Caitlin Kelley_Monster Hunter Read online

  Great.

  Covert ops usually meant I was in and out before people knew any danger existed. Bystanders never intervened, but someone always had a phone or camera ready to capture the disaster for posterity. And Facebook. Or, God help us, Facebook Live. Sister Betty’d probably insist on calling in DEMON, the Department of Extra-Dimensional, Magical, and Occult Nuisances, the governmental “No Such Agency” that handled all varieties of supernats and other scary stuff. When the magic didn’t interfere with recording technology, DEMON’s expertise in cleaning up evidence of the things most people didn’t believe in kept public panic out of the equation.

  Marty gestured to a gap between two buildings farther down the street. “In there.”

  I tried to stand, and he caught me.

  “Nope. You’re not going anywhere. The police—”

  “Will be out of their league without a local hunter,” I said, my breath wheezy as I twisted away from him. “Dude’s supernat. I’m guessing a were-something.” With a wiggle of fingers in front of my face, I added, “Gold eyes, big teeth.”

  “Can’t we—?”

  I only managed two steps before the crescendo of sirens filled the street, and cut him off. The blue flare of lights reflected off a restaurant’s plate glass window across the street. I stopped, leaning against the wall. “He’s our problem.”

  A short, thick woman with a strong Midwest accent marched up to us. “I caught that crazy man on video, and I’ll be glad to show it to the police. I saw him attack.” The pride in her voice made me want to laugh.

  Marty thanked her. I checked my bleeding flesh through the newly ripped knees of my favorite jeans. He’d teased me this morning about my anti-tourist “uniform” when I got ready, but I’d worn them anyway. Another premonition?

  The intensity of the sirens grew until they finally parked the cruiser in the middle of the road behind us. Two officers slid out and eyed us only to be intercepted by a tall, muscular man too rigid to look comfortable in his shorts, polo, and boat shoes. He postured like a cop, I realized. As I caught the gist of what he said, I suppressed a grin.

  “Off duty?”

  “Yup. Tourist, but feeling awful important as a witness.”

  The older uniform gestured to the younger, obviously giving him direction to take the off-duty’s statement before wandering our way. Twenty years ago, he’d probably been a peak specimen like his partner. He hitched his belt, his swagger calling back to the strut of a division-leading former athlete. “Morning, folks.” He smiled with that uniquely Southern mélange of welcome, irritation, and condescension reserved for trouble-making outsiders. “Mind telling me what happened here?”

  I sighed, covering it with a posture that, I hoped, looked like I was still recovering. “Yes, sir. My name is Caitlin Kelley. Are you familiar with—”

  He bristled, and I instantly regretted the question. “Ma’am, I was born in this parish, and I’ve worked this city for thirty-eight years. There isn’t much around here I’m not familiar with.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m sorry, Officer…” I looked for his name tag, “La Fontaine. I apologize if I sounded disrespectful.”

  Though I wouldn’t have imagined it possible, his chest puffed out more, and his Cajun accent intensified, the bayou echoing in his voice. “S’all right, ma’am.” He gestured to my bleeding knees. “Looks like you’ve had quite the morning.”

  “You could say that.” I tried to smile though I already disliked him. “I’ve got ID in my back pocket, and I’d like to take it out.”

  Officer La Fontaine straightened, his mouth a sour little knot. “I assume by the way you’re telling me that you’ve got more than just ID.”

  “Yes, sir.” I explained the knife. “It might have fallen out in the fight, but I haven’t checked.”

  Marty shifted. La Fontaine’s head snapped in his direction, his right hand hovering over the butt of his weapon. “Stay put, son.”

  Awesome. All the cops in New Orleans and we get Officer Twitchy. I berated myself for bungling the approach and getting him so riled. I knew better. Sister Betty had taught me better. “Pat down or partnership,” she’d said, “your choice.”

  The criminal-style pat-down would be unavoidable now.

  When I debriefed with Sister Betty, I’d get another lecture about relationships with local law enforcement. Not that I didn’t deserve it.

