XVIII

The least offensive ringtone on Hector's phone was something the developers had titled Mountain Rush, but he'd come to develop a pavlovian hatred for the tune. It chimed in his ear, jolting him out of a dead sleep and his phone vibrated against his keys on his nightstand. Fumbling in his half-awake state, he tapped on the speakerphone and rolled to face it.

"Mm'llo?" he mumbled. 

"Mr. Torres?" a woman on the other end he didn't recognize said. "This is Deputy Dawson down at the station, we need — "

"Tell him to get his ass down here toot sweet," another voice bellowed down the line.

The fine hairs on Hector's neck stood on end when he recognized Cutter and he shook off the last bit of sleep, perching his glasses on his nose. 

"Sorry," the deputy said. "But —"

"I'm on my way," he said.

"Great, I'll tell him," she said, relief palpable on the other end of the line. The call disconnected.

Pulling on whatever clothes he had at hand, Hector grabbed his phone, keys, and wallet, and bolted out of his apartment. He noted with dull surprise it was still dark out; he hadn't registered the pre-dawn time before he'd left. As satisfying as it would be to leave Cutter hanging in the breeze for waking him so early, he broke into a run down the street; the police station wasn't too far away by foot and he didn't want to leave his bike in Cutter's purview while he was in a mood.

The man himself was waiting at the top of the steps for him, smoking a cigarette which might have been the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His shoulders broadened somehow to see Hector jogging from around the corner.

"Your boy," he fumed like a chimney. "Your boy is this fucking close to— "

"To what, Sheriff?" Hector snapped, daring him to voice his threat.

Cutter's dark eyes danced with fire, but he held his tongue. "Get the fuck in there."

Just inside the door, Hector was met by the deputy he'd spoken to — a tall, solid woman with a faded tan and straight, dishwater blond hair wrapped tight in a bun at the nape of her neck. He mistook her expression for sympathy until recognizing it as restrained amusement; whatever was happening struck her as darkly humorous.

"Is this about Malczyn?" he asked as she started leading him to the holding cells. Her only answer was to hand him a folder which he skimmed haphazardly until his eyes honed in on the details of his statement. I wanted to kill him so you'd lock me up, I'm not safe— Hector swore out loud. "If he's been asking for me, why do you have this?" he asked, flapping the folder at the back of the deputy’s head.

Dawson gave him a chilly look over her shoulder as he accused her brothers-in-arms of impropriety. "He didn't ask for you until an hour ago. It's all in the report."

Their final destination was not the roomy holding cell which doubled as the drunk tank on the weekend, but the smaller, more oppressive room at the very end of the hall. Through the observation window, Malczyn was plainly visible, shackled to the desk. His fingers were clutching tightly to his hair and he bounced his leg so hard his whole body shook. When the deputy announced Hector's arrival through the intercom, Malczyn's head snapped up and the harsh lighting of the room cast the bags under his eyes in sharp relief.

"I'd watch yourself," Dawson said, unlocking the door. "He's two seconds away from going all Hannibal Lecter."

The door closed behind Hector with a small click and the room felt as pressurized as an airplane cabin. Actual tears brimmed Malczyn's eyes to see him and his body sagged with relief even as he began blubbering. "Thank God," he said. "Thank God, thank you Jesus, thank you, th—"

Hector cut him off with an irritable wave of his hand. "What the fuck?" he hissed, taking the seat off to his side.

"Are they still after me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Probably? I told you to fucking skip town, not try and cave in a man's skull.” He slapped the folder down on the table between them with a harsh flick of his wrist. “What the fuck?"

Malczyn withdrew into himself and worried at a scab on the back of his knuckles. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to find you. It wasn’t safe out there, I— ” He withered under Hector’s severe gaze.

“What do you think I can do for you now?” he asked. “You confessed to some serious shit here, you’re going to big boy prison.”

