The round in the chamber of his ‘Smile’ was worth three hundred pounds, or maybe more. Logan had only three of those. It had been crafted by Sir Harry Smith as Duncan’s gift for his last birthday. Sir Harry had been working with the Bremor clan for a while already, so Logan knew the prices roughly. Prices weren’t a problem, despite being quite a sum of money; it was rather the long, long list of orders for Smith’s masterwork crafts. He would have waited for ages to get those deadly babes if not for Duncan. Hell, if not for Duncan, he wouldn’t even have considered charmed bullets, preferring something more permanent, like a gun, a blade, or an amulet—but not a ring. His fingers grew thicker during a shift.

Logan was a shifter, which made him good in melee fights, with claws and fangs extended. More fangs than claws, in his case, as his spirit was the wolfhound. But he definitely wasn’t a fan of biting unless he needed to. A few bastards he had tried tasted horrible. One nasty werewolf had even made him throw up.

Anyway, usually, he started with a gun or a knife. But not tonight. The special round was in the chamber, and a rival bloodsucker was directly in the line of his barrel. Logan was really tired of this hunt and awfully homesick. He had already made some quick but harsh and shortsighted decisions. Decisions that could make him rather unpopular with the local police. Such as intruding into an apartment and forcing the owners to drink a sleeping potion—because that window was the best position he could arrange quickly.

He wasn’t proud of that.

The bitch he was hunting had drawn him through six – darn it, six – counties in twenty-two days. And she was just a teacher! That rank couldn’t cause him much trouble in a fight anymore. It would take a master vampire to make him uncertain about the outcome. And if she were a master, he wouldn’t have hunted her alone – or someone else would have been sent to hunt her. Though he’d had a couple of fights with masters – hell, even grandmasters, if participation counts – he’d survived, but he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. Last month, he’d hunted down two werewolves roughly equal in power to the bloodsucker he was aiming at. Flea bags didn’t have a rank system, as they used to gain power too fast.

The man whose neck Logan snapped in Rigside was four months old, and the woman he caught in Eggleston was six months old, counting from their initiation. Just a couple of years ago, Logan wouldn’t have even considered hunting them. Technically, he didn’t consider anything; he was ordered to. The clan council had decided he was ready not only to hunt them but also to "provide support" for young warlocks. Meaning to wipe their arses and hunt prey for them so they could claim a trophy for Ferrish.

Logan had some issues with the clan patron (long story), and he was cautious around the Ferons (an even longer story). Therefore, having Macy Feron as his subordinate was frustrating. And with Macy came Tim Boily. Apparently, there was a promotion – buy one, get one free. Tim was a Boily (no issues with Boilies), and he was a shifter, so there were no patron-related issues. But he was a wolf shifter, and Logan was a wolfhound. That created some tension.

Logan once again found himself irritated. Something was wrong. He briefly considered some sort of charm effect but dismissed the thought. No, it was his anxiety.

Down below, there was a semi-decent restaurant; the vampiress was cautious enough not to choose a truly notable place. There she was, having a fake dinner with her real dinner – a fat guy with a fat wallet. Logan supposed she wanted his money as much as his blood. Thus, she needed to play the full game: theater, dinner, then his apartment or a hotel, and finally, murder. She needed to make it clean, maybe even hide the body to buy herself some extra time for escape. Logan had already missed his chance near the theater; there had been a high probability of multiple casualties, and this spot was almost perfect.

He was in the corner apartment on the third floor, with the window closest to the corner half-open and firmly fixed in that position, lights off. Across the crossroad, less than three hundred meters away, were the restaurant doors and a parking place fifty meters farther. Supposedly, the ‘loving couple’ was going to leave the restaurant through the front doors, turn their faces to the parking place, and their backs to Logan and his rifle.

That was the most expected outcome, in which Logan planned to put the bullet under her fancy hat. Less expected – almost unbelievable – was her escaping through the back door. Macy and Tim could have been waiting there if Logan hadn’t sent them home on the fifth day of the current hunt, when they had become more of a burden. That particular vampire wasn’t a fighter; she was the sneaky type, an annoyingly cautious and clever specimen. This left room for surprises. You can’t plan for surprises, only react. And that had Logan waiting, teetering on the brink of making mistakes – if he hadn’t made them already.

