Fresh Kill: Hunters of Ironport, #2

Inaction buzzed along Tony’s nerves, making his skin feel too tight. It manifested in the jittering of his right leg, the heel bouncing up and down just above the floor hard enough to make the water in their glasses vibrate on the table. If he bounced it a little harder, they might spill over. The water. His nerves. All of it. Rise to a boiling point that would make him look like a complete dumbass.

Why had he even come to this fucking dinner? It wasn’t like he had anything to offer to the conversation. And he certainly wasn’t making Dash look good by acting like a child who couldn’t sit still.

His collar was too tight, and the polished shoes Dash had picked out for him pinched his toes. Trapped in his own skin, that’s what Tony was. A vice had formed around his lungs tighter than any binder he had ever worn. He couldn’t breathe, and he was starting to grow dizzy.

Dash reached down beneath the tablecloth to squeeze Tony’s knee. His hand was dry and cool, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he did meetings like these every day.

Well. He was the mayor’s brother, so he probably did. But that didn’t make Tony any less stressed out. Because fuck, he was the mayor’s brother. And so far out of Tony’s league, he wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten Dash to agree to that first date a couple months back.

Trauma bonding, probably. Shit like that happened to people who had been in life-or-death situations together. It didn’t change the fact that Tony wasn’t worthy of Dash’s notice.

He kind of missed the easiness of spending time with Marcelino. How they’d been able to just hang out and shoot the shit—even if missing someone who’d left him to fucking die left a bitter taste in his mouth. Things weren’t like that with Dash. Everything with Dash felt . . . loaded.

You need to calm down, Dash murmured, his grip tightening on Tony’s knee enough that Tony could feel his nails through his immaculately pressed slacks. They were Dash’s slacks, actually. Tony didn’t own slacks. He’d never had a need for them.

It’s dark out. It had been dark out for a solid hour at that point. It was early spring, the days were still short, and that meant Tony shouldn’t be sitting at a table-clothed table wondering which fucking fork was the salad fork. He should be out in the cool night air, following his nose to the nearest undead thing. He had a fucking job to do.

Dash’s gaze flicked over to the couple on the other side of the table. Tony hadn’t caught their names, but he had caught their professions. A doctor, and a lawyer. Fucking power couples. How did that even work? They both had to work really long hours, right? When did they see each other? Second thought. Maybe that was how it worked. They just never saw each other, except at dinners with the mayor’s brother where they put their best face forward.

Charlie, Jake, would you please excuse us? Dash didn’t wait for their agreement. He rose and held his hand out to Tony, a silent command that Tony was helpless not to heed.

There was no ignoring Dashfield B.M. Chadwick when he looked at Tony like that, all glittering eyes and mouth turned up in a slight smile. So, Tony went willingly. Let Dash lead him away from the table toward the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant, then into a little alcove tucked away where no one could see or hear them. Tony was hemmed in, his back to the corner, goosebumps rising along his skin. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not—the feeling of Dash looming over him like a predator. On one hand, it was kind of sexy. On the other, Tony was very much unused to being prey.

What’s this all about? Dash pressed, straightening himself up further as if he needed to emphasize the few scant inches he was taller than Tony. The feeling of being smaller didn’t make Tony feel safer in this circumstance, the way it had with Marcelino. Why was Tony still comparing the two? Is this about Eric?

That might be why he couldn’t stop thinking about Marcelino. Because Dash kept fucking bringing him up, like some jealous asshole. Which was stupid. Tony had hardly spoken to Marcelino in the months since Britt’s funeral, not even via text. They’d found a way to avoid each other while out on patrol, each sticking to their own side of Ironport. A feat achieved only through Lu and Finn’s interference.

No. At least, not entirely, Tony didn’t add. Having a fight in the middle of a fancy restaurant that required collared shirts was probably not the best thing for his relationship, or Dash’s image, so Tony decided to keep that last bit to himself. I just feel like I should be doing something.

"Doing what, exactly?" Dash asked. He brushed a strand of Tony’s long strawberry-blond hair back behind one pierced ear, his fingers lingering, cool and shiver-inducing, along Tony’s skin.

