This is your official invitation to join the fun

“This is your official invitation to join the fun.”

Sonya flipped the small card over in her hand. Damian Jaeger. Strange name. The listed phone number was even more peculiar: she’d never heard of a 333 area code before.

“No red or blue pills?” she asked.

“Just a simple offer.” The man across from her relaxed in his rickety metal chair. Far too big for the small interrogation room, the atmosphere went from uncomfortable to oppressive. Thatcher grinned at her while she continued to examine her ‘invitation’.

Sonya flipped the overly fancy card over in her hands as Thatcher grinned at her.

“Even if you turn me down,” he said, “you’ll still be released. Your record will be cleaned and the brave maiden can return to her little village.”

She ignored his attempt to revert to fantasy story. “You’ll teach me to fight—” she couldn’t believe she was going to say this—“monsters?”

“No. We’ll teach you how to beat them.”

She slid the card across the table. His smile faltered. He picked it up and stuffed away as he rose out of his chair. When he started to turn the doorknob to leave, she said, “I’m in.”

He grinned, reaching over the table and taking her hand for a firm shake. Something sharp pricked her palm. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

The room blurred bright yellow. She slapped at his hand but he didn’t let go. “Liar.” The word grew heavy in her mouth.

“That’s true.” He chuckled, using his other hand to guide her head gently onto the table. Green and pink joined the yellow in great whirling circles. She shifted her focus onto her hand and it seemed to double in size, fluctuating like water.

It was nauseatingly pretty.

She tried reaching for him but she was alone. The spinning picked up, pushing her to the verge of puking. Closing her eyes made it worse. She curled in on herself, holding tight as her senses spiraled out of control.

***

Sonya gurgled at him as he and another man dragged her along the hallway of the small station. Her body remained limp, her shoes scraping black lines along the linoleum floor. Her head lulled to one side and she tried to bite Thatcher’s arm but only managed to smear some of the last traces of vomit on his sleeve: a small victory.

The other man, dressed in a pristine suit with a square face and beady eyes, let go of her for a moment, handing the police a set of papers. Officer Warren, the only one who’d been on her side during the questioning, scratched along his cheek, nodding vaguely while the inner city interrogator next to him fumed. She couldn’t catch the entire exchange but she pieced the meaning together with the words “custody” and “transfer”. She hefted her head up and dropped it on Thatcher’s shoulder a couple times to nudge him.

“Wha…” The word wouldn’t form in her mouth.

“Were you expecting some grand escape with explosions?”

She flushed a bit, flopping when the other man returned to help carry her outside and around the block until the sheriff’s office was out of view.

“Thanks for the assist, Carson,” Thatcher said.

“An adventure as always.” He let her go and Sonya swayed, barely able to stay on her feet even with Thatcher taking most of her weight. “Good luck, Miss Fletcher.”

Sonya’s head bobbed as she tried to thank him while he left in a disturbingly clean black Sedan. If Thatcher was telling the truth about not being part of a government agency, then the “people” he worked for definitely had friends up in high places.

Thatcher hitched her up into a fireman’s hold, walking a ways down the road, taking a left through the woods to an empty street. The jostling made Sonya’s stomach clench as the acidic tingling in the back of her throat grew stronger.

“What you’re feeling will disappear in less than an hour. It was the easiest way to get you out.”

I’ll take your word for it.

When he finally put her down, her knees quaked but she stood on her own.   

“Please tell me you didn’t drug her, Thatcher.”

Sonya wobbled around. A tall man in his late twenties with feathery blond hair strode up to her, taking her chin in his hand. He had tiny wrinkles around his eyes that she imagined were entirely from smiling too much. She blushed. Vomit in matted hair, bruising and unfocused eyes puffing out from a broken nose, unable to move or even talk properly: a garbage heap probably looked more attractive than she did right then.

“It was just a bit of Adhene venom. It’ll wear off soon.” Thatcher rolled his eyes, standing off to the side. “Sonya Fletcher, West Peterson.”

Sonya managed a smile but didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sonya.” West pulled out a thin penlight from his jean’s pocket and shined it in each of her eyes before placing the back of his hand on her forehead. “No fever—that’s always a good sign.” He picked up her wrist and took her pulse next, giving her a quick once over. “You said her shoulder was stabbed and she had two bruised ribs?”

“That’s what the official report says.”

West nodded and put his hands on his hips. “I think it’s be best if I give you a full physical when we arrive; make sure your injuries were properly taken care of. Would that be all right?”

“Yeah.” She felt a great accomplishment in managing that one syllable.

