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Chapter 2

Jace opened the camper shell and tossed his pack into the back of the truck. Wade's truck. Jace's older brother hadn't cared much about material things. Fashion, electronic trends, had been beyond him. Jeans, a t-shirt, and boots had been his wardrobe. He liked high-end weapons and a dependable truck. He kept the former stashed in the back of the latter, discretely tucked away in a huge toolbox. Other hallmarks of their trade took up space in plain sight. The huge bags of salt and cans of gasoline might seem odd, but weren't illegal. Jace's beat up hiker's pack held his clothes, pretty much the same style choices as Wade. Jace wore his dark hoodie, aged and soft from so many washings, as his only concession to the chill in the air. For this trip, a parka lay in the back of the truck, tossed indifferently over his pack. He'd seen pictures of Minnesota while he researched the job, and judging from those images, his hoodie wouldn't stand up to the winters there.

Securing the hard shell over the back of the truck, Jace glanced towards the cabin. Six months since Wade's death. Nine since his parents were murdered. Not even a year total, Jace wondered if he'd still be alive when the first anniversary of death rolled around, or if he even wanted to be.

Jace's hand went to the small vial against his chest, hanging from a chain around his neck. A dog-tag, which read simply 'Wade' also hung from the chain, along with a gold heart locket he'd found in his mother's things. Jace held the tiny memorial to his brother tight. A few ashes in the vial and a lock of hair in the locket were all that remained of the man who'd been a vital part of Jace's life. He tucked the necklace inside his shirt and turned away from his last look at home. Jace had been 'little brother' his entire life, looking up to Wade, yearning to be as big and strong as his brother. It never happened. Jace stopped growing at six foot six,

inches short of Wade's six foot nine and no amount of gym time bulked him up to Wade's massive size. Jace didn't know if taking up hunting again would help him figure out who he was without Wade to measure himself against, but he didn't know where else to pick up the threads of his life. Still, he feared the hunt might end up as nothing more than a distraction from his pain, or worse, a lifelong quest for revenge. He'd cleared out every werewolf in a hundred mile radius since Wade's death. If he wanted to keep killing monsters, he had to get back on the road. Werewolves weren't the only people-killers out there.

"I know, Wade. If I give up, you're going to kick my ass. Good thing you aren't here, though, Minnesota in January. Geez, you'd never stop bitching about the cold." Jace ignored how wrong it felt to slip behind the wheel of the Ford '65 F-100. The vintage pickup had been Wade's pride and joy. Jace had rarely been allowed to drive it, and since Wade's death, Jace hadn't had the heart to take it out of the driveway. He used parents' old sedan to go for supplies once a month. Sitting behind the driver's seat of the truck, preparing to hit the road on a hunt without Wade, renewed Jace's awareness of his brother's absence. Pain clutched his heart so hard, for a second Jace couldn't breathe.

"Wade." Jace sat for a minute listening to the motor run before forcing himself back into action. "Let's go, Red, there are girls to save." Jace glanced into the rearview mirror. Catching his own gaze, he winced. His unusual aqua-green eyes, which once sparkled with laughter, were murky with sorrow and depression. Non-descript brown hair, in need of a cut, hung over his forehead, ears, and collar. Cutting short his self-exam, he focused on backing the care out of the driveway and onto the dirt road that ended in their yard. Jace flipped the radio on, letting the familiar sound of his favorite emo band distract him from dark memories as the dirt road turned to gravel, and shortly after, merged with pavement. Jace faced his first lone hunt with growing trepidation.

He and Wade hunted as a team. Going it alone meant Jace had to watch his own back, take care of the research and run the pool hustles that were their bread and

butter. Hunting usually consisted of expenses with no incoming revenue, but it had to be done or the supernatural would become impossible for the civilian populace to ignore. The resulting chaos would cost thousands of lives. He hoped his skills were up for it. Jace rebelled against the sort of scams most hunters resorted to as easily as breathing. Gambling was one of the most honest ways to supplement a nonexistent income. They were supposed to be heroes, not criminals.

Wade had made fun of him, nicknaming Jace 'the missionary', asking if he needed a Bible or a cape the most. Despite his teasing, instead of forcing the matter, Wade taught Jace how to win at pool and cards without cheating. Jace had been hustling pool with Wade for as long as he'd been tall enough to see over the edge of a table. The memory made Jace smile. They'd made a mint back then; guys never thought a couple of kids would beat them. Even after Jace grew up, taller than the average bear, they would sucker guys in with his baby face and then Wade would clean them out with his shark-like talent. Gambling would be riskier without someone at his back; he'd have to be careful not to win too much. It wouldn't do him much good if he couldn't keep what he pocketed.

