Erin Dameron-Hill (8 page)

Chapter Four

I looked at the dented and half-torn Hummer and knew that none of my middle-class, Garden Society neighbors would drive a vehicle like that, much less know anyone who would drive a vehicle like that. So, who else but a Hunter would own a pseudo steel tank?

“Oh my God,” I said frantically now jumping off the bed and pacing in front of my picture window, “he’s here, Matt. What do I do? What do I do?”

“It’s okay, remember, he’s not going to hurt you. He’s a professional.”

There had been far too many waves of panic slam into me today and I was feeling like a beaten Cliffside, torn and ragged from erosion. I especially didn’t need any more fear to clutch at my heart. Clyde was dead, Billy was missing, the Entity had returned and now a Hunter was at my door. I honestly didn’t know a person could house that many horrific events and still be alive.

“A professional hitman, you mean.”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this,” Matt replied sending waves of power rolling over me, “he will not hurt you. Answer his questions and be polite. He’s here to help. He’s being paid to help. I want you to call me after he’s left and tell me everything he asked you and how you answered him.”

“Fine. But I’m not happy about this.”

“I don’t need you to be happy about this. Billy’s life is on the line. I’ve already lost one member of our family and I won’t lose another one.”

I sighed heavily into the phone hoping I could exhale all of the emotions that were clouding my mind. I wanted to purge the fear, the anger, and the sadness with just one breath. It’s funny how it doesn’t work that way. Instead, the emotions tend to fester and eventually ooze at the most inappropriate times. I really hoped that they wouldn’t show during the interview with the Hunter. I didn’t want a poacher like that to know my weaknesses. He could use them against me and my family.

“Remember, everything’s going to be fine,” Matt repeated, “Call me when you’re done.”

“Bye,” I said into the phone after Matt had already hung up. I have terrible phone manners. Communication through a machine just seems so impersonal that I guess I don’t see the other person, I just go through the motions of talking.

The silver flip phone was still grasped in my hands as I heard the fateful knocking on my door. My legs barely trudged toward the hall, making themselves heavier with each step. I felt like I was being weighed down with cement blocks as I continued to walk.

Even though I knew who was at the door, I still stood on my tiptoes to look through the peephole. Unfortunately, I have a home-made wreath hanging on my door and parts of the flowers were covering the hole. So all I could see were bits and pieces of the man standing just a foot away.

I took a deep breath and pulled again on my sleeve making sure those cuts weren’t noticeable. If I had had more time, I would have covered the trash can in the kitchen so that the Styrofoam bottoms of several pounds of beef that I had scarped down in just ten seconds weren’t obvious. I don’t know why he would even be in the kitchen, but I shouldn’t be taking chances. He was a Hunter and it was his job to notice everything and be fully aware.

The doorknob turned and the squeaking from the slow turning shrilled loudly into the foyer.

The Hunter stood menacingly tall at around 6’3 (give or take a few inches because I’m terrible at guessing height). And, honestly, if it had been anyone else looking like that, I would have said
Take me, I’m yours.
He was obviously a centerfold for Playgirl and judging by the dark shadows that were etched in his golden brown eyes, he was Mr. October because he carried that same presence of a haunting night on All Hallow’s Eve--dangerously frightening and exciting.

My heart picked up as my eyes continued to be rude as they made their way down his broad shoulders and large chest. The white t-shirt that he was wearing just barely covered the muscles that were screaming to escape his shirt. Being a Hunter, I guess he was required to be built, after all, he deals with supernatural strength, he has to be able to handle it.

I knew I was wearing a goofy smile when I bit my lip gently as I imagined him without pants. If he looked this good from the front, then he had to look that good from the back. His gasoline-washed jeans hugged snugly, but not so tight that he turned into some sort of Wrangler, but were worn just right so that a person knew what sort of muscles lay beneath.

