It’s amazing what a night of proper sleep can do.
No more. I won’t keep slipping over the edge of sanity. I will get myself together.
I grip the edge of the sink as I promise myself that I will do better than this. I won’t continue to spend my days trying to avoid the night. I blink in the mirror once I rinse off the shaving cream, surprised that I still exist beneath the weight of life that tried to drag me under.
The standard clothing of a trapper is jeans and t-shirts with no design and limited color, so we don’t stand out in a crowd. The aviator glasses make me look like a tool, but I’ve long since stopped caring what I look like. They make me more forgettable, since my eyes tend to stand out from the sea of brown.
All witches have green eyes.
All vampires have red eyes.
All werewolves have golden eyes.
All of us with fringe psychic abilities have lavender eyes. Once a vampire spots Avet and me, it’s hard to get back on their trail. With Avet’s green witch eyes and my lavender fringe supernatural eyes, we rarely go on a job without sunglasses. The goal is to be forgettable and deadly, which is a tough balance to strike. My navy t-shirt and jeans will do the trick when we hit the road, provided I don’t forget my sunglasses in the car.
That is, if Avet ever comes back. I check my phone, seeing that I missed a text from him. What texting has done to Avet’s laziness when it comes to proper spelling is a catastrophe, to say the least.
I slip my backpack over my shoulder, not wanting to chance being out in the open without my gear. Though I don’t anticipate running into Andranik over breakfast, nothing about this vampire has been standard operating procedure, so I leave little to chance. In fact, I pack up Avet’s things, too, and stash them in the trunk before trotting over to the diner next to the motel, where Avet texted me to meet him.
With my sunglasses on, Ch’ar in the sheath on my belt, and a spare dagger in my left boot, I duck into the restaurant, instantly out of my comfort zone. I don’t care for well-lit places or restaurants that look like they might cater to children. If a creature of Bel follows us in here, the casualty count will be high.
I’m too anxious. We aren’t being followed. One day back in the game, and I’m already paranoid.
Avet is halfway through his meal when I sit down in the booth across from him. “Enjoy your beauty sleep?” he asks. “You look like less of a zombie.”
“Always a good thing.”
“And who knew? You have a face again.”
“That’s the thing about shaving.” I glance at his plate. It is filled with giant pancakes that are topped with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and mini marshmallows.
Disgusting.
I flag down the waitress, not bothering with the menu. “Can I get some water, a vegetable omelet with feta, and whatever fresh fruit you have on the side?”
The waitress moves close to me, and for a second, I am struck with how beautiful the woman is. She looks to be about my age. She’s got a wise look in her eyes and a flirty smile on her red lips. Tall and curvy, which happens to be my weakness. “Will that be all?”
“Unless you also have rye toast.”
“Whatever you like, sugar bear.” Though there are two of us at the table, she addresses only me. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You new in town?”
“I’m not in town. Just passing through,” I reply easily. I usually hate small talk and do whatever I can to avoid it, but she’s got that way about her that makes a man pretend he’s good at things he usually isn’t.
“Shame.” She taps her order pad, glancing at me behind long, painted lashes. Her high ponytail has her raven hair swooshing across her shoulders. “I’ll go put your order in.”
Then she does something that I’m glad I’m not too tired to enjoy. Her hand drags from my wrist to my shoulder, sending a pleasant shiver through my body.
I cannot recall the last time a woman touched any part of me, nor when I was awake and alert enough to enjoy the slight tease.
My spine stiffens when I feel a slight tug on my belt.
The beautiful sneak is pickpocketing me.
11
NEW WAITRESS, OLD FRIEND
I don’t bother being gentle when I grab at the waitress’ wrist and slam her arm back atop the table, palm up. Her spine has to arch, so she scrambles to find her footing while I snatch Ch’ar from her lax grip.