The doors opened, and Logan held his breath, focusing... No, not them. He relaxed again, letting his thoughts wander. He hated hunting vampires; they were too slick. Logan preferred simple, straightforward werewolves. This was a job for Duncan! Well... maybe not. There were sometimes too many casualties and too much property damage when he was involved. Someone also had to save him from time to time. That was McLily’s job half the time. Oh, right – our Significant boy could easily handle the job with all his powerful illusions. Logan sighed. McLily definitely could handle the fight, but he was good at spying, not tracking. Evan! Cousin Evan could do it. But using him on such a target was like shooting flies with a shotgun. Logan sighed again and let out a quiet, almost silent whine. His inner dog was bored to death.

The restaurant doors opened again, and no... It was another couple of happy visitors. Logan’s thoughts shifted to the couple slipping onto the couch to his left. They wouldn’t be so happy after waking up. At least they were going to be okay. Or maybe not? It looked like the wind was getting a little rougher close to midnight, creating a chilly draft in the room. They might catch a cold, but Logan couldn’t close the window, move them, or even cover them with a blanket. Not now. His thoughts wandered freely while his body remained still in the chair under the dining table, which he had moved closer to the window. He couldn’t just stick his rifle out of the window, so Logan had arranged his sniper nest deeper in the room.

Doors again! Suddenly, it was them: a fat wallet in a gray suit and a typical gold digger in a blue dress with a silly hat. Logan held his breath. His heart made three quick thumps and started beating slower, slower, slower. He activated his silence amulet, and all sounds disappeared. All but his own heartbeat – an illusion created by the rushing of blood through his veins. As expected, the pair of 'lovers' turned toward the parking place. Logan quickly glanced at the street ahead. His enchanted bullet had incredible penetration characteristics, and Logan was careful not to shoot someone’s leg off in addition to the bloodsucker’s head. And it had to be the head or spine to be sure. Don’t believe silly tales about the heart. They have a completely different organ in that place.

Fortunately, it was late, and not many people were on the streets. The closest man moving toward the pair adjusted his path to pass by and got himself out of the bullet’s trajectory. The vampiress, hanging on the man’s left elbow, leaned toward him and said something in his ear. He shook his head back, apparently laughing, and leaned back, causing her head to freeze in one position for a moment. Logan pulled the trigger.

‘Smile’s’ stock pushed against his shoulder, the barrel spat out a fire burst, which went unmarked in total silence while down below… The bullet flew through her head and embedded itself deep in the sidewalk pavement. Her head exploded, flesh and bones scattering, and Logan hoped there were plenty of brains, too. Otherwise, things could still turn ugly.

Logan cycled the bolt, ready to send another, less fancy bullet forward. He definitely could have used a better look before his instincts kicked in. That silly hat and voluminous hairstyle distorted the visible proportions of her head. The hat stayed on, even as the fat man pushed her away. She hit the ground hard, like a sack of potatoes, and lay there motionless for five long heartbeats. Perfect. Only then did Logan deactivate his amulet.

The screams erupted. The fat man, his face covered in thick vampire blood and other substances, sounded like a pig at the butcher's. Beneath that mess, he might have suffered skull fractures, and his complexion suggested he might also have a heart attack soon – an unfortunate casualty, given all the effort Logan had put into avoiding them. So, he decided to keep half an eye on the fat one while cleaning. There was also some random guy actively vomiting not far from the corpse. Well, there was no danger in that.

Logan left the rifle on the table and approached the window. He had used forks to prop the sashes in their current position. Now, he had to remove them before closing it. The window frame creaked in protest, then released the cheap metal with a couple of protruding splinters. Logan had to remove those too before shutting the window. Then he checked on the fat man again (still screaming, no heart attack yet) and placed a blanket over the unconscious couple.

There was a proper procedure for such situations. Logan was supposed to call the police and deal with the local special squad, but he was too tired for that shit. So, instead of the police, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number for a long-distance call. For a change, there was no usual hissing or clicking, and the line was unusually clear. After several beeps, someone picked up on the other end.

“Hello there,” a woman's voice said. Damn, the connection was good this time.

“It’s Logan. I finished the job,” he said in a tired tone.

“Oh, hi, Logan. It’s Chloe,” she said. “Feron,” she added after a couple of seconds.

Bollocks! Logan frowned. He had no issues with Chloe personally…

“Hi, Chloe.”

“So... any problems there?” she asked.

“Yes... about that... Actually...” Logan stopped to chew the fat. “I just shot her dead, and I didn’t have time for proper preparation.”

“Casualties?”

“No! No-no!” Logan assured her. “The other part. No authority involved.”

“Nothing unusual. You guys always do that,” Chloe said, indicating that hunters often deliberately ignored local authorities until the job was done.

“Ye-e-ep. I would love to continue ignoring them. It was a very long three weeks. I’m freaking exhausted.”