Still lost in thought, Jace slowed the truck, pulling from pure habit into a parking lot where a couple of old fashioned gas pumps stood outside the low-slung ramshackle building, which was a bizarre merging of bar/restaurant/convenience store/gas station. A simple sign over the door read "Bud's". A bell jingled when he entered and, waving to the girl behind the counter, Jace moved through the well-lit convenience store in front and headed for the dimly shadowed rear of the building. A bar stood against one wall, with a few tables scattered over the scarred wooden floor, separating it from two pool tables located just beyond them. Lamps with green cone shades hung over the green topped tables, isolating them in islands of light. An older man looked up from wiping the bar, grinning at the sight of Jace.

"Well, look who crawled out of his hole. You want

a drink, boy?"

Jace managed a small smile and accepted the tall frosty mug of beer thrust into his hand. "Thanks, Bud. I'm headed out for a while. Keep an eye on the place?" He took a drink of the cold beer, with a deep sigh of appreciation. He wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks that hit the spot."

Bud looked thoughtful; his deep set, dark eyes were surrounded by a multitude of wrinkles. His beard matched his white hair, but Jace couldn't remember Bud's hair ever being any other color so it didn't give any hint to the man's age. When asked, Bud just grinned. "Old enough," he'd say, "Old enough." A longtime

friend of the family, he often looked after the cabin during their absences.

He nodded. "Watch it like it's my own," he promised. "It's good to see you getting out. Let me feed you before you head down the road, I doubt you've been much

on grub up there alone." Bud acted as he spoke, without waiting for Jace to answer, pulling a pan of raw hamburger patties out of the fridge under the bar. He plopped a couple of them onto the flat grill on the back wall. A basket of fries went down into the vat.

Jace barked a short laugh. "I hope you don't think I can eat all that."

Bud looked at him, brow raised. "I'll pack a goodie bag for you. Go fill your truck. That monstrosity must suck down so much gas you'll have to stop at every station you see and pray between them." Laughing, Bud turned back to his grill.

Rolling his eyes, Jace headed for the front door, not about to turn down free fuel. Bud drove a Toyota hybrid, the old country man an unlikely source of conservation. He and Wade used to spar about cars constantly. Bud said he had enough headaches buying the gas to fill the monstrous tanks for the store, he didn't need to make the Arabs any richer driving a gas guzzler.

Jace ran a hand across the hood of Old Red as he filled her tank. Wade had believed in vehicles made of real metal. Jace closed his eyes, Wade's voice clear in his mind.

"Fiberglass might save you money, but steel will save your life. Remember that, little brother." Jace remembered. He remembered everything. The sound of a single gunshot echoed in his mind. His jaw tightened and Jace squared his shoulders. He left Old Red beside the pump to go back inside for the hamburgers, determined to do the only thing he could for Wade by living a life he didn't want. Hehesitated at the door to the store, his hand moving up to ghost over the shape of the necklace under his shirt. "Wade, you know, it's really not fair that I'm only allowed to kill one of us."

His expression as bleak as his heart, Jace went back into the store.

* * * *

Elias sat in his car staring at the snow, wondering what kind of idiot picked a job in midwinter Minnesota over one in the swamps of Florida. It had seemed a no

brainer. Girls with their heads cut off trumped mysterious lights floating around a swamp, but given the fact January had settled in colder than the North Pole, he obviously hadn't thought the situation through well enough. He should have googled more than bizarre news stories, stuff like temperatures, and the chances of actually seeing the sky…or the ground. Elias touched the control for the wipers and cleared the windshield of the layer of snow obscuring his vision.

The huge oak tree across the street bore a fresh, deep scar in its side. The weather hadn't prevented the impromptu memorial that seemed to spring up these days

anywhere something tragic happened. A young woman driving home from work had crashed her VW Beetle into the tree. Elias had read the story, researched the police files; all evidence indicated she never touched her brakes, just swerved, jumped the curb and plowed into the tree. The fact she'd been pinned to the seat by the steering column didn't surprise Elias. Breaking with tradition, the new model Beetles had their engines in the front. The engine of this particular one had ended up in the woman's lap. Horrible wrecks happened every day and none of them would have drawn him to this frozen place, but there were other details, one in particular that had lured him north. That small detail being the location of the driver's head.

In the passenger seat.

The windshield had splintered on impact, pictures showed it networked with cracks, the inside coated dark with blood, but still intact. With no flying glass or any sign of flying debris in the car—the how of the driver's severed head added up to the kind of puzzle Elias liked best. The current snowfall concealed the scarring of the yard between the road and the tree, making the exact point where she jumped the curb unidentifiable. Pictures, artificial flowers, and teddy bears decorated the snow bank at the bottom of the tree; protected somewhat by the bare branches they weren't completely buried. More pictures, flowers and notes had been pinned to the tree to the point they nearly obscured the fresh wound, turning the site of the deadly accident into a peaceful memorial.