Hunting. It came out breathier than Tony intended it to, and he realized how close they were all of the sudden. Dash leaned in, bracing his weight on one hand behind Tony’s head, and Tony shifted backward, his neck craned to give Dash the best possible view of his throat. Fuck. He was hard up for it, wasn’t he? He needed to get fucking laid. I should be out on patrol.

Dash tilted his head, more birdlike than confused puppy, and not half as cute as it should be. His blue eyes narrowed, tongue poking out to lick his lips. Definitely not cute. Sexy, maybe. Interest zinged along Tony’s nerves, heading south.

You worry too much, Dash said, his voice soft, just this side of chiding. Let Eric take care of things for a bit. You’re allowed to have a night out.

It sounded true, when he said it that way. Tony found himself relaxing back against the wall, his muscles loosening as Dash’s voice washed over him like a siren’s call.

Besides, there haven’t been any attacks in months. Not since Eric took out that nest. Dash hummed, his fingers lifting to trace along the length of Tony’s neck, nails scraping light enough to not leave marks, but hard enough for Tony to feel the pressure of them right down to his toes. Eric doesn’t need your help.

Tony flinched, the words stinging. But . . . Dash was right. Marcelino didn’t need him. He’d been doing fine before Tony showed up to Ironport, and since Marcelino and his team had taken out that nest, things had been quiet. Tony couldn’t really blame Marcelino for not wanting to go out on patrol with him, not after what happened. He was a liability. Likely to drag Marcelino down and get someone hurt. Couple that with the fact that Tony couldn’t fucking trust Marcelino to have his back, and it didn’t make sense for them to work together as a team. Not when the threat levels were low and Marcelino was so clearly capable of dealing with the leeches on his own.

Let’s just go back to dinner, Tony said, trying to hide the way his eyes burned a little with unshed tears. Why was he crying? He didn’t need Eric Marcelino or his friendship or anything else. He didn’t need anyone. Least of all some stuck-up pretty boy Venator who had left him for the vampires to feast on for what felt like weeks.

Dash sighed, the air blowing too cold against Tony’s neck where Dash’s mouth had gotten impossibly close. When had he closed that distance? Tony’s head was swimming a little with the darkness of the alcove and the smell of Dash’s expensive cologne. He wondered if Dash would be okay with making out in the bathrooms for a bit. Just to take the edge off. Probably not. He never seemed up for PDA, at least not to the degree that Tony was.

"You’re allowed to have time for you," Dash murmured against the skin of Tony’s neck, brushing first cool lips, then his tongue along the spot at the hinge of Tony’s jaw. He shivered. Leaned into the contact. He needed more. He’d been needing more for months now. But every time they got close to that, Dash pulled back. Strung him along a little more.

I know that. He did. Sort of. Tony knew that Dash kept saying it, giving him what felt like explicit permission to take time off, to focus on himself. Especially after the attack, he would say, and every time he did Tony was back in that room, the dark closing in on him, reminded of how helpless he was. It made the words hit harder. But still, in the back of his mind lingered a voice that said he wasn’t good for anything other than slaying. It sounded oddly like his father. He gave himself a mental shake, hoping to clear it the way one might an Etch A Sketch.

Well, even if you don’t seem to believe me—Dash’s lips twitched up into a smile that should have been kind but showed a little too much teeth—I’ll keep saying it until you do.

Tony grumbled but let Dash reach down, take his hand, and lift it to his mouth where he pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Tony’s wrist. A gentle nip at the tender skin made Tony’s toes curl and his head go fuzzy. His body relaxed entirely, all thoughts of patrol and Eric slipping away as Dash sucked a bruise into the spot. A strangled sound left Tony, his body all but slumping against the wall and nearly sliding down it.

There, that’s better, isn’t it? Dash’s voice floated through Tony’s brain, warm and syrupy sweet. Good boy.

The soft words startled a moan out of Tony, and he turned to putty in Dash’s hands. Dash said something else, another instruction probably, then he pulled Tony away from the wall and back into the main dining room.

Are you high right now? Lu asked, her green eyes narrowed on him where he leaned against the frame of her bedroom door.

