Hunter's Trail

I raised my eyebrows. “You didn’t actually hurt them, did you?”

“Me?” Molly fluttered her eyelashes innocently, then grinned again. “Nah, cuts and scrapes only. I just kept knocking them down while they were trying to change. It was hilarious.” Her face lit up as she recalled. “The bitch got madder and madder, she was stomping her little foot like a three-year-old, and she was stark naked the whole time!” She chortled, mimicking Anastasia’s petulant expression.

My spirits sank suddenly. “Go easy on Anastasia,” I said quietly. “She’s been through a lot.”

Molly snorted. “Maybe she has, but that doesn’t give her the right to go all cray-cray on my girl.” She reached over to tousle my hair, which was hanging loose down my back. And down my front, and sticking up in the air . . . I’d been asleep for a while.

“Stop it!” I protested, jerking my head away. “And nobody says cray-cray.”

“It was meant ironically,” Molly said loftily. “Besides, she totally was. Scarlett, she thought you had a cure! I mean, yeah, being near you is nice and all, but if that’s her deal, why not just send her friend to stalk you or whatever?”

“Will has a rule against it.”

She arched an eyebrow skeptically. “But kidnapping is cool?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Molls. I don’t think Anastasia’s really thinking straight anymore.”

Molly’s face turned serious. “Uh—they don’t know where we live, do they?”

“No,” I said, thinking it over. “I don’t see how they would. Eli and Will both know, I think, but I can’t see them telling anyone, especially since Will warned the wolves to stay away from me. Do you know anybody Old World who would tell them if they asked?”

“Nope,” Molly replied. “Most of the vampires don’t even know where I live, and the ones that do would never tell the dogs. And,” she added, “the deed isn’t in my current name, so I don’t think anyone could find us the old-fashioned way.”

I always think it’s funny when vampires refer to anything as the “old-fashioned way.” I yawned. “We should be good then.”

“What are you going to do next?” Molly inquired.

I knew she was referring to the complicated situation of my job and the murder, since apparently I was back to work. But I sidestepped her question, saying simply, “I need to shower.”

Molly had gone to a drugstore and purchased one of those handles that sticks to the wall of shower stalls, so I could at least shower without anyone having to help me, but keeping one hand on the handle at all times made everything take forever. When I finally hobbled back to my room, I brushed out my damp hair and tied it up, then dressed in a hunter-green pullover and the only jeans I owned that were baggy enough to go over my knee brace. Thank you, boyfriend style. I see your value now.

I made my way downstairs, where Molly insisted that we go to the store for supplies so we could retry the sushi rolls ourselves. I knew she was trying to distract me on purpose, but I gratefully allowed myself to be pulled along by her single-minded enthusiasm. I didn’t want to think about the dead woman, or Eli, or the werewolves who had jumped us at Will’s house.

After a laborious trip to Trader Joe’s, where I essentially turned a cart into a giant scooter, Molly and I made sticky rice in her countertop rice-maker and started spreading supplies all over her small kitchen table. The project escalated, as Molly’s projects usually do, until by nine thirty we were eating raw cucumbers and cleaning up a literal explosion of sticky rice.

So when the doorbell rang, I was completely unprepared for it.

Molly and I both froze, staring at each other over the table. She moved first, announcing, “I’ll get it!” and trotting off toward the front door before I could respond.

“Dammit, Molly, wait!” I called, exasperated. I grabbed my cane from where it was leaning against the table and hauled myself up to follow her, saying, “At least let me feel if it’s something Old World first, okay?”

“Oh, right,” Molly said, stopping suddenly. If I’d been moving at a normal speed I would have run right into her. “Good idea.” She gestured grandly toward the entryway and intoned, “After you.”

I hobbled to the front door, concentrating on my radius until I was satisfied that whoever was out there was definitely human. I went on tiptoes to look in the peephole—and saw Detective Jesse Cruz waiting patiently on the front step.

“Oh,” I breathed, rocking back on my heels.

“Who is it?” Molly asked curiously.

“Shh! It’s Jesse,” I whispered distractedly. “I thought he didn’t know I was in town.” I stared at the door, uncertain. I hadn’t prepared a lie to explain my knee.

Before I could come to a decision, Jesse yelled through the door. “Scarlett, I just came from your boss’s house. I know everything.”

I opened the door. And whatever I was about to say fell out of my brain as Jesse just looked at me for a moment, a small smile on his face. “Hi,” he said softly, the smile widening into a grin.

I always forget how beautiful Jesse is. I don’t mean beautiful in an androgynous sense—he’s very male, with an athletic, muscular build that looks like he came by it honestly, rather than having his body designed by a personal trainer at a fancy gym, which you see a lot this town. I mean “beautiful” the way you’d call a sculpture or a painting beautiful. Jesse looks like he was deliberately, lovingly crafted by an experienced artist who prefers natural fibers and earth tones. Which is a lot of words, so it’s simpler to just think of him as beautiful. I realized I was grinning back at him.