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Overkill: Hunters of Ironport, #1
Overkill: Hunters of Ironport, #1
Overkill: Hunters of Ironport, #1
Ebook382 pages5 hoursHunters of Ironport

Overkill: Hunters of Ironport, #1

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Sometimes the hunter becomes the hunted.

Overworked, and underappreciated, Eric Marcelino just wants to hunt the vampires plaguing Ironport, keep his students out of the field, and somehow make it home in enough time to get a full 8 hours of sleep. . . maybe 6.

Tony McMahon and his sister arrive in Ironport looking for a fresh start. Only Tony didn't count on the instant attraction he feels toward the Huntsman's golden boy, Eric, nor being drawn into an ancient prophecy set to end the Huntsman forever.

Something strange is brewing in Ironport. With bloodsuckers, the Council of Creatures, and his students breathing down his neck, Eric has to wonder if he's in over his head and if a potential boyfriend might be the final nail in his coffin. This is gonna suck.

Overkill is a mm paranormal romance perfect for fans of Buffy, and DN Bryn's Guides for Vampires.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherMidnight Tide Publishing
Release dateDec 20, 2023
ISBN9798215230923
Overkill: Hunters of Ironport, #1
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    Overkill - Lou Wilham

    Welcome to Ironport, Maryland. We’ve got a bit of a vampire problem. With a click of a button on the keyboard, the PowerPoint slide shifted to a picture of a dark-haired man mid-lunge, stake held aloft. And that’s me, Eric⁠—

    The tiny classroom erupted in a series of annoyed groans, along with one very vehement Not this again.

    Shhh, Bert hissed, kicking Nik’s ankle from across the aisle, a movement Eric’s Venator sight could track even in the dark of the classroom. Let him finish.

    "He does this speech every semester," Kate grumbled, her head falling forward with a hard thunk against her desk.

    "And it gets better literally every time." Bert’s eyes were round with excitement, his jaw slack, and his hand already furiously taking notes.

    Well. At least someone is paying attention. Eric would count that as a win, however small.

    Are we done? Eric asked, lifting a hand to brush a bit of floppy dark brown hair back from his eyes.

    To be fair, the kids were right. Eric—Professor Marcelino—did do this speech at the start of every semester, meaning most of them had heard it at least a couple of times, if not more. Bert had heard it at least ten, but he seemed to relish it every time, and Eric couldn’t be more grateful for the one kid in his Venator—vampire hunters, to the layperson—class who seemed to think hunting vampires was actually cool. It wasn’t. Hunting vampires fucking sucked—pun not intended. But it was nice to get a bit of hero worship after so many years of being treated like a glorified exterminator.

    The sooner you let me finish, the sooner I hand out your syllabi and you can all fuck off back to the dorms.

    "Can he say that?" Chase whispered. He looked positively terrified of Eric and everything this class entailed, which probably had to do with the fact that he was one of the new kids—the other two would join them in a couple of days. It would have been funny if, you know, he wasn’t Eric’s best friend Hunter’s kid brother, and Eric didn’t hate himself a little more every day for how his class was growing. Three new students this semester; that was never a good sign. He hadn’t had a new student since Nik joined a couple years back, and before that it had been just Bert and Kate for what felt like decades.

    Everyone knew that the amount of Venator genes—a gene that only popped up in Huntsmen, a species of supernatural with slightly elevated abilities, but mostly still human—in a population was directly proportionate to the amount of vampire activity in an area. And with three new kids testing positive in a span of months? Something big was coming. At least none of them had active genes. Yet.

    Dude, he’s Eric Marcelino, Ironport’s longest living Venator. He can say whatever the fuck he wants, Bert informed Chase primly.

    Chase nodded as if that were a completely valid argument—or maybe he just didn’t want to have an argument with Bert, that was completely possible—and returned his attention to the PowerPoint.

    Please continue. Bert flapped a hand vaguely like a white knight or a politician yielding the floor, and Eric was gratified to find that the others were silent at least for the moment, giving him leave to return to his presentation.

    Like I was saying—Eric cleared his throat, standing up a little taller, trying to play into the hero Bert seemed to think he was—that’s me, Eric Marcelino, resident Venator, getting my ass handed to me as I struggled for the third night that week to get patrol done so I could get to bed at a reasonable hour. The picture was actually from a few years prior, when Eric had been younger and only slightly less good at the whole slaying-vampires thing. Not much had changed since then. Aside from a few gray hairs—which he pulled out immediately, and did not have an existential crisis over, thanks—and an investment in a really good mattress, but Eric still liked to pretend he’d learned something since turning thirty a couple years back. It made the whole crushing-weight-of-disappointment-from-his-parents thing less . . . crushing.