His shoes were torn brown loafers that he must have had for many years and that he wore on a daily basis because they were just falling apart. Bits of leather flew softly in the stilling breeze, occasionally placing themselves back into the sides of the shoes.

I brought my eyes back up to his face, because, let’s face it, I was checking him out and being obvious about it which is kind of embarrassing. And based on that smug smile he was wearing, he knew he looked good. Damn. Cockiness can be such a turn-off and yet, he wore it with style.

He had the most kissable lips I had even seen--plump enough to pull on and soft enough to delicately kiss. The perfect lips. It was really all I could do not to start fantasizing about this man. But it was too late. My mind was already racing about him chasing me in the woods and finally catching up with me, pinning me on the ground, forcing his power…

Okay, enough of that. He’s a hunter. He’s dangerous. And as much as I want him to be dangerous in a good way, he’s not. He kills my kind for sport and money. He’s a very bad man. End of story.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to stare.

My eyes finally soaked in the rest of him, taking in his long, black hair that was placed neatly in a low-rise ponytail. The top of his head was covered by a look-alike Indiana Jones hat which made me want to laugh and then sigh. One of my sexual fantasies included Indiana Jones, so the hat wasn’t helping my mental state of mind.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at him, treating him like some kind of meat when I realized I might be drooling. Oh yeah, I was being really smooth today.

I wiped at the corner of my mouth and managed to speak, “Can I help you?” But what I really wanted to say was, “Take off all your clothes and come to bed with me.” Which wasn’t a smart idea at all.

He held out a large, calloused hand that had seen years of hunting action and said, “My name is Damon Black. Matthew Davis listed you as a friend of Clyde. I have some questions to ask you.”

Too bad he’s all business.

I was still looking at his hat when diarrhea of the mouth took me uncontrollably, “What’s with the Jones’ hat?”

From out of nowhere a voice shrieked in the hallway, “You call him
Doctor
Jones, doll.”

I glanced past the Adonis and looked at his assistant who had imitated Short Round almost exactly and felt a little bit inferior. She was cute, well more than cute. She was a very beautiful, very young, assistant. Her short, blonde hair was styled efficiently into a bob which accented her perfectly lined chin. Her delicate features reminded me of a Barbie and her body was in the shape of a Barbie made in the 1950’s. The white eyelet dress that came to her knees made a point of showing off her full and thin figure. I was just a little bit jealous because I could definitely use a smaller waistline but I smiled and said, “Nice impression,” with sincerity.

She grinned a beautiful, white smile and began jotting down a few notes onto a Rainbow-Brite notepad. I haven’t seen Rainbow-Brite in years. And as much as I wanted to envy this girl, I liked her style. She had adorable taste. But I did wonder what on earth she could be writing down this early in the game. Was she writing what I was wearing, or how I was acting? I sincerely hope not.

I looked back to the Hunter, not wanting to take my eyes off of him for two reasons: 1) he was a Hunter, and 2) he was hot. His lips parted delicately into a smile and he replied, “I like the hat. It’s lucky, you know.”

“How so?”

“May we come in?” He asked completely ignoring my question. I didn’t move but he brushed past me anyway and normally I would have been angry, but I caught a glance at his butt and I couldn’t help but to just sigh again.

A soft whisper resounded in my ear and his assistant said, “It’s nice, huh? Why do you think I walk behind him?”

We shared a muffled giggle and I closed the door with a loud bang. I didn’t mean to slam it, but I wasn’t exactly in a controlled motion. The Hunter had definitely thrown me off my game.

I watched him look at everything as he passed the apothecary bottles, the fake seer’s globe, and finally all the books that lined my walls. He was absorbing parts of my life without asking me a single question, knowing exactly who and what I was. It was a bit unnerving and fortunately, it brought me back to my senses. He may have been attractive, but he was still deadly. I was like a mouse entranced with the sway of the viper which is never a good metaphor because it spells certain doom for the mouse.

