Page 53 of Blood of a Huntsman

An Intruder

Bash was not looking forward to another night running from the psychotic slayer. Mikar had seemed like an all-right dude until that morning, but he was clearly deranged. Or sadistic. Possibly both.

He'd stumbled into his bedroom and crashed for so long he missed his combat class. Which wasn't the worst thing, given that they no longer had a teacher.

He was in good form the next morning, his muscles having healed overnight. A definite improvement over his previous life. Back when he'd been a huntsman, he would have felt a six-hour run for days, if not weeks.

Working with Mikar again sounded like something right out of a nightmare, so he should have been relieved when he spotted the stubborn and beautiful blonde vamp at the edge of the Wolvswoods close to midnight. Instead, he rushed to her side and snapped, "What the hell are you doing here, Stormhale?"

She rolled her eyes. "My shift."

Bash narrowed his eyes. "You were poisoned just three days ago. With nightbane," he said, like she might have forgotten.

"So?" Cat seemed amused. "We're vampires. If something doesn't kill us, we sleep it off."

He knew that, but he didn't think he'd completely understood just how fast they healed, how different their bodies were, until waking up today. He had no cramps, no aches, no muscle spasms after being chased by Mikar. It made sense that she'd healed too, although poison didn't compare to a marathon.

Bash sighed. "You didn't look okay that day. You weren't just hurt. You were…anxious."

And out of control. He chose not to point that out.

Catherine glared at him, and he could guess exactly what she was thinking—that he had no business sticking his big nose into her affairs. But all she said was, "We'd better start our patrol, don't you think?"

He nodded stiffly before walking in silence by her side.

It was a comfortable sort of silence, and this time, whenever she stopped, he didn't have to ask why. He followed her gaze to watch the stars. Rabbits. Wolves.

Wait, wolves?

Catherine inclined her head in a greeting that didn't feel warm or welcoming. But it did show respect. Bash imitated her, and the three wolves watching them from the shadows glanced at each other.

The black wolf in front, taller than the others, and broader too—was clearly the alpha. A gray wolf stood at his right, considerably thinner but no smaller. To the left was a beautiful beast with reddish fur that might have been a coyote.

"The pack who live in the woods?" Bash asked.

"Yes, I think so. It's no wonder that they'd wonder what's going on, if Levi hasn't told them yet."

Bash didn't know much about these werewolves. Jack had mentioned them once or twice, saying that they were one of the oldest packs in the world. Whatever that meant. He was just surprised that they were content to live here in Oldcrest, although werewolves were territorial. Living near so many witches, vampires, and even shifters from other packs couldn't be easy.

"Maybe he should bring them up to speed," Bash mused out loud.

Cat snorted. "It's not quite that simple. I heard he invited them to the last conclave. They didn't show. Werewolves are…"

The black beast bared his teeth, growling a warning.

Now wasn't the time to insult werewolves.

Cat ignored him, finishing her point. "Proud."

Bash understood proud well enough. He'd been proud of being a huntsman. He was regularly proud of his siblings. Proud of what his family had achieved, too. Choosing to not attend a meeting where crucial information would be shared wasn't pride as much as stupidity.

Bash relaxed as they walked farther south, away from the pack. Fear wasn’t stressing him out; he could have dealt with shifters back when he'd been a hunter. But he knew how volatile they were, and how much they hated vampires.

Like basically every other sup. Their longevity and power didn't endear them to anyone, to say nothing of their ability to rip open throats whenever they felt like it.

The vampires stopped at the edge of the border near the east train tracks.

Someone was there. Right at the edge. Observing the wards. Studying them.

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