    It wouldn’t happen, he narrated, playing a video Hunter shot for him to show off to the kids that same year. God, he’d been such an arrogant asshole then, hadn’t he? Flipping his stake around and wiggling his hips like he was about to pitch a no-hitter. What a prick. "It never has. Not since I turned thirteen and the whole chosen one thing kicked in."

    Not really chosen one, so much as chosen few. Active Venator genes usually cropped up only one to a huge portion of the human population—like whole countries. There were two Venator the US for the last few years or so, but that was before kids in Ironport started testing positive like a chicken pox outbreak.

    But it’s always worth a try, Bert called, finishing Eric’s speech for him, and damn it if Eric didn’t feel his eyes burn a little at the warmth in his tone. Humbert Miller was a good kid. More family to Eric than his own blood had ever been. And something about his unwavering loyalty and faith in Eric always made the shit-show he called a life seem vaguely worth it.

    Vaguely.

    But it’s always worth a try, Eric repeated, fighting back the smile that threatened to spread over his face and crinkle his eyes. He really did not deserve that kid. Another click on the keyboard brought up a slide with the most recent vampire stats, courtesy of Hunter, and Eric cleared his throat to dislodge the fondness that settled there. But now that I’ve adjusted your perceptions of what it’s like to be a Venator, let’s talk about some statistics, shall we?

    More groaning followed, but Eric watched as each of his students picked up a pen or opened their laptop and started writing.

    All right, Eric said, clapping his hands together to regain everyone’s attention after a half hour of running through data that—if he were being honest—he didn’t really understand.

    Nik had fallen asleep in the back row. His head tilted back so far, his ball cap was falling loose, and at the noise of Eric’s clap he awoke with a loud snort that had the other kids giggling like they weren’t all approaching legal drinking age.

    That’s it, shitheads. Get outta here. Eric made a shooing motion with his hands, his eyes flicking to the time on his phone. It was getting late, too close to dark already with the way the winter sun sank so fast from the sky. Class dismissed or whatever.

    He didn’t have to tell them a third time. The room filled with the sounds of shuffled notebooks and zipped backpacks, and one muttered Shitheads? from Chase. Poor kid, he’d get used to it eventually. Or Eric hoped so, anyway. If not, Eric would probably have to suffer through another lecture about professionalism from Moondale U’s dean, Vanessa Cochburn—which was kind of hilarious given how the kids liked to pronounce her name. Not something he really wanted. She was a nice enough woman, a powerful witch, but every time he was called to her office it felt like being called in to see the principal all over again. Stirred up too many flashbacks for comfort—to schoolyard fights in high school and that disappointed look from his father.

    And remember, he said, forcing his mind away from the memory of how Daniel Marcelino would suck on his teeth right before he geared up to say something scathing to his son, on Monday we have two new students, and I expect you all to be⁠—

    Respectful and welcoming, the kids parroted his earlier words as they filed out.

    All except Bert. Who flicked on the lights from where he stood next to the door, bouncing on his toes like he might take flight at any moment. Fuck, how could one kid be so full of energy? A tightly wound spring just waiting for the moment to let loose. Was Eric ever like that? He didn’t think he had been. And if he was, his Venator gene had surely killed that part of him. Making him tired and achy 90 percent of the time, and too-caffeinated the other 10.

    Are you going on patrol tonight? Bert bounced more, his shoes squeaking against the polished floors. Eric huffed, resisting the urge to hang his head, and finished stuffing his laptop into his bag, crushing the power cord in the bottom.

    Of course I’m going on patrol tonight. The strap on his messenger bag cut into his skin where it was too close to the collar of his sweatshirt, but Eric didn’t bother adjusting it. I go on patrol every night. It’s in the job description.

    Can I⁠—

    No.

    Bert’s face fell for a moment, then he perked up, redoubling his efforts. Oh come on, Eric. I’m twenty, that’s gotta be⁠—

    After your performance in last semester’s final? Eric slanted Bert a look, his dark brows raised high enough they almost disappeared into his hair. Bert had the decency to blush at the mention of that particular debacle. Eric could still hear the startled yelp when the animatronic vampire leaped at Bert, knocking him to the ground. It had been funny until the damn thing short-circuited and caught fucking fire, almost burning Bert to a crisp with it. And then it wasn’t anymore. Not on your life, kid.