“Logan, you know I can’t give you permission for that, right? It’s late, none of my bosses are still in, and there’s no emergency to call them. Am I right? No emergency?”

 “Definitely no emergency,” Logan reassured her, and an awkward silence hung in the air for another dozen seconds.

“Maybe you’ll call straight to your uncle,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “like that’s gonna help.”

His uncle, Brice Kincaid, Earl of Bremor and head of the almighty Bremor clan, was a firm believer in separating work and family.

“Well…”

“Wait! Can you find McLily?”

“The Significant one?”

“Right. Let him try his posh shit-talking on the local police. If I can’t avoid it, it may significantly reduce my time in custody.”

“Time in custody? Are you sure there’s no emergency?”

“Definitely none!” Logan repeated and took a step toward the window to check on the fat guy. He wasn’t screaming anymore, just standing there. Apparently in shock, but with no signs of a heart attack. “Just one ugly corpse,” Logan said.

“I’ll try. You know how good he is at making His Significance disappear if he wants to, right?”

“Ha, tell me about that. Thanks, Chloe.”

“You’re welcome, Logan… Bye then?”

“Yeah, bye.”

Logan hung up the receiver, grimaced, and rubbed his face to let his emotions out a little. Another look at the window confirmed that the fat man was okay. Though, at this point, the crime scene was getting a little crowded, and Logan took a moment to spot him. Two constables, clearly recognizable by their custodian helmets, were trying to deal with the crowd.

Logan sighed, tilted his head back as if he was going to howl, but instead, he picked up the receiver again and dialed the police.

“Police. What’s your emergency?” a man’s voice responded this time.

“Shooting at…” Logan abruptly realized he didn’t know the address of the place. He leaned towards the window, attempting to read the sign on the restaurant. From his position, he could only see the flank and the upper side of the sign. It was totally unreadable. Logan tried to recall that brief moment when he drove past the establishment. There had been big golden letters above the window casing, none of which stayed in his memory. Another mistake.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Sir?”

Logan sighed again.

“Shooting near the restaurant. I don’t know what it’s called. A couple of your constables are here; someone should report soon if not already. The woman killed was a vampire, and I had a warrant to do that.”

“You killed her, sir?” The policeman’s voice tensed.

“Yes.”

“Can you…”

“Logan Gregor Kincaid. Bremor clan.”

“Hunters,” the policeman said, his voice losing a decent half of its tension.

“Yes. Can you please send your special squad for me?”

“Sure can do, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Perfect. I’ll be around and show myself when they arrive.”

“Oh, you may…”

“Believe me, I can recognize your guys,” Logan said before hanging up. Last year, he had seen so many civilian-clothed special squads and secret service guys that it had become second nature for him to identify them without any magic.

Next, he took a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket, tore out a sheet, and wrote: "Sorry for the window!!! Don’t worry about the rifle; the police will come and take it soon." Apologies couldn’t repair the window, and they’d need a couple of new forks, so Logan added two ten-pound notes on top of his words and left them on the table near the rifle.

He left the apartment, descended the stairs, and paused for a moment in the lobby to pull out a rolled newspaper from an open mailbox full of papers, mail, and other junk. Someone apparently hadn’t checked it in a long time. Logan looked at the paper. It was the local weekly publication. The date: August 22, 1938. Two weeks late. Any important news would have already reached Logan’s ears. However, there were crosswords – two pages! If they allowed it, it might occupy Logan for a bit in the cell.

Number one across: "In this position, they are certainly not free-handed." Eight letters. Logan frowned and stopped. He even took a superstitious look around.

“Bollocks,” he said, continuing to move. “It won’t be ‘tied’ but ‘manacled.’ Yep, definitely ‘manacled.’”

Number one down: "One of the zoological family." Six letters; starts with 'm'.

Hmm, ‘mammal’? Logan wasn’t sure about that. While reading the questions, he left the building and moved to the closest pedestrian crosswalk at the corner. He crossed the road to appear on the sidewalk parallel to the one with the corpse. It was already quite crowded, but Logan couldn’t hide himself among onlookers without magic. He was at least half a head taller than the tallest man there and definitely had the broadest shoulders. It wasn’t so noticeable while he stood alone slouching.

He found himself a shadowy spot behind a beaten old sedan and leaned his back against the wall just as several more cops appeared. A patrol car arrived with two more constables and a detective to manage the mess. Logan took out his pen and wrote down "manacled" in the puzzle. He wrote down nine more words, including "mammal," before the special squad guys arrived.