“Excellent.” West’s beaming face would put a golden retriever to shame. “Now, I’ll be driving your car back and I was wondering if—”

“Car?” She stepped forward and her knees felt steady as Jell-O while she stumbled forward. A flash of chrome caught her eye. Parked behind a monstrous brown truck was the midnight blue beauty her Uncle Ethan had made especially for her. Sonya staggered forward and lay down over the hood to hug it. Not a single scratch or dent in sight. And her duffle was in the back seat.

“I… dwive.”

Good God, she sounded like an idiot.

“Can’t allow that,” Thatcher said. He picked her up, peeling her right off the hood. “The Adhene venom will keep you whoozy even after it’s run through your system. Besides, when the pain pills you took wear off, you won’t be in any condition to drive.”

West shot him an aggravated look before promising Sonya he’d be careful with her car. Puffing out her cheeks when Thatcher jostled her off, she frowned when she saw how low the trunk of her car hung over the tires like something heavy was weighing it down. Or maybe she was just having another hallucination.

Thatcher buckled her into the front seat of his truck like she was a toddler before getting in and driving off, West following behind.

It took over an hour of listening to Thatcher singing—militantly off-key—to DragonForce before she could string together a proper sentence.

“Where are we going?”

“You could call it our base of operations.” He started laughing but stopped when she glared at him.

“Where?”

“West Virginia.” He huffed and mumbled, “You’re no fun.”

So I’ve been told. She pressed on, “Was Arthur your back up for the Tracker case?”

“No.” His tone changed to resemble a professor giving an old lecture. “Anything with the ability to change their appearance is best hunted alone. When I found out what happened to you, I called him in. He flew over just this morning.”

“You were that confident I’d agree to the offer?”

Thatcher grinned. “I always know which ones will say yes.”

“So the guy who—”

He paused his song with an annoyed smash of a button. “This is going to be your last question for the rest of the ride. Choose wisely.”

“But there’s at least another fifteen hours.” They weren’t even out of Minnesota yet.

“So?”

“Chupacabra got your tongue?” Thatcher laughed and nudged her in the arm.

Sonya smiled a bit, a forced and uneasy gesture, already feeling out of place. Sitting there, halfway drugged between her pain meds and whatever he’d jabbed her with, the most important question settled on her tongue: “What will it take for you to change the music?”

“You’d have to pry the CD out of my cold, dead fingers.” He reached over and cranked the volume up high enough to make his truck vibrate with the bass.

Sonya spent the rest of the drive with a set of cheap earplugs, drifting in and out of sleep from pills West made her take. They only stopped for gas, snacks and a few hours of sleep at a motel after she washed up. When she fully surfaced from the druggy fog, she stared out at a never-ending wave of trees losing their leaves. The dense covering of browning gold shrouded the ground.

“Where are we now?” Sonya rubbed her eyes, unable to find any signs or road markers.

“I told you,” Thatcher said, “you’ve already used up all your questions.”

She thunked her head against the window, hoping she’d drift into unconsciousness again when he leaned over and flicked her ear.

“What the hell?”

“We’re there.”

He smirked at her sour expression and finally turned his music off. Electric guitars continued to play in her head. “I don’t see any buildings.”

“Give it a minute.” He pulled off the main road and onto a dirt path. A couple minutes bumping through the thicket and they arrived at a dead end with a set of trees at least fifty feet tall.

Sonya slid her hand over to her door handle. Just in case she needed to start running.

Thatcher pushed a button on the dash of his car and the trees blocking their path split open. She moved forward to the edge of her seat.

The painted sheets of metal, which served as the illusion, slid apart on wheeled tracks, leaving a large enough gap for a tank as Thatcher drove through. The path returned to asphalt as Thatcher stopped in front of a small building with two steel doors.

“This is it?” Sonya couldn’t hide her disappointment

He grinned and pushed another button. “This is the garage.”

The steel doors swung open on their own and Sonya almost fell out of the car, gawking. A few motorcycles were near the front, including a gorgeous red Ducati 1098 and a sleek black Honda Fireblade. She ran her fingers along their handlebars, unable to resist. The cars ranged from beat up Volkswagen Beetles to polished Porches and a few large moving trucks down at the very end. Across from those, she saw flat carts, large blue tarps, sets of ropes and chains, towels and a small, latched door she guessed was an incinerator.

“Who owns these?” She stayed by the Ducati, hoping she’d one day get the chance to ride it.

“The one you’re fondling is mine. The Fireblade is Evelyn’s. And the Duo-Glide is Lawrence’s.” He listed off cars, matching them up to various names, even Damian Jaeger himself—who owned a Tesla Roadster. “And most of the bigger cars and trucks are for anyone going on a hunt. You know, in case the catch is too big for their personal car.”

