“I swear, nothing funny. Just… you seem a bit on edge, and maybe a hunt will release that tension.” He shrugs.
That’s not the worst idea.
“When did you last feed?” I ask him.
“At sundown. I’m good,” he assures me.
“I won’t be long. She starts fitting, being sick, anything, call me,” I order.
He nods. I turn to walk back out, but stop just as Marko enters my room.
“And don’t let the prospect anywhere near her,” I add.
“Just go and eat,” he sighs.
Turning on my heel, I walk outside and jump on my bike. I ride into the city. We never hunt in our hometown unless it’s someone lost or injured in the woods. Those are fair game.
I leave my bike outside a dive bar and walk in. Heads turn in my direction. My eyes survey the scene before me. The girls are too thin, too young, and unsteady on their feet. A fat older man sits in a chair in the corner of the room, his hand gripping the young girl’s arm firmly. Her face pinches in pain.
I smirk. The perfect feeding ground.
I pull out my cell and send the others a message:
L: Bar, The Tavern. Back of West Street, city centre. I hope you’re hungry.
Instantly, my cell pings:
S: We are on our way.
M: Bring me back a takeout; you have me salivating.
I smirk and slide my cell back into my pocket. I make my way to the bar.
“Scotch,” I order.
The barman blinks. “We got bourbon or rum,” he says, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. I guess hygiene isn’t their selling point in here. I’ll need to make sure to sanitise once I’ve fed.
“Fine. Whichever has the highest alcohol content,” I say, and chuck down the cash on the bar.
He roughly chucks a glass on the bar and fills two fingers’ worth of bourbon. I nod my thanks and take the glass, bringing it to my nose and smelling it. I sigh. Not quite scotch, but a smoky aroma all the same.
I lick my lips, wanting nothing more than to taste it, to feel the warm burn as I swallow. I exhale a breath and place it back on the bar, keeping it in my hand.
“You ain’t welcome here,” a deep voice rumbles beside me.
I tilt my head to the side and look him up and down. Dirty hands, covered in grease and oil, stains onhis T-shirt, an ugly fucking scar along his right cheek under his eye, and a shitty black bandana on his head.
“That so?” I ask casually, swirling the deep amber liquid in my glass.
“It is.” He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. The rose tattoo and the word ‘Mom’written over it has me fighting back a smile. Such a cliché.
I turn, standing toe-to-toe with him. He has at least three inches on my six-foot-four. I can see why they sent him over to me. Intimidation.
Unfortunately, they’re trying to intimidate the wrong monster.
“Tell me why I wouldn’t be welcome here?” I ask.
“We don’t like outsiders,” he grunts.