He’d only meant to check on her and tell her to shut her fucking light off. It was past ten and she had school in the morning. But after a night with Dash, he felt slow and languid. So he pressed his weight into the door to watch his little sister where she was on her bed, head bent over a textbook. She looked peaceful.

No, he answered after perhaps a moment too long of staring at her, trying to catch up with what she’d asked him.

Lu snorted.

Why?

Lu ducked her head back to her textbook as if by avoiding eye contact she could avoid the fight brewing between them. Fat chance. It had been brewing for weeks now. Not that Tony knew why. Maybe they were both on edge with the lack of activity? Or maybe it was the fact that he was pent up, needing to get laid? Maybe Tony’s discontent and anxiety were rubbing off on Lu? There was no way to really tell.

"You always seem to come back high when you go out with him," she said to her textbook, not even attempting to hide how she felt about Dash. Not that he didn’t already know. Lu was never the type to hide her feelings, and when she’d learned that Tony and Marcelino were officially over, she’d been nothing if not vocal about how absolutely stupid she thought Tony was about this whole thing. She’d also wanted answers he didn’t have. It all played out oddly like a divorce might on TV. Which was just fucking weird. He’d only been sleeping with Marcelino for a couple of weeks, and they hadn’t been anything more than that. At least not officially.

Maybe I’m just happy. Was he though? He couldn’t really tell.

You were never like this with Eric.

Maybe I wasn’t happy with Marcelino. But that didn’t feel right, and he couldn’t explain why. His time with Marcelino was blurry, hazed over by the immediacy of the threat looming over them, and the trauma that came after it. Tony wasn’t sure what had been real and what he was making up anymore. Maybe all of it.

Bullshit. Lu cut him a hard look, her lips pursed. I’ve never seen you⁠—

Well it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it, Lu? It’s over.

Yeah but⁠—

Go the fuck to bed. It’s late. He turned on his heel and headed for his own room. The need to get out, to beat the shit out of something, taking hold of his muscles again. Dash said Marcelino didn’t need him out on patrol. Dash told him to take a night off. And maybe Dash was right, but what Dash didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him.

The blood was tacky under Hunter’s shoes, making his feet stick to the ground.

Gluing him in place.

No escape.

No way out.

The metallic scent of it got caught in his nose. Burned his eyes.

His vision turned blurry, watery, but somehow, he could still see Britt lying in the middle of the floor, floating in a pool of something so deep red in color it almost looked black. She was clear as day. Sharp, and crisp. While everything else around her blurred and muddled together like a rainy window.

But her face—pale and pained—her face was so fucking clear.

A scream clawed up his throat. Dug its talons into his gums.

Something dropped, ripping Hunter out of that world, out of that place, and back to where he’d been double checking the bag Eric used for hunting. His hands shook, tight around the zipper, sweaty and slick enough that he almost lost his grip. And a streak of hot tears slid down his cheek, spattering his glasses in droplets. With the back of his hand, he hastily rubbed them away and focused again on the contents of the duffle.

Stakes.

Silver garrote.

Baseball bat.

Emergency medical supplies.

It looked like Eric’s pack for the night had just about everything. Why did Hunter feel like something was missing? Had he charged the earbuds Eric would need to stay in contact with home base? Damn it. He couldn’t remember. Not that Eric had really needed the backup over the last couple of months. But the night he didn’t have easy access to it would be the night he needed it. That was Murphy’s Law.

Hun, where are my keys? Eric asked, coming into the study from the kitchen, a Pop Tart dangling from his fingers.

Next to the door. Did you eat dinner?

Eric waggled the Pop Tart through the air in answer.

That’s not dinner. Hunter sighed, his head hanging over the duffle bag he was currently digging through, long black hair falling into his eyes. Did you at least feed the kids?

Of course, I fed the kids! What sort of dorm parent do you think I am? The affronted set to Eric’s mouth was particularly kissable. Hunter shook himself, forcing his gaze back to the bag. What the fuck was wrong with him? Britt wasn’t even cold in the ground—in a manner of speaking—and he shouldn’t be looking at other people. He should be mourning. He was mourning. Still aching all over when he thought of Britt. He didn’t think that feeling would ever go away. It would settle in his joints and stay there until the day he died, like arthritis or rheumatism. But it was easier to ignore, to think past, when Hunter was faced with Eric and his bright smiles, and his too-big honey-brown eyes.