Malczyn seemed a hundred miles away as he shook his head from side to side. “But you can get me out,” he said, gripping the edge of the table. “You can— I’ve seen what you can do — ”

Leaning away from him, Hector threw his hands up in exasperation. “Sure, I’ll pull a sword on a dozen cops in a police station, you fucking idiot.” From the way Malczyn’s face fell, that had been exactly what he’d wanted Hector to do, as if he was just a tool to be used. Something in Hector snapped and he saw red. “Sorry, but you’re on your own with this one.”

Malczyn made a tiny, winded noise and dropped his head into his chest. He looked so morose, that Hector was caught off guard by the man’s hand whipping towards him and grasping his necktie. The fabric bit into his neck and he was jerked forward, his head slamming full force into the table in an explosion of noise and pain.

“Get me out of here, you son of a bitch!”

Desperate fingers took a fistful of Hector’s hair who swung a blind haymaker up, catching Malczyn in the side of his head with a satisfying crack. The door to the room burst open and there was a flurry of activity as voices barked orders and hands pulled Hector away. His glasses had gone missing in the commotion, but he could make out the blur that was Malcyzn as he howled wordlessly and clutched at his face as two cops descended on him. A rough hand was underneath his own arm and shoved him out of the room into the hall, slamming the door shut and cutting off the sounds of Malcyzn’s distress. Relief hadn’t even washed over Hector before he was hurled full force into a wall and pinned in place with an arm across his chest.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Cutter’s face was so close, Hector could make out the man’s features unaided. “I’m — he attacked me first,” he said thickly. Talking was difficult. He wanted to sit down.

“Why were you close enough to get attacked? You read his file, he’s a beast,” Cutter said, releasing him to jab a finger into Hector’s shoulder.

When he opened his mouth to respond, his lips were slick with something hot and wet and when he dumbly pressed his hand to his face, his fingers came back streaked with blood. Pressing his tie to his nose, another white hot flare of pain danced in his field of vision and his head dipped and swirled. He sagged into the wall, blood seeping around his hand and dripping onto his chest. “Sheriff, please.”

"Sheriff," a second voice echoed. 

When Cutter turned his head, Hector used the last of his battered brain's processing power to shuffle away from him and to the nearest chair. With his head cradled in his hands, with Cutter's attention diverted, his Honor at last took matters into its own hands and a surge of cold fire flooded his head. Fog gave way to dazzling clarity as his magic healed his concussion. It was a mixed blessing, however, as his nose remained fractured and throbbed in agonizing time with his racing pulse.

"You need to fill out a report," that same second voice said above him. Deputy Dawson looked down on him without much sympathy, but she was better at masking it than Cutter's naked contempt.

"I'd rather leave," he said.

She pressed his glasses into his hand. Somehow they'd survived the assault intact. "It's quick, I promise."

It took a half hour, in fact, due to Cutter's persistent interruptions. Hector wasn't sure what had sparked this new focus from the man, but it was like being circled by a hungry wolf. 

Once he'd finally been released with a terse, "Don't call me about him again," Hector had staggered down the street to his apartment. His head still pounded from the headache Malczyn had beaten into him, but his mind was crystal clear as he pulled out his phone, tapped out a brief text, and sent it before he could reconsider.

You free?

Till this evening, was the too-quick reply. Hector paused halfway up the stairs of his building, stomach constricting as he chose his next message.

You're buying me breakfast.

After some back and forth, Hector had sealed the deal and was stripping out of his filthy clothes in his bathroom. Finally alone in his sanctum, he unsheathed his Honor and healed his fractured nose, bracing himself against his sink's basin as his legs swayed beneath him. When he was certain he wouldn't pass out, he showered and scrubbed the cake of dried blood off his face with no small amount of satisfaction. 

As he dried himself off and stared at his now pristine reflection in the mirror, he wondered what the hell he was thinking inviting Ansel to his place. It had made sense at the time, but he wasn't convinced it hadn't been a thought process borne from a still-concussed mind. He didn't know him, and Oath or not, he didn't have any reason to trust him. The thought that maybe he just wanted to see him again — maybe in the way someone might want to watch car crash videos — caused his throat to tighten.

He had enough time to ponder this as he dressed before there was a knock at his door. He verified it was Ansel through the peephole, but he called out to him, "Are you alone?"

