by Skye Knizley
The girl made a face. “You mean I’m not old, wrinkled, and grouchy?”
“Not old and wrinkled, anyway. The vote is still out on grouchy,” Aspen said.
The girl stared at her. “I’m not grouchy. It’s just been a long day and I just needed a safe place to grab a bite and decompress. Is that all right with you?”
Aspen leaned on the counter and poured herself a cup of tea from a pot she kept beside the coffee. “Do you want to talk about it?”
The girl cocked her head. “What are you, the local shrink?”
“Bartender,” Aspen replied. “We’re good listeners.”
The girl shrugged. “Nothing major. My sister and I were cleaning out a nest not far from here and she got bit. She’s spending the night at the clinic down the street, that’s all.”
Aspen sipped her tea, a motion that gave her time to think. It was clear the girl was a hunter, which wasn’t something she normally approved of. Aspen had been on the receiving end of hunter attention more than once and many of them were the ‘shoot first, shoot second, ask questions if anything is still breathing’ kind of people. But there were good ones like Clay and Creek and there was something about this girl. Her aura was clean, almost pure, which was unheard of for most hunters, who usually took to the job because they got to kill things and not go to jail. Most preternaturals didn’t leave evidence behind.
“What kind of nest?” she asked.
The girl sipped her coffee and glanced at Clay, who nodded. She then looked back at Aspen. “Lycans. A wild pack, not answering to the local alpha or Mistress. We caught wind of them about a month ago and tracked them to a hole in the wall a few towns over. Someone must have tipped them off, we should have gotten the drop on them, but somehow they knew we were coming.”
Aspen refilled the girl’s coffee. “Sounds like it got bad. Is your sister going to be okay? I could check in on her.”
The girl made a so-so gesture with her hand. “Yeah. I gave her the holy water and silver nitrate treatment, she isn’t going to start howling any time soon. But she lost a lot of blood and needs time to heal.”
“I’m sure she will be fine,” Aspen said.
She turned away at Creek’s muttered, “Order up.” The plate she placed in front of the girl was heavy with a half-pound cheeseburger and a mountain of fries. The girl smothered the fries in ketchup and dove into the food like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Aspen watched her a moment then moved down the counter to where Clay was still sopping up blood with the remains of his fries.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
Clay kept shoveling fries into his mouth with two fingers. “Yeah. She an’ her sister is hunters like their pappy. Showed up a couple years ago with ol’ Solly, now they’s flying solo.”
Aspen glanced back at the girl, who was chewing slowly and reading a comic book.
“She can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen!” Aspen hissed.
“Nineteen,” the girl said without looking up.
Clay guffawed around a mouthful of bloody fries. “Good hearin’ on ya, Jynxie!”
Aspen moved back down the counter. “No offense, you just seem kind of young to be hunting the bogeyman.”
Jynx shrugged. “Nobody in this life gets out alive, we may as well enjoy it. And I enjoy hunting.”
She raised her eyes, which Aspen realized were the same color as her own. “What about you? Aren’t you a little young to be slinging burgers in a hunter dive?”
Aspen smiled. “It’s a long story. I’m older than I look.”
Jynx cocked her head. “Fae usually are.”
Aspen felt the blood drain out of her face. “Fae?”
Jynx smiled and set her burger aside. “You’re part Fae, at least. Your hair color is natural, not a cheesy dye job, and you have the smell of a caster about you. Something with more oomph than your average witch.”
Aspen ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it along the side of her jaw as if she could make the color change. “How could you tell?”
“Our great-grandma was part Fae, which makes my sister and I part Fae. Not as much as you, though. You’re what, once removed?” Jynx asked.
Aspen nodded. “My mother was Fae.”
“It looks good on you,” Jynx said. “My name is Jynx, by the way.”
Aspen extended her hand. “Aspen.”
Jynx shook it and returned to her burger. Aspen watched her for another moment then went back to washing the counter. It was something to do.
II
Two hours, three milkshakes, a pot of coffee, and a plate of fries later Aspen stood alone at the windows overlooking the dirt lot and highway. The old grey blacktop vanished just a few yards beyond the diner’s lights as did everything else in the little town. Rain was falling in sheets so thick it was almost snow and the rumble of thunder had become a continuous low echo; it was like the storm had stopped directly overhead.
Lights appeared to the west and Aspen watched them with mild annoyance. She’d been hoping to head home at midnight, but customers were customers and Creek’s philosophy was that the diner stayed open as long as there was someone to feed. She watched, hoping the car would pass them by as so many did, but instead it pulled into the lot and stopped in the spot nearest the door. The vehicle was an old Chevrolet of some kind, white with chrome trim. The single occupant sat behind the wheel for a moment like he was watching the diner then slid out and splashed through the puddles and through the diner’s double glass doors. He was a tall man wearing a beige rain coat that reminded Aspen of Rupert Levac, but where Rupert was average in almost every way, this man was tall. Close-cropped black hair peeked out from beneath a fedora so wet it was plastered to his skull and his grey suit was soaked through. Everything looked at least one size too big.
The man wrung his hat out in the breeze way then tossed it onto the counter and took a seat on one of the old stools.