  Of course, the pat down was as annoying as expected. La Fontaine made sure of that.

  When he finally finished, I handed him both driver’s license and federal ID declaring me an authorized agent of DEMON. He spent far too long scrutinizing them. Had to be part of the power trip. Everything was current, since I’d renewed both a few months ago. Or maybe that triggered his suspicion. Either way, he eyed me, then called his partner. “Boudreaux.”

  The younger man hastily thanked the off-duty tourist to join his partner. “Yessir?”

  La Fontaine flicked his first and middle fingers toward his partner, my IDs pinched between them. “Y’ever hear of this?”

  How La Fontaine hadn’t was more surprising, but I didn’t mention it. Sister Betty would be proud.

  Boudreaux took them and squinted at the federal ID, then shaded the plastic. His pale brow furrowed and his gaze darted between me and the card. “Yessir.”

  “That’s what I—what?”

  “Yessir.” Boudreaux’s voice dropped to a whisper. He stepped closer. “The captain mentioned a few weeks ago. They’re the monster hunters affiliated with the Church.”

  La Fontaine pulled off his sunglasses, his lip curled in a sneer. “Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?”

  “No, sir.” The younger man didn’t move, even when the bigger man stepped closer. “We’re supposed to cooperate, provide resources and—”

  “Enough.” The older cop snatched the cards back and settled his sunglasses over his scowl. He seemed to consider how to handle the situation. “What am I going to get if I call to verify who you are?”

  I shrugged. “What are you looking for?”

  The knot of his lips tightened. I wondered how the hell he’d untangle them.

  “It’s the Feds. They’ll confirm my operative status, clearance, credentials.” Hiding my amusement made me rather proud. “If, of course, federal agencies are credible enough for you.”

  A drop of sweat rolled down the rolls frustration carved into his lumpy forehead. “And what exactly does the federal government have to do with this?”

  Ignoring him, I continued. “DEMON is the Department of Extra—”

  He stiffened and returned my ID. “How’d they give you the authority to tear up my town, Miss Kelley?”

  “Woah, wait a minute.” My amusement dissipated. “I’m the one who got jumped. And by something you’ll be thanking me to hunt and destroy.”

  “So you say.”

  I thrust the cards back at him. “Call them. And while they’re on the phone, tell them to expedite the process for getting a new local hunter. You’ve got a supernat that attacked me in broad daylight and a monster that landed at Louis Armstrong airport last night. I’m already on assignment. You’ll want them dealt with before the bodies pile up.”

  The man bristled, his lips twitching. Boudreaux’s lips pressed tight, though to contain laughter or out of trepidation was impossible to tell.

  “Officer La Fontaine,” Marty said, his hands in full view, “there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “You’re right, son,” he said, his thick head swiveling toward Marty, sweat sparkling in the sun. “First that any federal agency can step in to my city without the courtesy of hello.”

  “Your city?” I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. “Your city? Who the hell are you—”

  “Caitlin!”

  Something in my brain snapped at the sharpness of Marty’s tone. I looked at him, then back at La Fontaine. The officer’s red face and short huffs of breath told me all I needed to know. I rubbed my forehead, partly to wipe awa
y sweat and partly to push against the headache growing behind my eyes.

  Time for damage control.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Miss Kelley, the next thing out of your mouth might land you in jail,” the man growled, his accent sharpening each brittle word.

  “Officer La Fontaine,” I said, all cool control, “I apologize for being a complete idiot.”

  His mouth opened, thumb unsnapping his holster.

  He blinked.

  His mouth closed.

  “Miss Kelley, Beau,” Boudreaux inserted himself between us. “I’ll interview Miss Kelley and Mr. …”

  “Lavoie. Martin Lavoie.” Marty’s shoulders bunched too high, ready to intervene. Ever my back up, ever my partner.

  Even when I was a dumbass.

  “Mr. Lavoie can continue the discussion with you, Beau.”

  The heavy-set cop’s shoulders dropped, his hands relaxing at his sides. “You got Creole blood, son?”

