No, they’d rather drag me out in the middle of the night, when dives like this are the only thing open.ĭarn inconsiderate when school starts tomorrow. Moments later, I’m crossing the street, my sporty mirrored sunglasses shielding my eyes. You’d think after four years-a quarter of my life-this would be second nature. I palm the remote for Moira’s keyless entry and am about to lock her sleek, black doors when I realize I’ve forgotten one element of my monster-fighting gear that is critical, at least when I’m hunting in human-heavy territory. Who says keeping the human world monster-free can’t be good therapy at the same time?
Hand-to-hand combat won’t send a monster back to its prison-realm home, but it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better. One more visitor from the abyss this week and I’ll leave the gear at home and work out my annoyance with my fists. This is the fourth time in the last week that the aroma of dark and nasty has pulled me out for the hunt. “Can’t they give it a rest for a while? Maybe take an extended vacation somewhere cold and icy.” “Seriously,” I mutter as I climb out onto the sidewalk. A defense legacy passed down from my ancient ancestor. Though the gear makes things easier, all I really need to take a beastie out is the pair of retracted canines that will fang down at the first sign of trouble. The hydra shouldn’t be much trouble-balancing nine heads on a massive serpent body throws off their center of gravity so they’re not exactly graceful-but it never hurts to be prepared.Įven if I ever get caught off guard, I’ve got a backup monster-fighting kit stowed under Moira’s driver’s seat and another in my backpack. Nothing like a well-stocked pair of black cargoes to make me feel girly. I twist the key out of the ignition and do a quick gear check: Kevlar wrist cuffs in place, smoke bombs in left cargo pocket, zip ties in the right, and my handy-dandy, military-grade, metal detector–defying, twin APS daggers snug in their sheaths and hidden inside my steel-toe Doc Martens. I pencil in taking her to the car wash on my mental to-do list, right after replacing my favorite cargo pants, which got shredded in my last fight, but before polishing the bladed weapons in the armory.
Moira’s upholstery is going to stink for a week. Hydras definitely fall into the latter category.Īs I steer my car-Moira, named for the fickle fates as a constant reminder to take charge of mine-into a spot across from a dilapidated seafood shack, the stench is practically overwhelming. Some beasties smell mildly unpleasant others could peel paint. It’s somewhere between the acid tang of burning hair and a boat full of rotting fish.
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