Knowing he wouldn't learn anything sitting in the car, Elias pulled down the visor to open the mirror. Rich golden brown eyes gazed back at him, surrounded by thick dark lashes, they were the best feature in a perfect face. He also had strong cheekbones and a perfectly shaped, fulllipped mouth. Being not quite human came in handy, people trusted a pretty face faster than an unattractive one. Elias wore a few days growth of beard to keep from being too beautiful, but the rugged edge only added to his appeal. Running a hand through his two-tone hair, Elias perfected his slightly tousled look. The distinct blond and black coloring drew more attention than his pretty face, but hiding it took more effort than Elias wanted to put into it. It didn't matter, he could wear a bikini and dance the hula,

and even the grouchiest conservative would remember him with pleasure. The innate power of his incubus nature made sure of it.

Being able to get away with murder was just one of the benefits of being a soul sucking monster. Elias rolled his eyes at his inner emo. Convinced he wouldn't terrify the neighbors, he pulled on his gloves. The thin leather conformed to his fingers like they'd had been made forhim—which they had. The thick, hunter green sweater Elias wore over a black turtle neck didn't offer much protection against the wind when he got out of the car; he'd left his coat in the trunk. Elias didn't even have a place to stay yet, but he wanted to get some firsthand information before settling down for the night; he'd come straight to the makeshift

memorial as soon as he got to town. He didn't plan to hang around the North Pole any longer than he had to. Bum fuck Daffodil, Minnesota, stuck in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by a National Forest, didn't have a cell tower for a hundred miles. No signal, no 4G, wherever he stayed would have to have internet hardwired into it. Elias imagined being confined to research in the local library and shuddered.

Elias welcomed the warmth of his leather coat as it settled around him. Tailor made, it fit perfectly despite his diminutive five foot eight inch frame. His body, thanks once again to his inhuman nature, looked as perfect as his face, a pleasant V shape, wider at the shoulders and extremely narrow at the hips. The fit of his coat the furthest thing from his mind, Elias pushed a gas can towards the back of the trunk beside a fifty pound bag of rock salt, and opened the false panel set in the floor. He silently studied his array of weapons before grabbing a sawed off shotgun and sliding it into an interior pocket of his coat. Elias had designed and sewn the lining. He trusted a seamstress to do basic alterations, but he made all specialized changes himself. He slid his seventeen inch Bowie knife into the sheath at the back of his neck, where it hung invisible between his shoulder blades, and the smallest of his handguns into his shoulder holster. He had a pocketful of throwing stars and enough protective runes tattooed into his skin to save the planet. Elias did not like getting caught unprepared.

Slamming the trunk closed, he stood behind his charcoal gray car, surveying the neighborhood. Cast in false twilight by the storm clouds, the road remained quiet. Rectangles of light fell across the snow in front of houses giving a misleading impression of warmth to the ice. Satisfied nothing lurked around to blindside him, Elias pulled on his ski hat and shoved his hands into his pockets. Hunched against the wind, he crossed the street towards the tree, snow collecting on his shoulders. Annoyed, he shrugged it off; the next spell he put on the coat would include a built-in heater. He hated the cold.

The items making up the memorial didn't tell him anything. It was the usual stuff from people mourning, sentiments transforming an everyday girl into a saint.

Ready to give up, Elias started to turn away, but a picture pinned in the center of the naked wound in the tree caught his eye. Careful not to mar the photo, he removed the tack and examined the image. He recognized the girl, Janie, from news images—blonde, sassy, dressed in red—but the young man in the picture presented a mystery. No more than eighteen, dressed head to foot in black, with his arm draped around Janie's neck. Scrawled across the picture was a single word, "Sis". The way the pen had dug a groove into the photo and the sharp slant of the writing screamed the author's pain. No platitudes, just real honest

emotion, an agony as raw and open as the wound left in the flesh of the tree where the bark had ripped away.

With a place to begin in hand, Elias headed for the nearest house. Once he found out where to find Janie's brother, he could turn his attention to finding somewhere to stay while in town.

Elias was back in his car a mere fifteen minutes later. He tucked the picture into the elastic band around his visor, and tugged off his gloves. People being willing to talk freely to any guy with a badge made things a lot easier. The girl's brother, Terry, still lived in the apartment he'd shared with his sister. Apartment 4B, located in a small complex at the end of the road. Elias studied the brother and sister in the picture, so similar despite their opposite demeanors and choice in attire. The boy's loss would be equivalent to the joy captured in the image. It must suck to be him. Sure, the sister was dead, but the kid had to keep going, and Elias thought being the one left behind had to be the worst.