    But I’ve been practicing, Bert pleaded, picking up his pace so he could keep up with Eric’s longer stride to his car. It was fucking freezing out, but not cold enough to snow, a watery slush soaking in through his shoes. He hated that. Hated cold weather without a hint of a flurry. If it was going to be cold, it needed to fucking snow. Otherwise, it should be warm. Not that snow kept the vamps at bay, but at least it was pretty for a little while, and it caught his fall when one of them threw him off a roof—a not infrequent occurrence. All break. I swear.

    Good. The front door to his beat-up old beamer stuck a little in the cold, making Eric wish—not for the first time—that he hadn’t needed to buy a new laptop last year and could have bought a remote start instead. Well, there was always this year, he supposed. Provided nothing else broke. Which it would, if he’d learned anything at all about adulthood.

    Bert perked up. If he’d had a tail, it would be wagging, and Eric hated himself more for having to rip that out from under the kid. But it was for Bert’s own good. Bert was too young, too green, to be out there fighting vamps. And Eric didn’t have the resources to protect some kid along with covering his own ass.

    Funny how no one had bothered to protect him when he’d been too young and too green to go slaying. Not funny haha. They’d just handed him a stake, patted him on the butt, and sent him on his way. Good luck, Ricky, hope you don’t get sucked dry! We’re rooting for you!

    Then you’ll ace the midterm. He yanked the door shut before Bert could say anything else, leaving him standing there in the cold, his cheeks going pink and his upturned nose curled in frustration. But he didn’t try to pull the door open, and Eric counted that as a win as his car kicked on with a dull thunk, and he pulled out of the parking space.

    The wards spat him out when he left the mountains of Moondale U campus. They always did, as if he were a popcorn kernel in their teeth that they’d finally wriggled free. A nuisance. An annoyance. Not meant to be there. Which made sense, because they weren’t made for him. Not really. They were made for the kids and the nonmagical folk that lived there. Erected to protect a plot of land that was outside Moondale and thus didn’t benefit from the town’s magic. He wondered, regularly, why the Moondale Board of Magic didn’t extend the town’s borders to include it, but that might put them too close to Ironport. And he supposed no one wanted that. Which was . . . fair.

    Or maybe it had to do with ley lines, like Ava always said. Eric didn’t know enough about magic to bother with such knowledge. It was just one more thing to crowd the brain space he needed for fight styles and battle tactics, and besides, he couldn’t use magic anyway.

    Venator, for all they were magical creatures in their own right—adjacent to werewolves in some ways, and witches in others—didn’t possess the affinity to harness magic the way most others did. Some sort of cosmic joke, in his opinion. Create a species of hyper-sensitive warriors to combat the leech problem, but don’t give them magic. Noooo, that would be too much of an advantage. That would make too much sense.

    The stoplight blinked, flashing an eerie red glow on the single road that led from Ironport to Moondale, and curved around Moondale U. One way in. One way out. Easier to defend. He glanced back in his rearview once to see the mountains that Moondale U sat nestled between, then pulled through the light without even really looking to make sure nothing was coming.

    Beyond the trees, lights twinkled to life, blotting out the stars with their own miniature galaxies. Buildings grew out of a flat space of land, more swamp than prairie probably, the skyline so different from Moondale, it made Eric ache a little. Moondale had maintained its small-town charm, not allowing for big businesses and too much modernization, but Ironport was a whole different beast. All industrialization and chains. Densely packed in some areas like a city—particularly in sections where the bars, restaurants, and clubs were—and spread out in others. It was a strange place. Not a city. Not a town. Not anything really. But it was where Eric Marcelino had been born and bred.

    Eric pressed down harder on the gas petal as he pulled into Ironport.

    There were a few places vamps liked to congregate in particular: abandoned buildings and busy hospitals were high up on the list, but most of the time they went where the people were—like the Little Mermaid. Following their instincts to the easiest hunting grounds. Which meant only one thing for Eric: another night at the clubs.

    Fuck. He was too old for this shit. Maybe this is why Venator didn’t usually live past twenty-five.

    It took him approximately ten minutes to find a parking spot along the strip of bars Ironport liked to pretend was some kind of party district, change out of his stuffy professor clothes into something more likely to get him in through the front door, and take a pre-emptive dose of ibuprofen. Pulling the collar up on his shirt, he hoped to whatever gods were listening that the line wasn’t too long. The sooner he got in, the sooner he could feel the place out.