Goddess, he was fucked up, wasn’t he? Using his best friend to forget his dead wife. Yeah. Definitely fucked up. He was going to be struck down for this, sent to the worst parts of the After when he died. And he’d deserve it too. He was the absolute fucking worst.

Eric! Eric! Eric! Bert’s voice broke through Hunter’s self-flagellation and drew his attention to where Bert stood in the door holding his tablet, his round face bright. Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter saw Eric’s head jerk away from where he’d been watching Hunter to focus on Bert as well.

What’s up, buddy? Eric turned to face Bert more, brushing the crumbs from his Pop Tart on his thighs before his hands settled on his hips, the movement stretching his sweatshirt tight across his chest.

Are we interrupting something? Lu frowned, her red head coming into view behind Bert, arms crossed over her chest, her tone unreadable. She’d been around more often these days, and Hunter kind of wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask if it was because Tony was dating Dash Chadwick? Or if there was something else going on? But every time he geared up to check in with her—which wasn’t his job, he knew that, it was Eric’s, Hunter just couldn’t keep himself from seeing the kids as his own the way Eric did sometimes, and wanting to make sure they were okay—she’d quickly distract him with something else. She’d bring up some project she was working on, or excuse herself to head to the library and work on homework. It was unsettling. He half thought about calling Tony and asking, but that didn’t seem a good idea.

Nothing. Eric was just looking for his keys. Hunter zipped up the duffle bag, ignoring the heat of Lu’s stare on the side of his face. She was too observant by half, had probably learned that shit from Tony. Damn Venator. Thankfully, Eric was fucking oblivious—at least where people who were attracted to him were concerned—or Hunter would probably be in real trouble.

They’re by the door, where they always are, Lu said, her green eyes narrowing further on them, flicking between Hunter and Eric like she could see the weird tension that had slowly built between them over the last few weeks. Hunter shifted—his bare toes curling in the rug beneath him, catching on the thick fibers to keep himself grounded—and prayed nothing showed on his face. Lu would say something if it did. She was like that.

Right. Silly me. Eric laughed, the sound too high, a little forced, but when Hunter looked to try to figure out what the fuck that was about, Eric had turned his back entirely on Hunter. So what was it you guys needed?

Lu and I were just going over the latest vampire migratory data, and what we’ve been able to get off the Ghost Tracer. Bert bounced on his toes, his short dark curls bouncing with him. He looked for all the world like a puppy who wanted a treat for a job well done. It was kind of adorable. We know the negative energy readings won’t necessarily correlate to vamp activity, but we were thinking maybe you should . . .

Bert’s voice faded to the background of Hunter’s awareness as he went back to digging through the pockets along the sides of the bag, pulling out the earbuds and checking the charge.

Not that they really needed the kids to go over the Ghost Tracer data—Hunter had already spent a couple of hours doing it himself. He had planned out Eric’s patrol route for the evening down to the minute, because he was neurotic that way, and if he couldn’t go with Eric to protect him, this was the least he could do. It helped him to feel slightly less powerless. Only slightly. Maybe if he joined a coven, he’d have enough power to really act as an asset to Eric and his team of baby Venator . . .

But he couldn’t join the coven in Ironport; he refused to be beholden to fucking Connor. That left him very few options. Maybe he should look into the covens in Moondale again? He hadn’t been desperate enough for all that when he’d come of age a decade ago. He thought he could do it all on his own, arrogant little sod that he’d been. But the power imbalance between him and Eric was becoming more obvious every night Hunter helped Eric pack up his gear and sent him off with not more than a prayer to the Goddess that he’d make it back to campus in one piece.

He still had nightmares about the night a vampire had gotten onto campus and stabbed Eric in the stomach. About holding Britt while she slipped away in his arms. About a vampire grabbing him through dry wall and ripping him into a floor littered in bodies and covered in blood.