  Marty smiled, drawing on his endless reserves of charm. “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Bah, that don’t mean nothin’.” He smiled for the first time since I’d screwed up and dropped the F-word. I should have considered local sensitivity to the feds after the whole Hurricane Katrina debacle. “How ‘bout we step in the shade and you tell me what happened.”

  Marty nodded, and as the cop turned away, he winked. Not for the first time, I wondered if my friend didn’t have a little Elvin blood to help him out.

  “Miss Kelley,” Boudreaux gestured towards the cruiser.

  I nodded and thanked him. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”

  “He shouldn’t have, either.” Boudreaux smiled. “Ma memere raised me right, but he’s older and my superior officer, so whether I agree or not, I defer and disarm.”

  “You’re wiser and more self-controlled than I.” Not even Sister Betty’s best efforts had beat those traits into me. The last time she’d had me in the gym under the church, she’d promised to kick the sarcasm out of me one roundhouse at a time. We’d both ended up on the floor, bruised, sore, and sweating on the ancient blue mats.

  Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

  But, what an afternoon.

  Boudreaux’s smile glowed like sunset, warmed like bourbon, and made my heart flutter. I tried not to squirm. He’d be dangerous to spend time with. “You learn a thing or two at the academy. Shut up or get out is lesson number one. How’d you survive federal agent training?”

  I sighed. The explanation rarely satisfied the curious. “It’s not like that.”

  “But you’ve got agent status?”

  “In a capacity.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “How much time you got?”

  6

  Hell hath no fury like a pissed off nun.

  You’d think I enjoyed it for all the ways I’ve managed to invoke her wrath.

  “I know, I should have handled it differently, so you can skip that speech.” Even several states away and over the phone, the cold steel of her glare made my guts quiver. Not in the good way. “What should I do now?”

  “Why is it my responsibility to get you out of trouble when, if you’d listened to me in the beginning, you wouldn’t be in it?” Her sneakers squeaked. I pictured her pacing the wood floor of the gym in the church basement, the punctuating squeal the sound of pivoting on a toe to change direction for another pass. No trace of her concern over the attack survived her seething irritation. Too bad I couldn’t have told her about that part last.

  “It’s not. I’m asking for advice.”

  “No, Caitlin, advice is what you ask for when something unexpected happens. This is bailing you out because your mouth got you in trouble. Again. We’ve been over this.”

  “And you’re treating me like a child.”

  “Because you’re acting like one!”

  I didn’t have a response. She wasn’t wrong. I felt like a child. Had I screwed it all up to make them take the job away from me so I could get my break? I didn’t think so. Not consciously, at least. But my fuzzy, jumbled brain was part of the reason I’d asked for the time. Time to sort things out. Time to make decisions about what the hell I was doing with my life. And instead of doing all that, I’d had a job thrust at me.

  Didn’t even make it out of the damned frying pan.

  The ceiling fan wobbled as it stirred the cool air in the hotel room. I lay in bed in my underwear letting my skin pebble with goosebumps and waited for Marty to return with food.

  “Caitlin?”

  “Yes?”

  “You have nothing to say?”

  “Nope.” I shifted against the pillows. “It’s been a hell of a morning.”

  She sighed. “You make me crazy.”

  Ditto. In so many ways.

  “And you know I’m going to help you, even if it’s helping you defeat yourself.”

  “You always said I was my own worst enemy.”

  “You are, my dear,” she said, her voice soft. “That’s what scares me.”

  “I didn’t think you got scared.”

  “Not by much, but I’m not immune.” Rustling on her side. Rummaging amongst her papers, for a pen, perhaps. “Now, tell me again everything that happened, including the names of the officers.”

  Thirty minutes later, I had a plan, and she’d lost her prickly edge.

  “Thanks again,” I said and rolled on to my back, the pen and paper and all my notes abandoned on the side table.

  “Will you at least try to play nice with the locals?”

  “If I say yes, do I still get to take my vacation?”

  She sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. If it weren’t for Sister Evangeline’s death leaving a big swath of the South unprotected, I wouldn’t ask this of you.”

