I nodded slowly, looking out the window as it started to rain. I chose an unusually large raindrop and watched it race its brethren down the glass. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
“You'll have Frankie's personnel files.” Davenport continued, rubbing his scruff. His dark eyes flashed to me before turning back to the road. “Try not to fuck it up. Put your mask back on.”
“Is my job to find the culprit or to try and bait him into the open?” I quirked a brow.
He shrugged. “Both. Depending on your experience.”
Which was none.
I clapped my hands and rubbed them together excitedly. Being stuck in a building with people that would kill me if I slipped up and came out as a Demon. Pretending to be a dull and uppity sniper with no friends. All the while, trying to find the person that took out seven highly trained Hunters and put one in a coma.
I would rather sink into my couch and eat my meat-suit’s weight in Ben and Jerry's.
“What's the food like?” I asked as I slipped my mask back over my eyes.
If my question surprised Davenport, it did not show in his voice. “Adequate.”
Groan. I flicked through Frankie's memories to try and find a boyfriend, or girlfriend, or at least someone to play with. Nada.
“Was Frankie close to anyone?”
“Corporal Gardiner did not have close friends. She was dedicated to the cause.” Warren Davenport said stiffly.
“How do you guys feel about Fae?” I threw out there. That seemed like the kind of question a Mimic Sidhe would ask.
“We have a truce with the Fair Folk of the east coast. They police their own unless we are directly affected by the crime. They have a peaceful and quiet presence in The City and do not venture to New Jersey often. Some of our Hunters are fae.”
I nodded to myself. “But, Demons are fair game?”
“We are Demon Hunters.” Davenport reminded me. “You can take off your mask now. We're almost there.”
My tongue was too big for my mouth. “Do you have any clothes I could borrow?”
He jabbed a finger over his shoulder; I craned my neck to see a duffle bag on the back seat.
I unbuckled my seat belt and wriggled into the back of the moving vehicle. Ignoring Davenport's groans of disapproval.
What did he expect me to do? A toe tag wasn't exactly this season's must-have foot accessory.
I pulled on the plain black tank and khaki cargo pants. Sans underwear. Boring heavy combat boots, but the laces undone. A hoody finished the ensemble, with a logo for 'The Davenport Halfway Camp.'
The sporadic buildings slipped into expansive greenery, and then woodland.
The SUV handled the rough terrain and dirt road like an old friend, pulling up to a small checkpoint hidden between two large trees.
A young guy skipped out of his tiny office and saluted. Davenport handed over two laminated cards, which Skippy scanned and handed back. He wished us a nice day and waved us through the barrier.
The Hunter's compound was a campsite, with large square buildings dotted around like someone had fallen over and dumped a bunch of Legos in the middle of a forest. Circled by a tall chicken and barbed wire fence, with look-out posts every fifty yards.
The compound masqueraded as a boot camp for prisoners. I watched a group of khaki-colored commandos jog past in synchronicity as a man in a weird hat screamed behind them. It was a good cover.
“Let’s head to the Mess to get some food. Lunchtime is almost over.” Davenport suggested, marching ahead of me without checking to see if I was following.
I stumbled, before righting myself. I glanced up to see if anyone had spotted me. My eyes met someone's from across the clearing.
Demons had excellent eyesight, but Frankie's vision limited me somewhat. Even at a distance, the strangers' eyes were extraordinary.
Raven black hair, cropped short. Oriental, I would have to guess. Tanned skin and eyes the color of the cosmos. Light. Purple and blue. Weird.
I cocked my head to the side as I tried to taste his magic. I discreetly swiped my finger through the air and sucked it.
He tasted like birthday cake. A vanilla sheet cake with buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles.
So strange.
I'd never encountered anything like it.
The stranger's eyes crinkled in amusement before he turned on his heel and strode to one of the buildings.
Shit. I’d lost Davenport.
I hurried forward before someone cleared their throat behind me. I hadn’t even heard them approach.
“Corporal Gardiner.” A low voice grumbled. So deep that it was almost a growl.
I arranged my features in a benign and pleasant mask. A tiny smile on my plush lips. “Yes?” I spun around to the owner of the sexy grumble.
Orange eyes met mine. The color of cinnamon and dried orange peels. The stranger was a head taller, more significant than any man I had ever seen. I searched Frankie’s memories but only came up with a name.
Callum Hart. Sergeant.
His hair was an odd mixture between blond and brown and was pulled back into a tight man bun. His biceps were bigger than my head.
The man must have sensed my mild confusion. His eyes flicked to my up-turned lips as if he had never seen the sight before. I let my smile drop.
“Yes, Sir?” I stuck to a simple response, using the honorific that Davenport had suggested.
Hart's brow furrowed as he studied my face for something. He leaned in and inhaled sharply and quickly before straightening back to his full height.
“Did you just sniff me?” I asked in horror.
“You smell like the hospital, Corporal Gardiner.” He said.
“I should think so.” I popped my hip and waved my hand. “I just got discharged.”
Hart cocked his head to the side like a confused dog. “Perhaps you should lie down.” He suggested. “You don't seem like yourself.”
I struggled to maintain a casual expression as fear raced through me. “I'm on medical leave.” I squeaked. “Sorry.”
Hart nodded absentmindedly as he glanced over my shoulder. I followed his gaze to see Davenport using his 'murder eyes' on both of us. I ducked my head and used the chance to escape.
The mess hall was a barrage of chattering, clanging trays, and random smells. Far from the Maine lobster from Per Se over Central Park. My true form had no taste buds. I wasn't above hitching a ride in a dead body and using their credit card to experience all of the fine dining that NYC had to offer. It was a neat trick. Credit card companies and banks were often the last people to cancel a card due to death.
I followed Davenport's example and grabbed a tray. Dry chicken breast and asparagus. I snatched a few Jell-O cups from the counter. The evil little voice inside of me demanded that I swipe them all. I glanced over my shoulder and fisted as many of the luminous green cups as I could fit in my hoodie pockets.
Done. Evil satisfied.
Warren Davenport swanned off to a table full of Very Important People. I made a move to follow him, but his sharp expression and pointed glance advised me to make my own seating arrangements.
Hunters, Hunters everywhere, and not a chair in sight. I hovered on the edge of the canteen. I saw someone leave, and swooped into their empty seat, slamming my tray on the table before anyone could snag the chair.
“Hello, Corporal Gardiner.” A low voice murmured, barely loud enough to register.
I glanced up from the sectioned off meal tray in front of me.