Page 9 of Blood of a Huntsman

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"Sebastian!"

Bash grinned as he entered the foyer of the small but comfortable apartment, some of his fatigue evaporating.

"You know everyone calls me Bash, Emilia," he told his sister, rolling his eyes as he hugged her. Briefly.

Then he took a step back and looked out the window at the seaside to clear his mind.

She smelled…like food.

Shit.

At least the view was a suitable distraction.

His family had lived in Brighton for about four generations now, since they'd been assigned to the United Kingdom.

Ten years ago, at just eighteen, Jack Hunter was moved from the USA head office to England right after Bash's parents were killed. He and Jack had been the same age, but right away, Bash had known who was in charge. The order had sent the English branch their best, youngest agent so that they could keep their shit together after losing their leaders.

Martha and Remy Venari had led the hundred or so English huntsmen until they were killed on a mission. Bash hadn't been given specifics, nor did he ask for them at the time. It was just what happened to huntsmen sometimes. He became head of the family, with a preteen sister and a baby brother. No one expected him to step up and take control of their order here, at his age, while raising kids. He was glad for Jack’s presence.

The Venari were given a healthy settlement for their parents' service, along with a pension—Bash didn't need to worry about money, but he still had to help with his siblings’ grief, not to mention their homeschooling. The two kids were intent on becoming huntsmen too, and general education didn't cover Vampire Beheading 101, or History of Evil Witchcraft.

He had help. Their people were big on community. Nigh on every huntsman in the country, and some from abroad, came to babysit and tutor, so he managed to keep his own position within the order. But still, he was the guardian of two kids.

Now, Emilia was twenty-one—still a pain in the ass, but she could take care of herself—and Paul had turned seventeen.

They'd be okay. More than okay.

"I'm not everyone," Emilia reminded him, rolling her eyes. "I'm your awesome sister. I get to use your actual name. Come on through. Paul made your favorite."

With a brother who burned rice and a sister only interested in filleting demon flesh, Paul had naturally grown to become quite the cook. Bash sniffed the air tentatively. Rushes of memories flooded in. Laughter, crying, arguments, jokes. This was home.

Paul had learned to make bouillabaisse from Laurie, a French huntsman who turned up every now and then. It was a time-consuming dish that the teenager only made as a treat, typically for Bash’s birthday. That he’d prepare it now showed how much Paul was looking forward to his visit. Bash felt guilty about having to put distance between he and his siblings.

"Jesus, that smells good!" Luke said. "Enough for me?"

Emilia grinned, welcoming as usual. "Always. Go take a seat, guys. I hope the journey wasn't too tiring."

Bash let Luke do the small talk. He was a lot better than him at it. He could lie, remain casual. He could have told his sister that nothing tired him anymore. That he remained wide awake all night, contemplating his hunger for human blood. Wondering whether it'd ever get better. The vampires had told him what to expect; newborns were always thirsty. But he wasn't a run-of-the-mill turned vampire. He'd been made by a sick freak. Some of the insanity, the crippling violent thoughts, were still there, in his blood.

Bash remembered his chat with a young boy named Steven. He’d been cured years ago, but Levi had kept him in his labs for observation, and because he hadn’t been sure the feral virus was entirely gone.

Last spring, after running tests on Steven and the rest of the ferals Chloe's blood had cured, Levi had freed them all. They had minders who'd observe them in the upcoming years, but there was no sense in keeping them locked up now that they were better. According to Levi, in any case.

Steven wasn't so sure.

"They don't understand," he'd told Bash. "They think we're like them. But we aren't, are we? It's always going to be there under the surface. The anger. The hunger. The brutality. Your huntsmen friends might have to hunt us down one by one someday."

Bash had said nothing, but he'd felt closer to that little immortal boy than any of the flamboyant people who lived on Night Hill.

He wasn't in control. He may never be.

Bash looked at his family. Emilia was the spitting image of their mother, the same reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, proud nose, and even the mole close to her right eyebrow. His brother was a carbon copy of him. Lighter hair and eyes, broader than most even at his age. They all looked so very similar, but the two younger Venaris were another species now.

"What's with the eyes, bro?" Paul asked.

Bash looked down. He didn't have to ask what had happened. His eyes had flashed in hunger. Not pretty and azure like Chloe's looked when she used her powers or felt thirsty. Crimson. Bright blood-red.

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