Yeah, he’d definitely have to do some digging.

And maybe see about going to therapy too, fuck.

Great, this lines up perfectly with the route Hunter picked for me, Eric was saying when Hunter tuned back in to the conversation. A note of pride colored his tone, but Hunter wasn’t sure if that was for the kids or for his research. Probably for the kids. Why would Eric be proud of him? Wishful thinking, that’s what that was. Being starved for affection.

Hunter needed to get the fuck out of this house before he did something intolerably stupid. But where would he go? Back to the apartment he’d shared with Britt? No. That didn’t . . . No. He didn’t want to do that. The halls rang too loudly with memories. He hadn’t been back except to pick up his things since the night it happened. Since the night he lost her. Eric had suggested he stay, and fuck him, Hunter had stayed. It was easier to distance himself from that place. And besides, it wasn’t like he was sharing a place with just Eric. There were the kids too.

Hun. Eric had leaned into his space a little more, bent over so he could force Hunter to meet his eyes where he was staring listlessly at the duffle bag under his hands. You good?

Not really.

I don’t want you to go out tonight.

I’ve got this horrible feeling that you won’t come back.

The nightmares were worse last night. Blood coating my hands. People dying. You dying. What will I do if I lose you too?

All good, Hunter lied. I’m just gonna pop this in your trunk.

Eric tilted his head, his lips lifting upward in a little smile. I could make a dirty joke about that.

Probably better if you don’t. The duffle scraped across the table as Hunter lifted it by the strap onto his shoulder. It was heavier than he’d been expecting, and he tilted slightly under the weight. Which was, unfortunately, not enough to completely distract him from the way Eric’s face fell at his comment. He turned, putting distance between himself and the disappointment that settled in the air between them. You should eat something before you go out.

Eric wrinkled his nose. I don’t like doing a heavy meal before patrol. Makes me feel weighed down.

You don’t like eating a heavy meal right before bed either. But if you don’t eat a real dinner, you’ll wind up with a migraine tomorrow, and then you’ll be fucking unbearable. Hunter would know, he’d been the one to treat Eric’s most recent bout of migraines. Which seemed more frequent without Britt there to remind Eric to take his fucking meds and fill his prescriptions when they ran out. Goddess, he missed her. Eat something.

"I’m not that bad." Eric huffed, following Hunter through the house and out into the cool spring air. He didn’t even flinch at the section of concrete Hunter and Ava hadn’t been able to get clean yet, Eric’s blood still staining the sidewalk where the vampire had stabbed him.

Hunter wasn’t so strong, his stride going purposefully long to step over the spot, like he could get blood on the sneakers he’d slipped on at the door. He couldn’t. It was entirely dry. Had been dry for weeks. But it was still there, and the memory of that night would probably stay fresh in Hunter’s mind at least until it was gone. The dreams weren’t helping.

I’m not, Eric insisted when Hunter didn’t respond.

Hunter snorted. You definitely are. You get all whiny, and needy.

The trunk to Eric’s beamer popped open on its own, and Hunter brushed past the mostly repaired back passenger-side panel. The bend from where Eric had been slammed against it was popped out, but the paint job to protect it from rust didn’t match with the rest of the forest green. It was two shades too light. Hunter had already drawn attention to it once, and it’d bitten him in the ass.

You like it, Eric teased, leaning his hip against the passenger-side rear quarter panel, his eyes sparkling in the fading spring light.

Swallowing around a dry throat, Hunter hid his face behind the trunk lid, hoping to hell Eric didn’t see how flushed it was becoming. He did like it when Eric was like that. He liked taking care of people. He liked taking care of Eric in particular. I have better shit to do than babying a grown man.

Eric hummed softly but didn’t argue. Definitely better if he didn’t. There was a certain amount of flirting that happened when they argued, and Hunter just . . . he just wasn’t ready for that. Or maybe he was too ready for it. What the fuck was wrong with him?

I think I’m gonna go to Spin a Yarn. Do you need anything? Maybe Ava could talk some sense into him. Or at least listen to him bitch about how Eric strutted around in those ridiculously soft pajama pants that made Hunter want to rub his face