There was a pause. "Who the fuck would I bring with me?"

Hector narrowed his eyes; his question had been neatly dodged. Nice try, he thought. Raising his voice he began to repeat, "Are you—"

"Yes, I'm alone," Ansel said, muffled by the heavy door. "No one knows I'm here but you."

His voice rang clear with truth. Hector slid the bolt and unlocked the door, opening it with a cautious creak.

"Do you want this food or not?" Ansel asked, waving a heavy plastic bag in his direction. 

The scent of syrup and bacon grease weakened Hector's resolve and he swung the door wide. "Come in, Ansel."

Raising an eyebrow, Ansel crossed the threshold and rolled his head on his neck as he did so. He peered up at the door frame, then behind him as Hector closed and locked the door again. "Drafty in here."

"My wards," Hector replied. "Divine barrier, it keeps things out if I don't invite them in."

Ansel made a noncommittal sound at that, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Wrinkling his nose, he said, "It smells like blood."

Caught off guard by the comment, Hector took a moment to respond. "What? Oh, don't worry about that."

Hector took a seat on his sofa to spread out his order's contents while Ansel stayed hovering on the other side of the table, arms pinned to his sides. From the bag he pulled out two orders of short stacks, three fried eggs, a generous portion of home fries, and an assortment of bacon and sausage links. 

"I probably shouldn't be here," Ansel said. "Baptiste could find out from me where you live."

Hector was busy doctoring one short stack with syrup and took a greedy, blissful bite before answering with a shake of his head. "Doesn't matter, even he can't get in."

"Don't stop him sending someone to wait outside for you."

"I can take care of myself," Hector said. Chewing thoughtfully on a strip of bacon, he observed Ansel from the corner of his eye. "How many of you are there?"

Ansel scratched at the hideous scars on one side of his neck. " 'sides me and Baptiste? Two. They ain't — you don't gotta bother with them."

After finishing his first stack of pancakes, Hector stood and crossed the room into the kitchen, turning on an electric kettle with a flick of the switch. "No promises," he said over his shoulder as he pulled a jar of instant coffee out of a cupboard. "I've got a right to defend myself."

This caused Ansel to square his shoulders. "If any of us came after your head, it'd be under an order," he snarled. "We got no control over that."

"What difference does that make to me?" Hector scoffed. " 'Sorry, I know you don't mean to do this, here, take my neck'. Please," he said, rolling his eyes.

The two stared at each other in stubborn silence until the kettle ticked off and Hector turned to make a cup of coffee. He was just sinking into the aroma when Ansel cleared his throat behind him.

"I'm pretty sure Cutter knows about you," he said in a quiet voice.

Hector spun on his heels so fast he nearly knocked his mug onto the floor. "What? What the fuck does that mean?"

Ansel's whole demeanor was evasive, like an animal that knew it was cornered. Instead of a direct answer, he backtracked into explaining the context. "Cutter's our man, he's been on the take forever. He was—"

"You didn't think I'd want to know that?"

"I didn't get a chance to—"

"Fuck, so he knows I'm a Hunter? Does he know about this? Is he—"

"Would you fucking let me finish?" Ansel raised his hands in front of himself. Hector fumed at him in silence. "Baptiste made me tell him so he'd keep an eye out. I didn't tell him it was you, but I had to describe you and, well," he trailed off, waving one hand like and there you have it. 

Foregoing his usual milk and sugar, Hector sucked down his bitter mug of coffee as gears turned in his head. "Does Baptiste know?"

Ansel shook his head. "But Cutter's more dangerous for you right now, probably." Hector idly nodded his agreement, rolling a swallow of coffee around in his mouth. "He why you were bleeding earlier?" Ansel asked with a dangerous rumble in his chest.

"No," Hector said, blinking in surprise as his stomach tightened again. "No, it was Malczyn."

"What’d you see him for?"

"I was his lawyer until he bashed my head against a table." The thought of it still furrowed his brow, and he added more water and coffee granules to his mug.

Ansel clucked his tongue at that, one fang briefly visible as he curled his lip. "Cutter said he'd gone off the deep end, but god almighty."