“Catch?”

Before Thatcher could answer, West pulled up with Sonya’s own vehicle, which now seemed so simple compared to the rest of the cars in the garage, parking in a space towards the end. He climbed out as she buzzed over, inspecting for any damages. It might have been simple by comparison but it was still her Uncle’s pride and she’d put it up against any of the engines there.

West took out Sonya’s duffle and unlocked the trunk.

“There’s nothing in—” Sonya stopped, her breath clogging up her throat. The Tracker, Jax, lay wrapped up in a tarp, his head poking out between the layers of blue plastic. His skin was pealing in slimy chunks to reveal a sickening marbled white underneath. Seeing the true face of what she’d killed, coupled with knowing how many women he’d murdered, wiped out the last of her guilt.

But nothing excused the fact they’d put this thing in her car. If it left a smell, she’d shove them in next. She took her bag from West as he and Thatcher brought over a cart. Moving the tracker onto it, they pushed it to the opposite end of the garage.

“Come on, Fletcher.”

Sonya hurried after them into a hallway made of thick glass. She frowned, going over and knocking on one of the “walls.” Not glass. Polycarbonate. She leaned in, nearly pressing her nose up against it. At the right angle, she could see the repaired sections where deep scratches had once gauged the surface.

Outside, a dense ring of trees blocked out the rest of the world. Craning her neck, she studied the house they were walking into. If a luxurious log mansion could exist, this was it. Three stories of wood blended against the backdrop of trees. She moved to the other side of the hallway to try and guess the size; a football field wide, at least.

West called to her and she fell back behind them.

“Just to give you fair warning,” West said when they stopped in front of a third set of sliding doors, “we maybe, sort of, never told Kelvin that you were coming with us and he can be a bit crabby when he gets second hand news.”

“He’s crabby about everything,” Thatcher complained. He went over to a set of switches on the right—one black, one red, one green and flicked the bottom one.

The steel plates slid open with an ominous creak.

“Speak of the devil…”

“I’m glad you think so highly of me, Marion.”

West snickered and Thatcher flushed.

“Marion?” Sonya asked, wondering if there was someone she wasn’t seeing.

“My dad liked John Wayne.” Thatcher mumbled in explanation before shoving the cart forward, almost running the newest man over. West followed but Kelvin stopped Sonya when she tried to enter.

His suit hung off his shoulders and his unshaved face was entering the awkward phase between scruff and actual beard, but in spite of being a good head shorter than her six feet, he carried himself with sharp authority.

“Hello,” she said tentatively. Two days of traveling and neither West nor Thatcher had thought to warn her about the people she would meet. More like they chickened out of telling me. She extended her hand for a handshake but he ignored the gesture.

“I don’t like it when unexpected guests show up.”

“They didn’t tell you?” She feigned innocence.

He took a quick step to the side, yanking a clipboard from the wall. “Name.”

“S—Sonya Fletcher.” She had the distinct impression that talking back would be far more trouble than it was worth.

“Age?”

He took enough notes to fill a small book, forcing her to stand there the entire time. She’d started counting out the freckles on his face just to make sure her eyes didn’t drift off into space.

Down the hallway, a loud metal groan echoed off the walls before Thatcher came back with the cart—no Tracker. “There’s no need to turn this into the Spanish Inquisition, Kelvin. He shoved the cart, letting it wheel down to the other door. “I checked in with Damian before making the offer and Core already cleared her ID.”

“His choice of people hasn’t always been the best. He did bring you here, after all.” Kelvin clicked his pen and swiveled on his polished shoes to march away.

Thatcher laughed after Kelvin passed through a polished oak door to the left. “Don’t worry too much about him. He just gets ruffled when he doesn’t know absolutely everything— which is always.”

Sonya’s smile grew into a grin when he returned her keys. As she walked behind Thatcher to the same door Kelvin had gone through, her chest tightened with nerves. It felt like walking into a new school except these people could do a lot more damage than a group of ten year olds.

“Everyone’ll be here tomorrow,” Thatcher told her. “It’s sort of a tradition to all come together whenever we get a new recruit. For now, Damian’s waiting in the main room to show you around, let you know the basics.”

Crossing through that door was like stepping right into a picture in a magazine. The cement, glass and metal of the garage bowed down to marble flooring, ornate carpets, gold leaf carvings, and expensive artwork.

This wasn’t just school. This was going abroad to a private academy for the rich and famous with her being the single scholarship kid the rest all mocked. They are going to eat me for breakfast.