Aspen woke Jynx, who had curled up in one of the booths, and moved behind the counter. A menu, silverware, and napkins were placed in front of the newcomer, who was still dripping with rain.
“Coffee?” Aspen asked.
“Please,” the man said. “And could I trouble you for—”
Aspen dropped a clean dish towel beside the menu and turned to get a fresh cup.
“Thank you,” the man said with a laugh.
Aspen poured a generous cup of coffee and offered it to him. “You’re welcome. That storm is a beast.”
The man gave a small smile. “Indeed. I’ve been driving in it for what seems forever. Just driving…”
He sipped at the coffee then perused the menu with the air of a man who was looking for something in particular. After a few minutes, he set it aside and Aspen took his order. She handed it through to Creek, who appeared at the window as always, then walked back down the counter to where Jynx was rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Want me to ask Creek if any of the rooms out back are clean?” Aspen asked.
Jynx flicked something out of her eye. “Yeah, I don’t feel like going out in that to find a room.”
Creek shuffled into view with an old green keychain. The number four was written on the chain in gold glitter.
“Nummer fo’ is all yers, Jynxie,” he rumbled.
Creek was a mountain of a man, the kind who might have once been mistaken for a bridge troll. He stood almost seven feet tall, with lanky arms and legs that made him seem even taller. His head seemed slightly too big for the rest of him and one tooth stuck out against his upper lip like a tusk. But he was one of the kindest souls Aspen had ever met.
Jynx took the key and stuffed it into her pocket. “Thanks, Creek.”
He bowed his head and shuffled back into the kitchen.
“There are clean towels in the hallway closet, your key will—”
Jynx cut her
off. “I know the drill, Asp, I’ve been here before. Catch you in the morning.”
Aspen watched Jynx run through the rain to the small building behind the diner, which was the sort of run-down hotel below the standards of even the most strung-out meth addict. But it was clean and safe, which was more than enough for most hunters. When the door had closed on the storm, Aspen looked back at the stranger, who was looking out the window at the rain. He looked haunted, with sunken eyes that hadn’t slept in days and a slight stubble around his chin that indicated he’d shaved in a hurry. His knuckles were bruised and scabbed and he moved stiffly, as if he was sore. He caught Aspen looking and smiled.
“It’s quite a storm, isn’t it?” he asked.
Aspen slung her dish towel over her shoulder and picked up the one he’d used. It was sopping wet and lightly streaked with blood. She tossed it into the laundry hamper beneath the counter and looked out the window.
“I’ve seen worse, but this is in the top ten.”
The man turned back in his seat. “Did I hear that young lady call you Asp?”
Aspen picked up her tea and sipped from the now tepid brew. “It’s short for Aspen. If you believe my father I was named for the tree I was conceived under.”
The man looked into his coffee cup like it held the mysteries of the universe. “That’s a good, strong name. Just like the tree.”
“Thank you. And you are?”
He looked up and gave a brief, sad smile. “No one of consequence. Just another lost soul looking for a safe place to get out of the rain.”
He finished his coffee and placed the cup on the counter. “Do you think the innkeeper might offer me a room for the night?”
“I don’t know, but I can ask.”
Aspen raised her voice. “Hey, Creek! Can our guest have a room for the night? The storm isn’t letting up.”
There was a grunt from the kitchen and Creek shuffled through the doors. He looked the newcomer up and down and sucked on a tooth like it was the last morsel in the bottom of a milkshake. After a moment he mumbled, “Forty bucks.”
The man smiled his thanks and pulled three soggy twenties from his wallet. He handed one to Aspen and the others to Creek, who traded them for a key marked with a gold 2.
“Be gone by noon,” he said.
“I will. Thank you, sir.”
Creek turned away and vanished back into his sanctum. Aspen watched him go then looked at the newcomer. “Your key opens the hallway closet. Grab some fresh towels and a bar of soap, we don’t leave much in the rooms.”
“Got it. Thank you, Miss Aspen. I will bring you the key in the morning.”
He gathered his things and hurried across to the rooms. Aspen watched him fetch towels, soap and an assortment of toiletries from the closet then disappear into his room. The light came on in the window and she set about closing the diner down for the night. With the storm and the late hour, she doubted anyone else was going to stop for a bite, and she could use the sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Tempeste Manor, Chicago, 4:00 a.m.
Raven lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She’d been awakened by the distant rumble of thunder, but when she’d looked out the window she’d seen nothing but a clear sky and the waning moon. The thunder hadn’t been nearby, it had been far away, heard through Aspen’s ears.
It had been almost two months since Aspen had taken off for parts unknown. She’d said she needed some space and time to think, and Raven had given it to her, though she had mixed feelings about letting her go. On the one hand, she had strong feelings for Rupert, he was a great friend and even better partner. But she also knew that he would never be happy in her world, and on the other hand she knew she was ignoring feelings for Aspen, and Aspen was already part of the preternatural world. Nothing would ever change that.
She was out of hands, but there was another part of her that thought perhaps everyone would be safer if she just stayed single. Her last girlfriend had been strangled to death by a doppelganger and her last boyfriend had been a scumbag in Strohm’s pocket, who knew what would happen to the next one?
