a child’s crying nearby brought her to her
senses. Too many witnesses, too many questions, even Christopher
couldn’t save her from doing something here.
Didn’t mean she didn’t feel a little spiteful.
“I could shoot you in the face and take out that other eye.”
“And right after I saved you that box of spaghetti,” the werewolf
responded with an unbroken smile, moving to the other side of the
cart and helping move bags into the trunk as she continued, “besides,
I think the asymmetrical look works on me, don’t you think? I’m
flattered though, haven’t seen you in… what, year now? Couple
close calls with you and the boy, don’t think I forgot Staunton,
but never anything personal as that first time.”
Cynthia stayed stock still, glaring the werewolf down as the taller
woman leaned over and ran a callused finger along the hunter’s jaw.
The look in her eyes something Cynthia was very familiar with as she
countered, “I’m not gay. Especially not gay for animals.”
The werewolf actually looked a little annoyed at that, staring her
down a few seconds before she returned to helping load the bags and
countered, “right, just a necrophiliac… who also buys two bottles
of whiskey in one trip? More a mead girl myself, not afraid to admit
I have a bit of a sweet tooth, wanna share a bottle sometime?”
Cynthia clicked her tongue, a quick look around the parking lot
confirming no one was nearby and in eye line of them before she
lurched forward. Revolver drawn from her purse, jammed into the small
of the wolf’s back, lurching one of the thing’s arms behind her
hard enough the shoulder made a small pop.
The hunter practically growling as she told her, “you’re testing
my patience, dog.”
The werewolf let out a giggling squeak, craning her neck to look back
at Cynthia and looked almost proud as she admitted, “well, usually
prefer this the other way around, but I can make an exception if you
promise not to slap me or pull my hair. My safe word’s Styrian,
you?.” the silence that followed slowly killing the werewolf’s
smile before she complained, “no banter? Not even a little?”
“I can just shoot you and hope no one stops me driving out of here
with a body in my trunk.”
“Well, I’d hate to have my corpse ruin a perfectly good loaf of
sourdough,” the werewolf muttered softly, looking off a moment
before starting, “I need someone dead, I figured see if you were
taking commissions.”
Cynthia considered pulling the trigger then and there, a small little
crumb of curiosity echoing in her head as she let the woman go and
returned her revolver. Her lips a think line as she closed the trunk
and told her, “I have ice cream and milk, return the cart for me
and we’ll talk this out.”
The werewolf raised a brow at that but took the cart all the same
while Cynthia returned to the driver’s seat. Only as she was sat
and buckled thinking to take her revolver out again, positioning it
carefully in her lap with the hammer pulled in case the woman tried
anything and settling back. The werewolf returning a few seconds
later and muttering the whole time she climbed into the passenger
seat.
Cynthia’s glare burrowing holes into her until she slowly told the
woman, “seat belt.”
“I’m a werewolf.”
“Seat belt.”
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They shared their glares in that moment, the werewolf not resisting
further as she slowly buckled in and leaned the seat back. A carton
of cigarettes half out of her jacket before Cynthia scolded her, “no
smoking in the car, I promised Christopher I’d stop.”
“You’re not smoking,” the werewolf tried countering, another
glare from Cynthia making her put away the carton with a new string
of curses. Head shaking even as she tried starting the conversation
in an overly faked pleasantry, “pleasure to meet you, Cynthia,
Judith’s daughter right? Worked together a couple times, when I was
still traitor, her and Elizabeth-”
“I prefer to have a name for you too.”
Another long glare and the werewolf let out a low groan, rolling her
head back to announce, “Bloodhound,” another glare and she
offered, “Eva if you insist on that sort of filth as a name.”
“I’m not sure you won’t start moaning if I call you a dog
again, so Eva works,” Cynthia agreed dryly, the woman beside her
letting out a snorting laugh that felt like nails on a chalkboard.
The noise continuing entirely too long for anyone above the age of
thirteen before Cynthia interrupted her, “so, why are you trying to
hire a hunter? If this is a turf war or whatever other bullshit you
people do I don’t want to get involved unless real people are
dying.”
“Harsh words from a woman fucking the man who tried taking over
England,” Eva declared, hand over heart before adding on, “well,
no, don’t really consider the British people, but that’s more
personal.”
Cynthia hated the fact she actually found that a little funny, a
barely contained hiccup of a laugh escaping her alongside a quick,
“fuck you.”
“I’m offering.”
“Not happening,” Cynthia reiterated, once more asking, “now why
do you want to hire a hunter?”
