Still trying.
And that was something.
"You've got instincts. Trust them."
Matt's voice, echoing.
"You've got instincts."
Maybe I did.
Maybe I always had.
Maybe Gabriel had just helped me find them.
Or maybe he'd planted them.
Or maybe I'd invented them.
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But I was learning.
And learning was enough.
For now.
It would have to be.
13
The First Hunt from the Bar
The regular's name was Frank, and he drank bourbon with a water back, and he'd been coming to The Lost Hours since before Matt bought the place.
I'd noticed him during my first week—the way he sat in the same stool every night, the way he nursed his drinks for hours, the way his eyes tracked the room like someone who'd learned to watch his back. He wasn't tall or handsome or memorable. That was the point. Frank was the kind of man who disappeared in a crowd, who blended into the woodwork, who knew things because no one noticed him standing there.
"You're not from around here."
He'd said it on my third night, when Matt was in the back and the bar was empty except for the two of us.
"No."
"Didn't think so. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who's running."
I'd frozen. My hand had gone to the knife in my waistband, the motion automatic, instinctive. Frank had noticed. He'd raised his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender.
"Easy. I'm not your enemy. I'm just an old man who's seen too much."
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just to talk. Just to warn you."