Just like Logan, they parked their Martin on the parallel sidewalk, further to the left of him. They didn’t go straight to the crime scene, preferring to take a look around first. While doing that, one of them immediately spotted Logan.

There were two of them: the big guy and the lean one. Both checked that their jackets were open in an instinctive manner, ensuring quick access to any weapons hidden inside. The big guy was a little smaller than Logan himself; he had to be some sort of shifter. It was him who spotted Logan first. His eyes narrowed, professionally scanning for any sign of danger. Logan smiled and waved at him.

The big guy said something to the lean one and moved forward. The lean one stepped onto the road a couple of seconds later, positioning parked cars between himself and Logan, with his partner slightly to the side of the straight trajectory. Warlock or wizard? Definitely a ranged fighter. Logan would use the same tactic when working in a pair with Duncan or McLily.

The big guy stopped a few meters away, a distance they could each cover in a fraction of a second.

“Sir,” he greeted with a smirk. “Nice evening, don’t you think?”

Logan rolled his eyes. This was exactly why he hated local special squads – too many jerks with fragile egos.

“Logan Gregor Kincaid,” he replied. “Skip the bullshit and show me your badge.”

Logan noticed an orange glint in the man’s eyes. The shifter was clearly restraining his aggression. That was a good sign. So Logan added, “No offense, mister. I’ve had a very long three weeks hunting that one.” He nodded toward the crime scene. “But I’m ready to cooperate, so let’s skip the bullshit and deal with it quickly.”

Still, Logan couldn’t afford to be too polite. Fragile egos, remember? If they thought all that mess was made by some wimp – implying Logan – it would turn into real torture for both sides.

The shifter considered his options and finally flipped open the left side of his jacket, revealing a crowned badge pinned to his inner pocket and a gun in a shoulder holster.

“Sergeant Thomas Rennie, Police Special Squad,” he announced.

He didn’t mention the Hereford Constabulary, but Logan decided this wasn’t the time to split hairs.

“Good,” Logan said with a curt nod. “Now, I need you or your partner to bring the detective here as a final precaution before I hand over my weapons. Let him write down my name in his notebook. Oh, and I can also provide him with the vampire’s name.”

“Jonny,” the shifter called over his partner. “Call the detective, please.”

“Are you sure, Thom?” Jonny asked.

“I can give you my gun first,” Logan offered.

“Please do, sir,” Thom agreed quickly.

Logan slowly placed the pen in his mouth, rolled up the paper, and held it in his left hand. Then, using the same hand, he flipped open the left side of his jacket. With two fingers of his right hand, he slid his modified Webley MK VI out of its holster and extended it to Thom.

Thom took the gun. “What’s on the other side?” he asked.

“Just a knife,” Logan replied, then flipped open the right side of his jacket.

“More like a freaking sword!” Thom exclaimed.

Logan rolled his eyes demonstratively. Sure, his knife wasn’t small, but calling it a sword was clearly an exaggeration.

“Let’s call the detective, and I’ll give it to you,” Logan said.

“Jonny,” Thom repeated.

Jonny turned his head toward the detective and began to stare. Inside the crime perimeter, cleared of the crowd, the detective was talking to the fat man. The man had already wiped his face and suit clean of vampire remnants using towels from the restaurant. The job was far from thorough; he clearly needed a good bath and a couple of shots of whiskey to clear his mind.

The detective was using the man’s still-shocked state to gather as much unfiltered information as possible, scribbling notes in his notebook.

In the middle of the process, the detective abruptly jerked his head and looked around until his gaze landed on Jonny, then shifted to Logan. He nodded swiftly, snapped his notebook shut, and said something to the constables.

One of them reached into his pocket for his own notebook and continued taking witness statements, while the detective left the established perimeter.

“Nice,” Logan said to Jonny, still trying to guess whether he was a warlock or a wizard. Seeing some magic would definitely help, so Logan worked on opening his Third Eye, though with no results yet.

As the detective crossed the road and approached Logan and his guards, a couple of gazes in the onlookers' crowd turned their way. A photo camera flashed with a recognizable sound. Logan instinctively jerked his head and waved his rolled-up newspaper in front of his face, trying to spoil the frame. Luckily, none of the special guys considered that a threat.

“Hey!” Jonny spotted the man right away and pointed a finger. “You there!”

“Hereford Tribune!” the photographer answered. Logan unrolled his newspaper to cover his face just before the camera flashed again.

“Stop it!” Jonny ordered.

The photographer replied with some nonsense like, “People have to know!” Then something popped, and the same voice exclaimed, “Fuck!” Logan cautiously peeked over the top of the paper. The man was viciously shaking his camera, trying to put out the fire. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened.

