Page 2 of The Last Slayer
Clever Valerie, appealing to my ego. I don’t want to sound immodest, but I am the best hunter in the country, if not the entire hemisphere. Countless framed awards and certificates on the walls, tiny jars of specimen samples—ones I had bagged myself, of course, since I wasn’t going to pad my collection with store-bought items like some other hunters I could name—and shiny trophies on my desk. There’s a reason I’m the youngest partner at the firm.
My specialties: dragons and creatures of nightmare. Dragons are rare, but creatures of nightmare are everywhere, just waiting for a chance to pounce on some unsuspecting mortal.
“If I sent someone else,” Valerie continued, “I’d have to tell her that you’re not the best in the firm.” The corners of her mouth bent downward into an expression of perplexed regret. Clearly, this would be a terrible turn of events.
I forced my body to remain loose and relaxed. Being the best hunter was my thing. A woman’s gotta have something to fall back on, especially if she doesn’t have the looks to smooth things out for her. Though Valerie would have tsked at the idea, the best I could aspire to—with hours of professional help, mind you—was maybe a five out of ten. On my own, I was a solid three.
My eyes were great—an electric blue—but the rest of me was lacking. An uneven complexion full of freckles, slightly asymmetrical facial features that created an unfortunate Picasso effect, a functional but overly lanky body and easily damaged frizzy brown hair did nothing for my sex life. But my hunting ability sure helped my career and consequently my bank account. And I’d be damned if some fresh-faced staffer got to be the “best” hunter. I’d held the record for the most creatures of nightmare captured for the past three years.
Home versus work. Me versus Valerie. Watching the latest foreign soap—thank god for the Internet—and eating extra spicy General Tso’s chicken versus beating the hell out of an incubus. Hmm…dilemma, dilemma.
“All right,” I said finally. “But you owe me.”
Valerie smiled. “Of course. The client sheet is ready for you.”
Valerie left, and I stared at the closed door. She had totally outmaneuvered me. But then it was my fault for hating the creatures as much as I did and having such a huge ego.
With a long sigh, I got up and unlocked the closet in my office. I wasn’t going on a hunt in a suit, even if I had probably paid less than a third of what Valerie had paid for hers. I changed into Under Armour, all black, all formfitting, and grabbed a hunter pack. Although I always carry my primary weapon with me, I kept two packs, one at home and one in the office. You never knew when you’d need something. I’d thought about carrying one in my trunk too, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving hunting gear there. Some idiot might steal my car, do something stupid with the weapons and end up disemboweling himself.
Then sue me for damages.
I walked out of the office and saw Sandy. She was our receptionist/administrative assistant, beautifully tanned, green-eyed, and just the kind of snotty bitch who made the unpopular girls’ lives hell in high school. In a word, a bully. But she was good at her job.
She handed me the client info sheet. “She goes to sleep early so you shouldn’t have any problem. Oh, and nice outfit, Ashera. It really complements your complexion.”
I glanced up from the paper. “Thanks,” I said blandly. Black doesn’t complement anything, and Sandy’s smile wasn’t reaching her eyes. I sniffed and wrinkled my nose delicately. “You should get some sleep tonight and burn off that tequila you had yesterday. Partying two nights in a row… Not a good idea during the workweek.”
Sandy’s jaw dropped and it was all I could do to leave without bursting out laughing as she surreptitiously checked her breath. I’d happened to overhear some gossip that afternoon about a rather rowdy bar scene. Didn’t feel too guilty about using it.
The client info sheet was succinct and to the point: Selena Morales, twenty-five years old, SWF, her address and the directions to her place in Fairfax, just a mile off the junction of Route 50 and I-66. She was expecting me at eight, and I had just enough time to get there.
So no dinner. But I never eat anything right before a hunt anyway. You never know what will happen in the dream world, and I didn’t want to risk eating something and then heaving it. Clients really hate it when you puke all over their dream.
Of course, there was the small possibility that this woman could be a faker—an exhibitionist who liked to have someone watch her have sex in her dream. If so, I might ask Valerie to triple our normal rate.
Valerie was in the parking lot, waiting for someone on her phone. “Kick some ass,” she said.
“Screw you,” I muttered and heard her laugh. Lame, I know, but it was late and I had low blood sugar.
The drive to Morales’s Fairfax townhouse didn’t take much time. Fortunately, I was going to the suburbs instead of downtown. I didn’t want to be in the city just then. With the rumors of the Triumvirate of Madainsair’s impending visit, Washington, DC, had turned into the world’s biggest cluster-fuck.
Selena’s neighborhood was immaculately groomed and impeccably maintained. Not a
tree branch stuck out the wrong way, not a sparrow dared to sing off-key. Boring but reliable Toyotas and Hondas dotted the driveways. A few family vans and SUVs provided diversity to the otherwise all-sedan collection.
I parked and grabbed my hunting gear from the trunk of my brand-new silver Audi. The address on the client sheet pointed me to an end-unit townhouse. The streetlights lit dark red bricks and ostentatious white bay windows. Yellow lilies burst open like miniature fireworks in front of a row of dwarf bushes. Very nice, very upper middle class.
The door had a small talisman, the kind you can buy from a cheap fortune teller’s stall at a county fair. It was made of silver, tarnished now from a long period of neglect. The circular shape with a few nonsensical inscriptions might have fooled a layperson, but to anyone with even minimal training it looked about as real as a Las Vegas Elvis.
I rang the doorbell and waited. As the seconds stretched, I thought maybe Selena wasn’t there, which meant I would get to go home and the firm could still bill her. The idea perked me up.
I had started to think seriously about leaving when the door finally swung open. A pale blonde stared at me. Her runway-model height made her look excessively thin, to the point of gauntness. If I hadn’t known better, I might have labeled her a cocaine addict. Her murky brown eyes slowly focused on me, never blinking. They reflected the lifelessness of a spider’s food post-feeding, an empty dry shell, and suddenly I found myself infuriated. We gave supernaturals equal rights under the law—okay, property rights only, but they count for something—and this was how they repaid us?
“What?” Her voice was rusty, as if she hadn’t used her vocal cords in a while. Or maybe she’d just been screaming in ecstasy too much.
“Ashera del Cid.” I extended my hand. She didn’t take it, and after a moment I dropped it. Friendly. “You wanted to talk to a creatures of nightmare specialist?”
Frowning, she pursed her lips. “I wanted a hunter.”