But when she let herself, she missed the kid. A lot. It was all she could do not to reach out along the thread that connected them, to feel her and be with her, at least as much as they could be this far apart. It might be the weirdest long-distance relationship in history, but it was better than the nothing they were sharing at the moment and it might be enough to get Aspen to come home.
And then again, maybe not. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t probe Aspen’s feelings, and she meant to keep that promise, which meant she had no idea if Aspen shared her feelings, or thought anything more of her than as just a very close friend.
Raven sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She hated relationships. They were confusing, sticky, and often led to hurt feelings where there shouldn’t be any. All too often, they weren’t worth the trouble.
She straightened, gathered up the clothes Dominique had set out for her, and adjourned to her private bath, all the while trying to ignore the little sensation in the back of her head that said, “But what if?”
Smokin’ Guns Motel, St Louis, 5:00 a.m.
Aspen woke to the scent of blood. It filled her nose, reached into her brain, and slapped her awake better than a bucket of ice on her chest. She sat up in bed with a gasp and looked around, her eyes wide. It took a moment for her to get her bearings, she wasn’t in her small apartment in Chicago or the room she’d been given at Tempeste Manor. The furnishings were too spartan. This room contained just a cheap flat-pack dresser, two flat-pack nightstands, and a double bed that was at least twenty years old. A nightlight flickered green and orange within the small attached restroom and she could hear the rain still falling beyond the room’s single window. She was in the room Creek provided her as part of her pay for helping with the diner.
She stood and padded across the threadbare carpet to the door, which was rattling in its frame; the storm was still raging outside. The scent of blood was stronger, but not coming from outside. It was coming from the rusty air vent that attached her room to the one next door and allowed for shared cooling when the rooms were unoccupied for weeks at a time.
Aspen pulled on her jeans, sneakers and jacket then hurried through the rain to the next room, where she knocked as hard as she could.
“Mister? Hey! Mister! Are you okay?”
There was no answer. Aspen gripped the doorknob and muttered a few syllables under her breath. The door popped open and she stepped out of the rain and into a room that was a mirror image of her own, except for the scent of blood and death that clung to the walls. The guest lay in the middle of the bed, his eyes wide and staring, blood running from his mouth and nose.
Aspen knew what she was going to find, but her training kicked in, and she checked his neck for a pulse anyway. His skin was still warm, but there was nothing, no hint of a heartbeat beneath his ear. He was dead and already beginning to cool in the blast of the air-conditioning.
She paused for a moment, her mind working. She should leave any investigation to the police, but she knew Creek and she knew hunters. No police would be called. If he’d been a fellow hunter, his death would have been investigated and revenge sought by every hand available.
But he wasn’t a hunter, and that meant his body would be buried in an unmarked grave with no fanfare or ceremony. A police investigation might dig up things that were better left buried and not all departments had a detective like Raven who could handle preternatural cases. If a vanilla cop got wind of a preternatural case, the Master of St. Louis would have to get involved and that was something she knew Creek would rather avoid. Hunters didn’t like Masters much, and the feeling was mutual. Their hundred year old truce was an uneasy one and it was best not to shake its foundation.
Aspen pulled the sheet back to reveal the victim. He’d gone to bed in nothing but
his boxers and she could see that he was much thinner than she’d thought when she’d first seen him. His skin was grey and clung to his flesh, in some places tight as a drum while in others it sagged where the muscle beneath had wasted away to almost nothing. Blue-tinted veins stood out against his grey skin and his eyes were bloodshot, even more so than they had been the night before. But there was no sign of a wound or an overt cause of death.
She straightened and hurried back to her room, where she gathered her crime scene kit from its hiding place in the back of the closet. She returned to the adjoining room, donned a pair of gloves and set about searching for a cause of death. She started at his head then moved downward, working with practiced hands that knew their job. His body was covered in bruises and abrasions, but none were more serious than those obtained in a back room brawl. She found nothing that could account for his death or emaciated condition.
“What’s going on?” a voice asked.
Aspen glanced over her shoulder at Jynx, who was standing just far enough inside the room not to be soaked by the rain. She was still dressed in her jeans and ‘stripper’ tee, but stood barefoot with a silver pistol in her hand.
“Dead guy,” Aspen replied simply.
She heard Jynx move closer. “I’m guessing you didn’t make him that way?”
Aspen shook her head. “Nope. I found him this way, I smelled the blood from my room and came to check on him.”
Jynx holstered her pistol at the small of her back. “What are you doing, then?”
“Investigating his death before Creek buries him behind the diner and forgets about him. Help me roll him over.”
Jynx joined her and together they rolled him onto his side. He had more bruises around his kidneys and upper back. Aspen ran her hands over his flesh, starting at his lower back and along his spine, looking for anything less obvious. At the base of his skull she found a bubble that, when pressed, wept a small amount of silverfish fluid.
“What the hell is that shit?” Jynx asked.
Aspen shook her head. “No clue. But it isn’t natural. Grab a sample tube from my kit, will you?”