A polished staircase to her left wound up to the next floor with a door tucked underneath, mostly hidden by shadows. She smelled stew and fresh bread mixing with laughter and conversation. Off to the right, the hall branched off into a series of doors and in front of her, the space opened up into an atrium filled with stuffed chairs, bookshelves, and a roaring fire with various horns above the mantle—none them belonged to any animal she recognized. Swallowing hard, she took a few hesitant steps into the room, staring up at the glass ceiling; it was just starting to turn gold from the sun setting.

When she finally looked away, Thatcher was no longer there. She panicked. What if she went to the wrong place? What did this place do with intruders?

“Up here, my dear.”

The German accent came from above and turning around, she saw an older man standing on a second floor balcony. She backed up for a better view. With a polished cane in one hand, he stood like a commander dressed in all black except for a slim red tie. He smiled with genuine warmth and walked over to the top of the staircase with a subtle limp. Sonya tread up the carpeted stairs, worried she was dirtying the pattern.

“I hope your journey wasn’t too taxing.” His easy tone and soothing presence made her shoulders relax as they strolled through the upstairs hall. Most of the doors were labeled with names: Mark, Isaac, Brandon. “Did Thatcher make it clear what your job here would be?”

“This place is for hunting down monsters.”

The man, whom she assumed was Damian Jaeger, paused to lean heavily on his cane. “Not exactly.” He gestured down an alcove to a small elevator door. “My father actually started with the idea of protecting humanity back in the fifties.” He flashed a charming smile as the door slid open and stepped inside with Sonya close behind. “But his ambition stretched too wide and it ultimately failed. After he passed, I decided to expand his work and built this place. Do you like it?” Angling up his cane, he used the end to press B5 on the control panel.

“It seems well hidden.” And worth more money than my entire hometown.

“That it is. But I’m getting off point. Sonya, there is something that must be understood: my goal is not genocide. You, along with the others in my employment, will work together to bring in dangerous creatures. Many here think of themselves as bounty hunters.”

“Bring in?”

Damian’s grin was nearly boyish as the elevator opened again. He held out an arm. “After you, my dear.”

She poked her head into the hall before stepping out. A network of stone tunnels stretched out, grey and harsh. Every few yards, an iron door with an impressive set of locks was embedded into the wall.

“This is what we do here.” He eased a hand onto her shoulder and guided her to one of the doors on the right. He slid open a latch, the hole was large enough to fit her head through. In the corner of the room, an old woman dressed in vibrant blue hunched over. Her skin and hair were pale to a nearly translucent level and her entire body wrinkled to the point that Sonya was afraid the woman might disappear into the folds of her own skin. A bucket sat before the woman’s feet held around half a dozen untouched bags of blood.

The prisoner looked up. Faded eyes sparked up with life. She rose in a single movement, the dress seeming to float around her as she glided across the room. Her eyes went a deep brown and the withering of age faded from her face.

Sonya felt her brow bead up with sweat. A psychotic urge burned in her to step forward. She could expose her neck through the gap. It would be so thrilling.

“A Lamian vampire,” Damian explained as he slammed the window shut. Sonya jumped back, her heart pounding. Damian either didn’t notice or expected the reaction because he continued, “She’s been a bit picky about her diet and insists she has to eat fresh. Obviously, I can’t allow that.” He hit the top of his cane against the door in response to an angry hiss inside. With a light sigh, he carried down the hall. “Each of these rooms contains something that harmed or killed human beings. You could say we’re a special police force.”

Sonya frowned. Maybe she was being too harsh but she couldn’t help asking, “Why keep them like this? Killing them would be easier.” And safer. Her pulse was still thundering in her ears.

“I do it to learn from them. The more information I gather, the easier it is to know their weaknesses. Besides, some of these creatures have surprising benefits.”

Sonya pictured a black market where sets of vampire fangs and bags of werewolf blood were auctioned off to the highest bidders. He started walking again and she had to jog to catch up—which didn’t do any favors for her busted ribs. The pain must’ve shown on her face because his tour came to an abrupt halt. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you too long. West did tell me that you would need to see him.”

Sonya insisted she was fine. She wanted more answers first. “What if capturing them isn’t an option?”

“Like I said, think of yourself as a bounty hunter. Though I prefer alive, if you ever feel in serious danger or if the creature is particularly violent, do what you feel you must. Out of everyone here, only Mark has a perfect record.”

Serious danger. She bit back a laugh. The entire job description was a warning sign of serious danger.  