    The question was . . . where to start?

    His hands stuffed into his pockets, Eric hummed to himself, eyes flicking over the crowd of twenty-somethings stumbling from one bar to the next, completely unaware or uncaring of the danger they put themselves in.

    It was an innate thing, something in the blood or the genes or whatever—Hunter had tried to explain it once, but there had been a lot of science-y words Eric didn’t know so he’d kind of stopped listening—that let a Venator hunt vampires. A special sense no one else had. And as Eric stood, waiting, the hair on his arms raised in a way that wasn’t strictly from the chill late-January air.

    The hum of awareness he was never quite able to explain, even to his class, guided his eyes to a bar down the row. Gotcha, you sonuvabitch.

    There was a small line outside, but as Eric’s gaze flicked over the people, it was easy to see that none of them were the source of the threat. Inside, then. Well, at least that meant he could warm up a little before having to fight.

    Jogging across the street, he headed for the entrance, putting on his best smile for the guy at the door. A shift in the man’s face told Eric that the Venator charm had worked again, and he tried to ignore the way his gut churned with it. That particular ability was too close to how the vamps lured their prey, and he hated it. Hated how easy it had made life at one point in time for him. Hated how it made him feel like a predator.

    Almost as soon as he brushed past the bouncer, the smell hit him square in the face—another gift from his active Venator gene and heightened senses. Metallic and rank. Death. Decay. Blood. It hovered over top the scent of alcohol and sweat, so thick he was surprised no one else could smell it. Maybe if there was a were-creature present, they would have, but as far as he could tell, these were all humans. Normies.

    Eric closed his eyes, gave himself a moment to focus on the tingle on his skin and the thickness of death in the air. Based on the hum against his skin’s intensity, there was one vamp, maybe two. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Easy. But the scent? There were at least four separate layers to it that he could pick apart like notes in a perfume. A mama vamp, then. Out on the hunt for their brood.

    Fuck, but those were the worst, weren’t they? Because they were just doing what came naturally to them. Just following their instincts and trying to keep their children alive. Kind of like him and his class.

    A long slow breath left him, and he opened his eyes to peer through the murky darkness of the club, letting the crowd carry him toward the bar. It didn’t take long to find the vampire in the room of humans. Their stillness gave them away, something no living creature could mimic even if they tried, because breathing was a thing. They were leaning over a short ginger with a smile stretched dopey-soft across her full lips, the vamp’s long blond hair curtaining their face so Eric couldn’t make out any identifying features.

    Two options, that’s all he had.

    Option one: go drag the bitch out into the alley and stake them there.

    Option two: hang back, wait a bit, and hope they hauled their prey back to the nest.

    He knew which the Huntsmen code dictated: the lives of the few were a fine sacrifice for the needs of the many. But the thought of letting the pretty little ginger die just because she wanted some action didn’t sit right with him. Wavering, instincts warring against duty, Eric shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

    Before he could say fuck it and go with his gut, the choice was made for him. The pair slunk toward an exit near the bathrooms. And he cut through the crowd to follow them.

    The nest it was.

    With Miami—and everything it represented—in the rearview, Tony McMahon’s shoulders unhitched from where they’d been up around his ears for what felt like decades. He slumped back into the driver’s seat, fingers drumming against the wheel to the music. The world lay ahead of him and Lu. Well, maybe not the world, maybe just Ironport, Maryland. But still. It was a fresh town. A fresh school for Lu. Fresh leeches for Tony to hunt.

    A fresh start, hopefully, for both of them.

    Still can’t believe you wouldn’t let me drive, Lu muttered, grumpy. She’d curled her legs up into the seat with her after kicking off her shoes, because fuck if Tony was going to let anyone, not even his baby sister, put their shoes on his leather interior.

    We’ll be there in less than an hour, there’s no point. That wasn’t really why he hadn’t let her drive, and they both knew it. Because if that were why then he’d have let her take a leg at some point during the fifteen, almost sixteen, hours it took for them to get from Miami to Maryland. ’sides—he sniffed, rubbing at his running nose. Fuck, it was cold this far north. He missed the heat of Miami already—no one’s getting to play with Harry Styles’s gear shift ’cept me.

    Lu made a gagging noise, curling over her knees as if she were going to throw up on Tony’s impeccably clean floor mats, but he could see her lips curving into a smile. You’re so fucking gross.