Hector eyed him as he returned to his breakfast, fresh cup of coffee in hand. "You gonna kill him?"

Cocking his head to one side, Ansel asked, "Don't that go against your code of honor or whatever?"

Hector speared a few potatoes on his fork and waved it in Ansel's direction. "You really don't know the first thing about Hunters, do you?" When Ansel shook his head, Hector let out the closest thing he felt to a laugh. He shoveled a few more forkfuls of food into his mouth before elaborating. "I'm not some chivalric knight or whatever the fuck. 'Honor' is just what we call our magic. It has its own rules, but they don't really follow, like, the law."

"But you helped him before," Ansel said, leaning a hip against the arm of the sofa furthest away from Hector.

"That was because of an Oath he'd made with me," he said, sipping at his coffee. "Same reason I'm helping you. Think of it like a contract: when you ran away from him, he wasn't in danger anymore and the Oath was fulfilled. Doesn't matter to me if you come back for him later, so long as he doesn't invoke a new one."

Ansel folded his arms and a grimace hit his face. "Ain't so easy with our Oath, is it?"

Though a few scraps of food still remained, Hector pushed the container away from him and tucked his left leg under himself. "An Oath can only be invoked if you're in genuine danger and mean me no harm. The only way to fulfill it is if you're no longer in danger or you don't need my specific help anymore. And since I sincerely doubt Baptiste is going to just let you go," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Pursing his lips, Ansel slid from the arm of the sofa down onto a cushion, brow furrowed in thought. "What happens if you can't do it?"

"If I'm trying and don't manage it? Nothing, there's no time limit or anything," Hector said, picking at a few crumbs that had escaped onto the table. His voice was more somber as he continued, "But if I give up, if I forsake an Oath, if I fail in any way, I'll lose my Honor. Literally. My magic will violently leave my body and I won't be a Hunter anymore."

"When you say 'violently' — "

"It's the worst pain you've ever felt, apparently," he said in a mockingly cheerful tone. He locked eyes with Ansel to gauge his reaction and he at least looked appropriately disturbed. "You really didn't know when you did it?"

"I had no idea it was even a thing," Ansel said, covering his face with a hand. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd known." 

His first sentence rang true to Hector's ears, but a whine of feedback accompanied the second. He frowned involuntarily, but he said nothing; being a human lie detector was an ability he'd rather keep to himself for the time being. Like Malczyn, Ansel was a cornered animal grabbing onto anything that might promise an escape. He studied the vampire now sitting comfortably on his sofa, his hands steepled together under his chin, deep in thought. If it hadn't been some manner of trick that had led Ansel to take interest in him, to invoke an Oath, to make a leap of faith by asking him for help — 

Hector's stomach was in knots. Of course his Honor had reacted to Ansel; on some level he wasn't any different from the frightened, lost humans to whom he'd rendered aid before. In some ways he needed help more than anyone Hector had ever even known. For the first time he felt a pang of sympathy for the man and the level of desperation that had sent him to Hector.

When Ansel spoke, he sounded a hundred miles away. "I got something on my face?" he asked with a bemused smile.

Hector blinked. He'd been staring. A handful of replies crossed his mind, but he disregarded them all and instead leaned forward to press his own lips to his.

The kiss seemed to hit Ansel like bad news, and he froze up in response. It lasted long enough to be awkward before Ansel broke it off, pushing Hector away with a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're kinda sending me some mixed messages," he said, his eyes darting off to one side.

Hector's face flushed with heat and he leaned away. "I didn't— I'm just—" he stammered, pressing his fingers to his lips. Where the fuck did that come from? He cast a sidelong glance at Ansel who was studying him like a puzzle and he felt his cheeks darken with color. "I have a hard time meeting people," he offered lamely.

A small knot formed in Ansel's brow as he considered this. "You got a lot of good reasons to keep people at arm's length, I suppose," he conceded. "This'd be pretty convenient for you."

Though he tried to hide it, Hector picked up on a hint of shame in his voice. "I didn't kiss you because you're convenient," he said, attempting to course correct the situation. It sounded like a hollow excuse even to himself.