They meandered through several more passageways but he didn’t stop to open anymore windows—though more than one door had howling behind it. Damian kept walking until the passageway sloped up to a spacious, square room decorated more like the atrium upstairs. One wall was a large electronic score board in grey and blue. Various movie and video game posters covered the other walls and even part of the ceiling. Several leather couches and bean bags were spread out across the stone floor. It smelled faintly of buttered popcorn. Distracted by the thought of watching a film in such a place, it took a moment to realize Damian was staring at her.

Sonya flushed, feeling like her boss had caught her daydreaming.

“This,” he gestured to the scoreboard, “ranks all of those working out in the field. Your mentors will give you a handbook later on about how each creature is ranked. You get points deducted if you bring them back dead. By the end of the year, those in the top ranks get bragging rights and a bonus while the person on bottom gets a year of taking care of all the creatures already in custody.”

“Who are my mentors?” The way he said it made the whole thing sound so normal.

“I’ve assigned Mark and Evelyn to help you adjust.”

Sonya studied the list of twenty or so names. Her own was second to last with eighteen tally marks. The only name below her was “KEME” with twelve.

“But I haven’t…”

“Your Tracker. They’re rare, devious little things.” He sighed like a lovesick teenager. “It’s a pity you had to kill it.”  

Sonya gave a hollow nod. The name above hers had twenty three marks. From there upwards, the names had rows of tallies with the number one spot belonging to Thatcher. Her own mentors were both firmly in the top half.

Damian used his cane to point out the bottom name. “This is our other new recruit for the year.” He told the story of an eighteen year old boy who ended up running into a Wendigo on vacation. His assumption that she knew what a Wendigo was made her feel even more inept. “His sister was taken and when Keme,” he pronounced the name like ‘chem’ from ‘chemicals’, “went looking for her and… I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

Sonya felt a bond forming to the name. He’d lost and suffered too. Perhaps the other Hunters had similar stories of grief and struggle. It connected them in an intimately horrific way. She liked that.

“You’ll have to watch your back if you don’t want to lose to him.”

“Lose?”

Sonya twisted towards the hallway. Without her and Damian’s footsteps to distract her, she could hear the scratching, sniffing, growling, and hissing reverberate through the passage. The longer she listened, the louder the sound became until it threatened to consume her. Whipping back to the scoreboard, she counted the difference in marks between her and Keme several times. “End of the year, you said. When it’s determined who has to work down here?”

“Correct. Zoe’s the one currently on basement duty if you want to talk to her.”

She pulled up a mental calendar. Three and a half months. Second to last was looking like a really nice place to be.

“You should have West look you over officially,” Damian said—it was more of an order than a suggestion. “You’ll need to heal before starting your training.”

“No, I’m fine, really.” She tried to strike a confident pose but her shoulder and side shut her down before she could get into position.

Damian smiled and hooked her arm over his shoulders, helping her back to the elevator.

A man with a cane is helping you walk. She wanted to smack herself in the face. This is a whole new level of pathetic. And she hadn’t even been here a full day.

Damian patted her on the back as they rode up to the top floor. “You’ll start learning about techniques and creature types in the morning with your mentors.” He guided her through the plush hallway—though it was downright Spartan compared to the entry—to a bedroom at the end. A traditional four poster bed was centered on the far wall with matching nightstands on both sides. A set of drawers, bookcase, and desk, all in the gothic style, were placed along the walls. There were two doors, she guessed one was a closet and the other was a bathroom.

“This is mine?”

“For as long as you work here.”

Sonya shrugged off her jacket and laid it across the pale green quilt before running her fingers along the carvings on the bed’s headboard. She went to the doors next. A shower, toilet and sink behind one, and the second door opened on a larger closet than she would ever need. She set her duffle in the corner, glad to be rid of the weight. The squeak of floorboards reminded her she wasn’t alone and she resisted the urge to open the bag to check everything was still in place.

“Thank you—for all of this.” Sonya bit the inside of her cheek as she tried to figure him out. If he really had wiped the incident with the Tracker away, what else was he capable of? “Thatcher said he talked to you before inviting me here. Why did you want me?”

Damian’s smile grew somber as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “As you know, Thatcher was already going after the Tracker when it chose you for its next victim. Fortunately for both of us, it didn’t succeed.” He ran a hand through his greying hair though it was already pristinely combed. Sonya guessed he was buying time to consider his words. “Maybe I wanted you because few people choose prison when they have another option. My organization is still a small one, most people don’t accept the offer to come here, and I have to take what I can get.”

Though his look was apologetic, Sonya could only feel relief at his answer. He, like Kelvin, saw her as someone in the wrong place at the wrong time and nothing more.

“I’ll leave you then. Mark and Evelyn will get you in the morning.”

She thanked him but still locked the door after he left. More than food, more than pain pills, she just wanted to be alone and sleep.