“You're just a big old teddy bear under there.” My smirk was smug. “A softie.”
Hart raised a brow and said nothing.
“Still not a big talker?” I chattered away as he directed us down the path. “That’s okay, Marmalade. I can talk enough for the both of us.”
Halfway down the path, Callum Hart had to take control of the route as I had no idea where I was going. He said nothing, but his lip tightened.
Hart had been on Frankie’s team over a year ago. I hadn’t known that. Her memory had only supplied a name. He had been closer to her than any other Hunter, apart from Daniel. Even though it was a professional relationship, it was evident that the Sarge knew my host, and he knew that her behavior was strange.
There wasn’t much I could do at that point. Typically, I retained access to my host’s mind, but Frankie was gone gone gone. I couldn’t autopilot and let her mouth do the talking while I hitched a ride. That had never happened to me before. I was well and truly on my own.
Hart opened the door to one of the grey Lego block buildings that I had never entered before. As soon as I stepped onto the worn linoleum, the harsh snap of gunshots and the smell of gunpowder burnt my nostrils.
I had not spent much time around firearms in my life. I was intrigued by them. Humans used bang sticks to kill each other. Demons had no use for such things. Hart strode over to the sign-in sheet. His massive body moved more gracefully than I could ever accomplish while wearing a borrowed flesh suit. He signed a piece of paper; the man behind the desk gave us ear defenders, guns, and bullets.
“Booth thirteen is free.” The soldier behind the desk grunted. Hart nodded and took the heavy box before I could make a move to help.
I wondered if I would be able to shoot a gun while wearing the thin leather gloves that Davenport had instructed I wear. I had been religious about donning the items, it was almost second nature to wear them.
Hart pushed open the door to an enclosed booth and held it open for me. I danced through, excited. I had never been to a gun range before. I had seen various TV shows, so I knew what they looked like.
A paper target on the end of a long run, with a reinforced concrete wall behind.
Hart placed the box of bullets and the gun onto a shelf and handed me a yellow set of ear defenders.
Hart did not ask if I had ever used a gun before. Frankie Gardiner was a sniper, and firearms were her bread and butter.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the barest hints of my host’s muscle memory to guide me through loading the gun. I hooted in triumph when I succeeded the first time.
Hart gave me a questioning look.
“I haven’t held a gun in a while,” I lied with a grin. I cheered like my team had just won the Superbowl when I emptied the chamber into the target. The ear defenders meant that I couldn’t regulate my voice correctly, so I had shouted. I mouthed an apology and turned back to the targets.
Frankie’s body remembered the gun. I was able to arrange myself to hold the weapon, adjusting my meat suit's limbs one by one until it felt right.
We stood in silence, the only noises were the quiet pops of the guns discharging. I was able to hit the target, but barely, even though Frankie's eyesight was better than any humans that I had been inside before.
The gloves had long since worn away in the joints of the fingers, which made pulling the trigger easier than I had expected. My hands sweated, and I wondered, not for the first time, why my host insisted on wearing such horrible garments.
I smiled brightly, feeling genuine happiness at being able to do something right for a change. Even if the skill had been honed for years by my host, and I had little to do with it.
Hart slammed his fist on the button above my head; the paper targets raced towards the gallery.
Hart took off his ear protectors and gestured for me to do the same. “Haven’t lost your touch.” His lip twitched in the first sign of warmth I had seen from the man since we had kissed in the middle of the night, while I was high from feeding on Davenport’s nightmares.
“Thanks,” I pushed Frankie's hair out of my face. Noticing that my forehead was damp. Shooting a gun was more physically demanding than I had expected. Frankie's stomach muscles ached slightly.
“I’ll get us some water.” Hart's orange gaze softened as he placed my target on the shelf in front of me. All of the red zones had holes in them. Frankie’s skill had won against my inexperience. Her aim was second nature.
I glanced over my shoulder as Hart strode to the vending machine, and quickly removed the glove on my right hand. Wiping the clammy skin against my cargo pants. I wondered how it would feel to hold a gun without the cumbersome gloves in the way.
The metal was skin warm. I'd heard the man at the desk say the gun was a 'Luger.' Small compact and dark. I wondered what kind of weapon Frankie usually used. All of the snipers from various films I had watched used long guns that mounted on weird triangles on the sand.
I locked my legs and turned to the new targets, forcing Frankie’s instincts to the front of my mind and aiming the gun.
“What are you doing?” Hart's voice was a whip-sharp crack behind me.
I exhaled and bent over at the waist, placing the gun on the shelf once I had engaged the safety. “Seven Hell’s, you scared me.”
Hart's eyes had darkened, alive with thunder. All softness had drained away. He stepped forward into my space, his palm rested on my hand as I released my grip on the Luger. His jaw rocked from side to side, angry and grinding his teeth.
I stepped back before I could help myself. “Callum?” I asked hesitantly, using his first name. “Is everything alright?”
“You’re touching metal. Without your gloves.” Each word was carefully measured. Painful for him to say.
I frowned. “Yes?”
He closed his eyes and exhaled, stepping back abruptly. It took a second to realize that he had pulled the guns away from the shelf and away from where I could reach them.
“Who are you?” Hart asked delicately. “Because you sure as hell aren’t Frankie Gardiner.”
Horror bloomed in my chest and squeezed my heart. My face flooded with color. I forced my lips into a tight smile and trained my eyes to his. Every tick of my heartbeat grew louder and louder until the roar was like hummingbird wings. My fingers tingled; my leg muscles locked, preparing my body to run far and fast.
“I don’t know what you mean, Hart.” My words held a bite as I grabbed the gloves from the side, the smooth leather was still warm as I yanked them on as fast as possible.
“You’re different,” Hart said accusingly.
“Almost dying does that.” I lied through gritted teeth. I squinted as I took in the familiar gleam in his eyes. I licked my bottom lip to taste it. Guilt.
“You’re attracted to me.” I reasoned. “But you weren’t before.” My realization was like lightning through parted clouds. “That’s why you're so pissed at me all the time.”
Hart clenched his fists. “Who are you?” He repeated. “Corporal Gardiner is allergic to steel. She can't touch it without getting a painful rash.”
I held up my gloved hand and surveyed the worn leather. So that was why Frankie wore gloves? I thought it was because of poor circulation from having a heart made of ice.
“Have you seen me naked before?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. I had to stop myself from asking if he had seen 'Frankie' naked.
Hart raised both of his hands and brushed them over his already tight man-bun. He nodded hesitantly, and I did not ask how or why he had seen Frankie in his skivvies. I could only assume that changing into tactical gear for a mission wasn’t a private affair.