“Well I was going to hire clowns, but the union stopped returning
my calls after they got suspicious about no one returning from my
nephew’s birthday parties,” Eva explained, that one not getting a
laugh even while she dug through her jacket’s pockets. A handful of
loose jerky messily extracted she took a piece from as she explained,
“if you want a supernatural dead, you get a hunter to help with it.
If they’re a dangerous supernatural, you get the most dangerous
people you can to help. Jerky?”
Cynthia stared her down from the corner of her eye, ready to ask just
one question about it before deciding she didn’t care. Blindly
plucking a piece of meat from the woman and chewing it for only a
moment, face turned up in disgust at the relatively bland flavor of
it.
“Just because you’re cooking people doesn’t mean you can’t
season them a little, it’s only polite,” the hunter complained,
tossing the strip blindly back into the woman’s lap, “if you’re
trying to fluster me you’ve got a long way to go.”
Eva looked pleased with the reaction all the same, settled back in
the seat with head rolled back as though she’d won that exchange.
Cynthia briefly wondering if she’d made a wrong move even as they
continued all the same. Neither speaking for a long while until the
car was almost to Cynthia’s home and she wondered if she should
have slammed the brake then and there
Worries about looking weak outweighed by worries of leading the wolf
to her home as she pulled off the side of the road a few blocks away.
Both letting the humming engine roll until she finally asked, “how
much are we talking?”
“I can get access to fifty thousand in cash in a few weeks, seventy
if you don’t mind making a couple smaller werewolves mad, paid
within thirty hours of the target dying,” Eva explained, an almost
business like tone to her words as she listed off her numbers, “was
trying to figure out who to choose, you seemed best. Your husband’s
too hands off, doesn’t like the work, I didn’t think he’d go
through the plan thoroughly enough.”
Cynthia let out a small grunt of acknowledgment, actually smiling a
little at that description, “so you like the fact I get off on
killing you assholes?”
Eva chuckled once more, twisting in her car seat, first couple
buttons of her flannel undone without Cynthia noticing as she purred,
“don’t you?”
“Had a great time in the bath imagining Christopher skinning you
alive after we met,” Cynthia agreed, revolver finally raised from
her lap as she demanded, “tell me who you want dead and why.”
Eva glared her down, the woman reaching one hand up and jerking the
collar of her shirt aside to reveal a scar that looked different
among the mural of raised cuts she bore. Burned, twisted, the shape
of a goblet with a teardrop within it around the size of her hand, a
dozen lines broken and knotted across its existence like she’d
tried removing or disfiguring the mark a dozen times.
Still so easy to tell what it was even as Eva finally answered, “I
want to you to kill The Styrian. Was looking down at this the other
day and just thought you know what, probably would sleep
better if she was dead, get it?”
Cynthia stared dully at that mark, leaned back as she thought on it
for a long moment before deciding to be blunt with it. “You might
as well ask me to kill God, dumb ass. She’s almost old as
Christopher, has constant security, and is a member of the
Triumvirate. Even if I got close to her with weapons, I’d need to
then kill her and get out without getting caught. Even if I did that,
every supernatural this half of the country is going to know there’s
a price on my head once they figure out who did it, and they will
figure out. I doubt Christopher’s saving me if I do something
like that.”
If looks could kill Cynthia probably would have been struck down
there, Eva’s eyes bearing down into her even as the werewolf
claimed, “no one will miss her.”
“People will miss me. Now get out of my car,” Cynthia ordered,
thinking on it for a moment before grabbing a business card from the
console, her husband’s auto shop, as she wrote an address on the
back. Passed over to the werewolf as she told her, “you really want
to risk your ass hiring a suicidal hunter and don’t want to go for
Hank, try this bar. If they don’t shoot you on sight you can
probably find some redneck with more bullets than brains for the
money you’re throwing around.”
Eva didn’t speak, didn’t continue complaining, nothing. Just
staring her down while she ripped the card from her hands and got out
of the car, marching herself down the road while Cynthia drove off in
the other direction. What humor she felt from the situation dying
down as a small dread built in the back of her head.
The conversation rolling over in her head the rest of the way home,
pulling into the driveway and unloading groceries. The throbbing of
her ankle ignored until everything was put away and she stood in her
empty bedroom staring down at Christopher’s contact in her phone.
Thumb hovered over the call button for too long until she flipped it
closed and tossed it aside. What were the chances she actually found
someone willing to take on a job that stupid?