"Listen, it's fine if you want casual," Ansel said, plowing over whatever point Hector was making. "Baptiste don't let me be with anyone long enough to get past that anyhow."

A jolt ran through Hector. "I'm sorry," he said.

Ansel's expression wavered as if he might start crying, but he held it together enough to lean forward and cover Hector's mouth with his own. Hector wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held tight, as if the two of them had fallen overboard from a ship.

They might as well have, in a way.

Hector kissed him hungrily, it had been too long since he’d been able to satisfy his base desires and he briefly gave his body over to raw impulse. He let Ansel's tongue rove around his mouth, surprised at how quickly it was warming up, and his own hands pulled at Ansel's jacket from the shoulders, as if he could remove it over his head. Ansel, finding it suddenly too bulky for the situation, broke away for a moment to unzip it and cast it off to the side. Now less encumbered, Ansel pressed his chest against Hector's and his intensity encouraged Hector to recline fully on the sofa, pulling him down on top of him.

Although he lost himself once again for several blissful moments of wandering hands and passionate kissing, Hector's mind dropped back into the present when he felt a firm bulge pressing against his pelvis and cold fingers prying at the waistband of his pants. He made a muffled sound of protest and squirmed underneath Ansel’s weight.

“You okay?” he asked, pushing himself up.

“I just need a minute,” Hector said.

Ansel pulled away into a seated position back on the far end of the sofa. He didn’t seem upset, but he had withdrawn back into himself and was staring out the window with his arms folded tight against his body. Hector sat up and rearranged his shirt out of the rumpled mess it had become. The trite phrase It isn’t you, it’s me came to mind and he pushed it away with a frown.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Ansel asked.

“On the fire escape,” Hector said, indicating the window with his chin.

As Ansel clambered out the window, Hector didn’t half wonder whether he would just take the opportunity to run away, but he stayed leaning against the railing and lit a cigarette in the chill of the morning light. Hector chewed at a rough piece of fingernail while he watched, his mind racing with a hundred things he should say or do. When he judged Ansel was halfway finished with his smoke, he got up and crossed the room, leaning out the window.

“I’m trans,” he said.

Ansel acknowledged him by looking over his shoulder and nodding. “Ah,” he said.

Hector drummed his fingers against the window frame waiting for more, but he’d fallen silent again. “You do know what that means, right?”

With a bark of laughter, Ansel threw his head back before turning to fully face him. “I’m old but I ain’t ignorant.”

The tension between them melted palpably and Hector found himself giving half a smile in return. Still, he tapped his fingertips against the vinyl-coated wood and looked away to watch a car parking across the street. A cigarette appeared in his field of vision and he started visibly.

“You smoke?”

“I keep trying to quit,” Hector said, taking the proffered cigarette regardless. It was hand rolled and used a stronger tobacco than he was used to, and he only took one drag before handing it back.

Ansel finished it before speaking again. “It’s fine by me if’n you want a casual thing,” he reiterated, flicking the end of his cigarette off towards the street. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, I suspect, might as well have a little fun with it, right?”

Guilt gnawed at Hector like a caged rat. His eyes looked Ansel up and down for any hint of his inner thoughts, but the man had become as impassive as a stone. “It’s just—” he started, but held his tongue when Ansel turned to face him.

“Heck,” he said, and it took Hector a beat to realize it was intended to be his nickname. “Please.” Don’t make this complicated.

Resting his arms against the window frame, Hector said, “I’ll modify my wards so you’re allowed in without an invite. I keep weird hours.”

Ansel chuckled to himself and looked as if he was going to agree, but he screwed his face up in a grimace and turned away. “Baptiste is calling me.”

A half-dozen things sprang to mind for Hector to say, but he kept them all to himself. Ansel did a sweep of the empty street before hooking a leg over the railing of the fire escape and dropping to the ground far below. Scrambling out the window and gripping the railing tight, Hector caught a fleeting glance of his broad back as he rounded the corner and disappeared from his sight. 

A heavy weight in his stomach remained.

Part 19 >>>