XVII
Sucking down another cigarette as if it could remove the memory of Baptiste’s blood in his mouth, Ansel’s gaze was settled on the stretch of highway before him. Glistening with the sheen of the night’s earlier rain, it had transformed into an inky black river reflecting the yellowed streetlights above.
A pair of headlights cut through the darkness and blinded him to the night, illuminating his pale figure like a spectre haunting the side of the road. The police cruiser veered close enough to Ansel that he felt the sharp rocks and debris pelting him in the face as they were kicked up by the tires. Unmoving, he stared at the vehicle as the door swung open and Cutter’s sour expression glared at him.
Dog glared back.
For a myriad of reasons, it was rare that Cutter initiated a meeting with him. If anyone should be pissed it was Dog, but from the way the sheriff slammed the door shut, Cutter was in a far worse mood.
“I thought your boy wasn’t gonna be my problem anymore,” Cutter fumed, stalking around the front of the car.
There were precious few people on God’s green earth Dog answered to, and John Cutter wasn’t one of them. Dog’s only response was a half-hearted shrug. “He making trouble again?”
Cutter was close enough that the scent of liquor on his breath sparked a deep longing in Dog. “He broke a fucking shop window,” he said. “He smashed the clerk’s head in and tried to burn the store down.”
That gave Dog genuine pause. “Malczyn did?” His impression of the man had been meek as a kitten, but he supposed any cornered animal could bite.
“He’s gone fucking insane, and he’s talking.”
Blood froze in Dog's veins. “What’s he saying?”
“A monster’s trying to kill him. Something about a man with a sword. What the fuck, Dog? What did you do to him? Did you fry his brain or some shit?”
Dog’s stomach dropped like a stone. “Well I didn’t pull a fucking sword on him,” he deflected, cold sweat forming on his forehead.
"No shit," Cutter sneered, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it with a harsh flick of his wrist.
Like a collar tightening around his throat, the order Tell me what Cutter wishes to discuss with you tugged at Dog. Unable to disobey, he opened his telepathic link to Baptiste.
Cutter says Malczyn got himself arrested. He's talking about me and the Hunter.
At his side, Cutter stewed in silence, recognizing the distant look on Dog's face for what it was. Puffing on his cigarette, Cutter folded his arms tight against himself.
Baptiste was slow to respond, but the faint buzzing in the back of Dog's mind told him the man had been contemplating his answer. Tell him about the Hunter. Their paths may cross and Cutter needs to know.
Rolling his head on his neck, Dog waited for the buzzing to leave him before speaking. "The swordsman is real," he said, crushing his own cigarette out under the heel of his boot. "A Hunter."
With a wrinkle of his nose, Cutter studied Dog's eyes, his pulse deadened by the alcohol in his system. "What's he hunt?"
"Us."
Cutter snorted, a plume of smoke erupting from his nose. "You, maybe."
"He ain't a joke," Dog said, jabbing a finger at Cutter for emphasis. "Hunters are divine magic users with a warped sense of justice. You're just as likely to end up on the end of that blade as I am."
“Thanks for your concern,” Cutter jeered. “What’s he look like?”
“Tall,” Dog said, without hesitation. “Light brown complexion. Dark, curly hair.” He couldn’t feign ignorance, this memory could be tapped at any time; omitting even the basic details he’d eventually given up to Baptiste would be too dangerous.
Cutter wasn’t as drunk as he’d hoped and as he studied the man’s eyes, they widened minutely although he jerked his head off to the side to mask his look of recognition. “I’ll have to keep an eye out,” he said. “What are you gonna do about your boy?”
Dog’s sidelong glance over at Cutter left no room for misinterpretation. “You got him in a chair?”
“Not yet,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. “I told you about making a mess— ”
“I don’t give a shit,” Dog growled, rounding on him. “I don’t take orders from you.”
Whether it was the drink or the stress getting to him, Cutter popped off. A solid left hook connected squarely to Dog’s jaw, the weight of his fist focused entirely on the heavy stone of his class ring. Dog stumbled backwards in surprise, bone splintering and mending in an instant, and he flared with anger.
Cutter’s handgun was as sleek and dark as the road beside them and even colder than the night air when he pressed it to Dog’s chin. For a moment everything else fell away and the world became the scent of oil on metal, Cutter’s ragged panting, and the chaotic thrum of his pulse in Dog’s eyes as he stared him down.
He could loose his Thirst, take him over in an instant, but even with his life on the line he held back. Maybe a bullet would do the trick, maybe it would be enough. He’d mercy killed a thrall that way himself a hundred years before.
Dog suppressed the urge to flinch and force Cutter's hand.
"I don't take orders from anybody," Cutter said, at last. "I've got a partnership with your boss, I'm not his bitch." The muzzle of the gun dug harder into Dog's flesh and Cutter pushed his head away with it before holstering it.
His words made Dog's teeth itch. "It'll probably go down tonight," he said, taking a step back. Like a flash fire, once the tension between the two men had flared, it dissipated and left only a smoldering heat in its wake. "If’n you don’t want it to be in your cells, do what you gotta to make it work."
Slipping his skin, Dog morphed into his canid form and disappeared into the undergrowth beside the road. He watched Cutter for a beat longer — the man shrugging off the experience like it was a crick in his neck — before turning tail back to the mansion.