The girl’s heels clicked on the laminated wood floors just as the rapping at the window shouted through the hallway, past the dining room and into the living room. I really need those bushes trimmed because that tapping was growing more and more annoying.

As I stepped down from the dining room and entered the living room, I immediately felt a wave of embarrassment. I should have cleaned up the place more if I had known a Hunter and his assistant would be visiting. You know, like lay a few human traps that are the equivalent of bear traps so they wouldn’t get a chance to kill me, that sort of thing. On the other hand, if I acted like a predator, I would probably be treated like a predator so I should dawn my nice face and conceal my fear and anger lest I be a pelt on the black market.

The girl sat down on my beige leather couch and flattened her dress down along her legs, erasing any sort of wrinkles that might have attached to the cloth. She was sitting in front of the mirror that hung gently over the couch and I caught a glimpse of myself. I was wearing my con-artist psychic attire--a dark crimson velvet robe with billowy sleeves meant for blowing in the wind. My dark hair was curled and piled neatly on the top of my head while gold jewelry was haphazardly thrown across my wrists, my waist, my arms, my neck and my ears giving the appearance of a fourteenth century wizard. I looked pretty comical and tacky compared to the Barbie and her prim dress.

The burning sage and Airwick Pine lingered heavily in the stifling air, so I turned on the overhead white fan in hopes of dissipating the smells. When the scent of herbs and chemicals receded, only then did the corpse of Clyde say hello. His scent was all over them, decaying and rotting. I had eaten over fifteen pounds of raw beef since I had smelled the body, and thankfully, my beast‘s appetite was sated. Now was especially not the time to turn.

“This is Shirley, my colleague,” the Hunter said motioning to the supermodel reclining on my couch.

“Nice to meet you,” I said shaking her hand and feeling her very strong grip nearly overpower my own. She had an otherworldly strength about her, and yet, as I inhaled her, I couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary except for a heavily laden scent of metal. Smelling like metal could mean anything--she could be a robot (now that’s funny) or she could have a blood disease such as anemia. Yeah, my super smeller can detect diseases and even specify which type of cancer a person has. To be a wolf means to be a predator and they are well adapted to sniffing out the weak and helpless because it makes for easier prey. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just stating fact.

“Would you like something to drink? I have water, milk, and some tea?” I asked, looking at the small beads of sweat that rested on Shirley’s temples.

“No, thank you. Besides, I
hate
milk,” she replied and the Hunter merely shook his head.

I nodded quietly and sat down in the awkward silence. They were both sitting uncomfortably in the leather sofa, squirming their legs and feeling their skin peel off the leather. I, on the other hand, accustomed to sitting in leather, just smiled knowing that I was causing some discomfort to the Hunter. After all, I wasn’t here to make his life easier. If he wanted my help, then he shouldn’t have been a Hunter.

“Ms. Morgan,” he paused glancing at the stone wolf statue that rested on my glass coffee table, “May I call you Sophie?”

“Ms. Morgan is fine,” I replied now immune to his erotic, deep voice that reminded me of liquid chocolate. Well, not exactly immune, I was just repeating that he’s a Hunter again and again and that was distracting from the urge to jump him and kiss him all over.

“Ms. Morgan, then,” he said brushing aside the formal refusal of a more friendly conversation, “I couldn’t help but notice your dining room on the way in. Are you a Wicca?”

I smiled and replied, “No. I’m a psychic. I can read people and sometimes I can see the future or the outcome of someone in distress.”

“Is that why Mr. Davis called you in to see the body last night?”

“You mean to see Clyde?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, that’s why he called me in.”

“Did you find anything?” he asked carrying the most perfect poker face I had ever seen. If he didn’t believe in psychics he wasn’t showing it. He was absolutely blank.

I thought about the question and the word “Anput” popped into my head like a bad memory. I didn’t understand what I thought I had felt or seen there so I was definitely not telling the Hunter my enigmatic vision. Hell, I wasn’t going to tell anyone because it didn’t even make sense to me.