    Wiggling his eyebrows for effect, Tony had to press his tongue between his teeth to choke back the laugh crawling up his throat. It was good to be like this with Lu again. To see her happy. To know she was safe, at least in the most basic sense. He couldn’t protect her from everything, he knew that, but he’d be damned if he let anyone touch her the way⁠—

    No. He shook himself, forcing that man, the one who had the audacity to call himself their father, from his mind. He wasn’t doing that. Ironport was a fresh start. A way to put distance between themselves and the life they’d lived in that house before that man died. Declan Brenner’s shadow had hung over them for seven long years while Tony worked through the process of adopting his sister, paying off Declan’s debts, and saving enough money to get them the fuck out of there. But they were free now, and he wasn’t going to let the bastard ruin it.

    We should get into town just before dark, Tony said, needing the conversation, however monotonous, to keep his brain on track.

    A hum came from the passenger seat, and Lu threw herself back against the headrest again, turning her head to look at him through the tangle of red hair she refused to so much as fucking braid. You gonna go out on patrol?

    Don’t see any reason not to. He sucked on his teeth, pressing his tongue into one pointed canine. The need to fight, to hunt, to slay, sat like an itch under his skin. More than once during the trip up, he swore he was breaking out in hives from the sheer inaction of sitting in a car for hours. Lu checked his back for him, told him to stop being a fucking baby, and for the love of the Goddess to stop itching or he really would have a rash. But there had been no hives. No outward sign of the jittery, unsettled nerves lingering too close to his marrow.

    In retrospect, the fact that he’d only stopped wearing a binder a few months ago, after his top surgery, probably didn’t help. Thank the Goddess for Venator healing, or he probably wouldn’t have felt like making the trip at all for at least another few weeks. But it left him with an uneasy feeling of not being held together. The skin where his binder usually sat now too exposed to the elements. He sniffed again. Gotta get the lay of the land, and all that.

    Right. Lu snorted, her fingers tapping an unsteady beat against her knees. The lay of the land.

    I don’t know what you’re talking about. But it sounded forced, even to him, a hint of aggravation at being called out by his sister adding bite to the words that wouldn’t otherwise be there if he were, in fact, totally innocent. He gripped the wheel a little tighter, fingers flexing.

    Lu, however, was taking none of his shit, as usual. Cause this has nothing at all to do with my new teacher.

    New teacher?

    Green eyes, so much like his, so much like their mom’s, narrowed under thick red brows as Lu stared him down, unblinking.

    Fine, Tony said, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek where a scar lingered, if only to prolong the inevitable. Maybe I wanna feel this—this King Ricky guy, out.

    King Ricky? Lu scoffed, turning back to look out the window again. The fuck does that mean?

    Come on Lu, I know you know what I’m talking about. The leather creaked under him where he shifted in his seat. It was embarrassing to be so fucking transparent to his sister. It sent heat crawling up his neck and trickling out across his cheeks. Maybe she wouldn’t say it. Maybe she wouldn’t point out how Tony had taken one look at Eric Marcelino’s picture and decided he wanted nothing more than to see how good he was in a fight. To know what that neatly coiffed head of hair looked like after it’d been mussed up. He’d look good bloody, Tony had little doubt.

    Before Lu could turn back to him and fix him with that look like she could see down into his very fucking soul, knew all his dirty little secrets—fucking sisters, man—he pressed, He’s the oldest living Venator in at least a century.

    He was, also, cursed if his file in the Huntsmen database was to be believed. Some prophecy about being the last of the Marcelino Venator family line, or some shit. Honestly, Tony kind of skimmed that bit; it wasn’t as interesting as checking out Marcelino’s slay average. Which was only a couple points higher than his own, to Tony’s delight, in spite of their age difference.

    Yeah, she said, short, clipped, disbelieving. Sure. That’s why.

    But she didn’t call him on his shit for once, and Tony was able to relax back into the drive.

    What’s with the crab billboards? Lu asked, a laugh on her lips.

    Fuck if I know, Tony muttered, squinting at one that appeared to be from PETA that said something like I’m ME, not meat. See the individual, go vegan. followed by another from a seafood restaurant of some kind that said Savor the sacrifice. See the individual put Old Bay on it.

    Marylanders are fucking wild. Lu pulled her phone out of her lap to take a couple of pictures.

    Tony grunted his agreement.

    They pulled up outside of the townhouse Tony rented for them as the last rays of the sun set the sky on fire, streetlights kicking on. 201 Crescent Lane,

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