“What?” she asked, tone joking, like I was the one being strange. “It’s good.”
“You’re not supposed to eat it like that,” I said, every word slow. “You know that.”
She shrugged, popped the second strip into her mouth and chewed, eyes never leaving mine. There was a challenge there, a quiet dare. My chest tightened around that same gut feeling.
“I talked to Bullet,” I said, dragging my attention back to anything else. “There’s a party tonight at the Cherry Smoke in the French Quarter. Clubhouse Halloween party spillover. You know how those nights go.”
Her eyes lit up. This time the excitement seemed real.
“A party?” she asked, stepping closer, practically vibrating. “At the Cherry Smoke? Do I have to dress up?”
“I guess,” I said. “It’s Halloween. You can if you want to.”
She laughed, clapped her hands once, the sound sharp in the kitchen.
“Perfect,” she said. “I already know what I’m wearing.”
She moved around the kitchen like nothing was wrong. She continued to hum that same tune under her breath. She leaned against the counter, watching me crack eggs into a bowl. She swayed a little in my shirt, bare legs brushing the cabinet door.
I watched her.
The girl I loved stood ten feet away from me, in my t-shirt, chewing raw bacon, humming some tune I did not know, eyes too bright, smile too wide.
On the surface, it looked like an easy domestic morning. Underneath, something was rotten.
I felt it in the burned skin around my throat. I felt it in the way my instincts would not shut up. I felt it in every strange note of her hum and every off-beat burst of laughter.
Something was off with my Grace.
And as much as I wanted to blame stress, or the sigil, or the long days trapped in this apartment, I knew better.
Something else was here and it was fucking with my head, using the one thing in my life that was sacred, against me. The thought made me furious, but I kept my calm, because if it even caught on that I knew it was manipulating my woman, it would hurt her, and that’s the last thing I wanted.
HELLSING
Ishould never have left her.
That thought sat in the back of my head the whole time, even as I told myself I was doing the right thing, giving her space, getting eyes back on the Scorpions.
Grace stayed curled up on my couch when I left the house. She wore my shirt and those damn small shorts that did nothing to hide her legs. She said she felt fine. She said she wanted a nap before the party and told me to stop hovering.
She was right.
I still did not want to walk out that door, but the knot in my gut pushed me toward the one place that had seen more destruction than it needed to.
The Midnight Wytch.
Last time I had been here, the front window was broken in, the door was splintered, and the air carried the stink of fire and ash. Now the window was whole again, a solid pane where shards used to shine on the sidewalk. Fresh paint covered the scars on the doorframe. The new wood on the jamb looked pale and raw compared to the older boards.
The sign above the door hung straight. Someone had scrubbed away the soot streaks on the brick. There were stillfaint marks if you knew where to look, thin lines and darker patches, reminders that this place had gone through some heavy shit.
I pushed the door open. The bell over the frame gave a dull ring.
Inside, shelves stood back in place, lined with jars, bundles of herbs, stacks of candles. There were spaces where gaps cut through the order, empty spots that waited for stock that had not come in yet. The floor had been mopped so many times the boards had a faint bleach sting, fighting with the smell of incense.
“Yo, Hellsing,” a voice called from the back.
Josh stepped out from behind the counter with a box in his hands. Kid was lean, wiry, and his eyes were too old for his face. He wore aMidnight Wytchshirt that still had creases in it and a pair of jeans with paint stains on the thighs. The scar on his left cheek pulled his mouth up a little, even when he was not trying to smile.