  Neither of us knew Sister Evangeline, but Sister Betty seemed to be taking it pretty hard. From what she told me, Sister Evangeline’s territory stretched from Tallahassee through Louisiana, covered San Antonio, and she traveled it on a Harley with a rifle strapped to her back. Envy wiggled through me imagining what kind of badass could handle anything from the bayou nasties to the vampires that inspired those popular novels (and Tom Cruise ruined), and still have the gusto to deal with chupacabra infestations every few years in the San Antonio mesquite scrub.

  “Still there?”

  “Yeah, just thinking.”

  “Great! Can you start practicing that before you speak so we don’t have to work so hard to bail you out in the future?”

  “Har. Har.”

  She laughed. “You have to admit, that was funny.”

  “Yeah, okay, fine.” I debated bringing up the letter. It could wait. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Stay safe.”

  I said goodnight again and ended the call. The cut on my calf itched, and my right shoulder ached. Must have pulled it in the fight, I thought, yawning so hard, my jaw popped. The cool air felt so good, and I closed my eyes to enjoy it. For just a minute.

  “Cee, you’re dreaming.”

  Three tongues slid out of the mouth of the thing hovering over me, each moving on its own. One slid across the leathery upper lip of the hideous mouth; the other two wiggled toward me. I fought the bindings securing my wrists, trying to see past the scaly, furred thing, the hot stink of its breath making my eyes water.

  “Wake up.”

  I thrashed, straining to see around the hulk of the beast, not wanting to draw attention to Marty’s presence. The thing couldn’t notice him. It hadn’t heard him over the screech of its claws on the stones behind me. Instead, it loomed closer, rancid breath burning my eyes as all three tongues reached for my face.

  Marty had to escape.

  “RUN!”

  The word sounded alien and wrong. The world rolled. Everything shook, and even the monster tilted, its tongues lolling. Long, sticky strings of saliva drooped from the nasty curl of its lower lip and arced with the shift in gravity.

  “Cee, wake up. You’re dreami
ng.”

  The mouth opened wider.

  “Caitlin!”

  And then, I was sitting up, squinting against the harsh light. The sheet pooled around my waist, exposed skin breaking out in goosebumps.

  Marty sat on the bed, a white plastic bag dangling from his left hand, his right on my leg. “You okay?”

  The room looked exactly as it had when I hung up with Sister Betty. Marty’s rumpled blankets. Same wobbling ceiling fan. My notebook on the bedside table open to pages of scribbled notes. Orange sunlight burned through the window. The recesses of my brain registered the impending sunset.

  “I think so,” I said, covering my chest with the sheet.

  “Don’t cover them on my account. They’re pretty and all, but,” he shrugged, “meh.”

  “I know.”

  “Sounded like a pretty intense dream. Want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t anything special. Probably stress.”

  Stress with three tongues. My imagination had issues.

  “Okay,” he said and lifted the bag, the plastic crackling, “food, then!”

  “Shirt first. It’s cold in here.” I slid out of bed and pulled on a t-shirt long enough to cover my panties and grabbed a towel before I climbed back into the soft bed.

  “Better than out there,” he said as he stood. “I’m sweating like a pig. And still no ghosts. For a so-called haunted hotel, it’s spook-free.”

  “Right.” We’d yet to encounter ghosts on any of the jobs we’d worked together. My experience with them wasn’t horrific or anything, but I’d rather deal with the corporeal. Easier to fight.

  “I hope to see one before we leave,” Marty said, handing me a Styrofoam food container and climbing into bed beside me. “It’s on my bucket list.”

  “When you know there’s so much weird shit in the world, why do you still want to see ghosts?” I stuffed a piece of fried shrimp in my mouth and groaned as it burst in a shrimpy-greasy little Cajun-spiced explosion. Maybe I should stop teasing Marty about his restaurant review apps. Maybe.

  “Why not?” Marty lifted his po’ boy and took a monster bite, echoing my groan of pleasure. Whatever he said got lost in the mouthful of food, but I think I got it anyway.