“Next will be on the lens!” Jonny warned. Logan noticed the lens was still intact; only the bulb on the flash had burned out.

“You can’t shut the press!” the photographer snapped, with a tone that reminded Logan of Olivia. Burke’s girlfriend. A cousin of his. Those words were total bullshit; Olivia just liked to poke her nose into other people’s secrets. Logan knew how to handle people like her.

“Hey,” Logan said. “Let’s trade those pictures for a juicy story.”

“No way,” Jonny cut in. “I know that moron!”

“That’s not gonna stay a secret forever,” Logan reasoned with him. “Do you want your photo on the front page?”

“You definitely don’t!” Jonny smirked.

Logan shrugged. He definitely didn’t! That kind of exposure would make hunting a nightmare.

“So what’s all this about?” the detective asked, and the reporter pricked up his ears, inching closer.

“You! Stay there!” Jonny barked at him.

“Theresa J. Rollan,” Logan said loudly, pointing toward the crime scene.

“Shu-u-u!” Jonny hissed, while the reporter swapped his camera for a notebook, scribbling down the name.

The detective quickly put two and two together.

“County Ross survivor?” he asked quietly. The reporter didn’t catch that and took a step forward.

“Ah-ah!” Jonny wagged his finger at him, and Logan simply nodded.

“Shit!” the detective muttered. “I thought that story was over.”

“I wish,” Logan sighed. “We hunt most of them down, but there are still a couple scattered across the country.”

‘A couple’ was quite an understatement, though the detective didn’t need to know that.

The reporter tried something else that set Jonny off again.

“One more time, I swear…”

“She was a runaway vampire,” Logan interrupted the special man.

“Shut up!” Jonny snapped, but Logan ignored him.

“He was going to be her dinner. Special squad set up an ambush, and it worked perfectly.”

Jonny raised his eyebrows, but the reporter didn’t notice.

“It’s pretty messy!” the reporter commented.

Thom gestured toward the fat man. “And that’s all the damage done,” he said. “Now, make yourself a nice photo,” Thom added, pointing again to the fat man.

The reporter hesitated, then stopped. “And you are?” he asked Logan.

“We’re done here,” Thom cut in. “Sorry for the mess,” he added, addressing the detective. Then he gestured toward the car, and all three of them headed there like old friends. Though…

“I’m taking the back seat this time,” Jonny said.

Once they were in the car, Logan pointed to the building behind the crossroad. “Remember that. Third-floor corner window. I left my rifle there. And my Cooper is further over there,” he added, pointing to the left. “3935 on the plate. Keys…” He dug into his pocket for the keychain and handed it to Thom. “The corundum there switches general protection off so you can drive away. But be careful, there’s still a lot of stuff you can’t touch! You hear me? No touching!”

His diary was the main concern. It was hidden in a secret stash in the back left door. Every hunter had one and trusted it with their story. It was a kind of death insurance for the clan, ensuring they would avenge his death. Logan wasn’t a diligent writer, but he still revealed a lot of sensitive stuff to the paper.

“We got it,” Thom reassured him.

Still, both squadmen decided to take him into custody first. They drove a couple of blocks away before starting the conversation again. Thom was the first to speak.

“You said that we did it.”

“It was an apology. You can always deny it.”

“I believe we won’t,” Thom chuckled.

“Yeah, I believe that too,” Logan agreed.

“You’re still going to custody first.”

“Yeah…” Logan frowned. “Can you at least leave me the paper and the pen?”

“What for?”

“Crossword puzzles. It’s always boring in there.”

“No can do. Sorry, man. No writing instruments allowed in custody – in case you start scribbling some nasty magic formulas.”

“You don’t need a pen if you can do that,” Logan objected. “My cousin once was manacled in a vampire’s basement. They used special bulb manacles that fully covered his fists. He escaped by drawing formulas on the floor using his big toe as a pen and butt sweat as ink.”

Both squadmen took a moment to process the information.

Jonny was the first to break.

“Butt sweat?!” he asked, incredulously.

“They kept him naked and high on drugs,” Logan explained matter-of-factly.

“Sounds like a tall tale,” Jonny said skeptically.

Logan shrugged. It wasn’t the craziest thing Duncan had ever done.

“All I’m saying is, I’m more of a physical type. Magic and I aren’t friends.”

“You could use some sleep,” Thom suggested. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been running on stimulators for the last four days. If I fall asleep, you won’t be able to wake me up until Friday. And there are a lot of questions that need answering.”

“We’ll try to figure something out,” Thom said, a hint of compassion in his voice.