"Thought we needed to stay to watch the fire burn out."

  Chris shrugged one shoulder. "Jake's at the house. I can call him to come out and keep an eye on it."

  Nicky cracked his knuckles under the warmth of his blanket, gaze fixed forward again, watching the darkening flames of the pyre. "You know where it is?"

  "I know where Dad was. Got his GPS tracked."

  "Hah!" The sharp sound bounced through the truck's cab. "Did he know you were tracking him?"

  A tight smile slid across Chris's face, partially reflected in the windshield. "'Course not. You know he didn't like that kind of crap. He wouldn't even use Bhuntr. Not that you know what that is anyway."

  "Bounty hunter app. People track sightings, keep tabs on each other, make sure everybody's safe, probably hook up, I don't know." He hunched defensively again as Chris sent a surprised glance across the cab at him. "Just because I left doesn't mean I stopped paying attention, okay? It's not like I use it. I just know what it is."

  "Yeah, okay, whatever. So are you in?"

  "Yeah." Nick slid down in the seat, eyes closed. "Yeah, of course I am." Then he sat up again, eyebrows drawn down. "Except I'm driving."

  "The hell you are. When was the last time you even drove a truck?"

  "About a week before I graduated high school, but I've had a lot less to drink than you have and either I'm driving or we're not going anywhere."

  "I haven't had a drink in like two hours!"

  "And you were shitfaced when I got here."

  "That was last night!"

  "I drive or we don't go."

  "Fine, you can get the fuck out, then. I'll go by myself."

  "And get yourself killed, just like Dad did. Two funerals and no family left, that'll really make my week, Chris, thanks."

  "Dad didn't know what he was getting into! I do!"

  "What the hell is wrong with just sleeping it off? A vamp's gonna be quieter during the day anyway, so what's the rush?" Nick took a sharp breath and let it out again. "You think I'm gonna leave. You think I'll leave before this is taken care of."

  Chris thrust his jaw out and shrugged one stiff shoulder. "You left once already."

  For a long time the only sound was the engine and an occasional pop from the dying fire. The horizon started going grey with twilight before Nick finally said, "I spent half the drive here promising myself I wasn't gonna fight about this. You knew I was gonna leave, Chris. You told me to leave."

  "Yeah. And then you did anyway." It didn't make any sense, but feelings never did, which was why they were better off stuffed in a box where they couldn't bother anybody. "Forget it."

  "I won't leave until this is dealt with, Chris. I'm not gonna leave you to…" Nick shook his head and sighed. "This isn't…this is a lot. This is bad. I'm not gonna just…leave."

  "When was it ever good?"

  "You could've come with me."

  "Right. Me. Out there in California with you and all your brainiac friends. Yeah, no, I don't think so."

  "Believe it or not, not everyone in California, or even college, is a super genius. And it's not like you're dumb. You just didn't go to class."

  "Well, I couldn't, could I, because Dad was never home and somebody had to feed you and make sure the electricity wasn't gonna go off."

  "Jake managed."

  "Jake went and lived with his friggin' grandma after he came out, Nick, what was I gonna do, send you to the ass end of Montana with Grandma so I could go read Oliver frickin' Twist in Sunday school? Gran didn't exactly move to the edge of nowhere for the company, and I—" Anything else he could say was too much, so he just stopped, not that Nick noticed.

  A grin flashed across Nick's face, although he looked down to hide it. "I don't think anybody was reading Oliver Twist in Sunday school, Chris."

  And that was his baby brother, always laughing about getting stupid details wrong. "You know what I mean!"

  Nick closed his eyes. "Yeah. Look, text Jake and tell him we're gonna go after this thing once the fire's burned out. I'll keep an eye on it for a while. You get some sleep."

  "I don't need—"

  "Either that or I call Jake and tell him to be ready to drive that pimpmobile of yours into the lake, because I swear to god I will if you think you're driving before you're sober."

  Heat flushed Chris's face. "You leave my van alone."

  "Man, it's not like you're gonna have a hard time pulling in a booty call without it. Probably be easier without it. I'll never understand why any woman would get in a van with that artwork on it."

  Chris muttered, "It's been repainted since you saw it," and Nick snorted a laugh.

  "Yeah? Does it have Shagmobile painted on it now, or is that still just the license plate? Is there still three inch deep orange carpet in it? Do you—"

  "Jesus, just shut up already. If taking a nap will shut you up, then fine, I'll sleep, Christ." Chris yanked the blanket off Nick's shoulders and threw it over himself, arms folded beneath it, jaw clenched above its rough hem. It was red with a black stripe, three times Chris's age, and had been in the back of one truck or another as long as he could remember. Using it felt like wrapping up in fiberglass, but it was warm.

  "Good." Nick got out of the truck, slamming the door behind him, and Chris glared at him through the windshield for a minute or two.

  Problem was, between the blanket and the booze and the warm air roaring from the truck's forty-year-old heating vents, sleep actually started to sound like a good idea, and in another minute, he was out.

  He woke up when the weak spring sun lined up with his eyes well enough to bleed red through his lids. It took a minute to orient himself, not because he wasn't used to sleeping in the truck, but because he didn't usually sleep sitting up. But Nicky had crawled back in at some point after the fire'd gone out, and was sleeping with the top of his head mashed against the side of Chris's thigh.

  He'd done that more times than Chris could count, as kids. But last time, Nick had been about fifteen inches shorter, and they'd both more or less fit. Not comfortably, but kind of, at least.

  Now, though, he'd pushed Chris all the way up against the driver side door and was still curled in an uncomfortably small ball, his knees pressed against the dashboard and his feet smushed against the far door. He'd tucked another one of the blankets around himself to keep his knees from freezing off, but his booted feet were probably icy, just like Chris's shoulder was, from being flattened against the door. Especially since he'd cracked the window open half an inch so they wouldn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning. They probably wouldn't have anyway, but Nicky always had to make sure. Chris muttered, "Safety first," and took his phone out of his coat's chest pocket, checking for messages.

  There were three from Jake, the last of which said when the hell are you coming back, Nick's friends are starting to freak out, and a couple of others from the Geography Girls checking up on them both. He put his phone back without answering any of them and scooted back into the middle of the driver's seat, making Nick curl up even more.

  Then he groaned and sat up, still curled like a pill bug, and rested his forehead on the dashboard. "Ow. That was more comfortable last time I did it."

  "Yeah." A smile ghosted across Chris's face. "That's what I was just thinking. There's water in the back."

  "Of the truck or the cab?" Nick reached back, flailing, to feel around the extended cab.

  "Cab. It'd be froze if it was in the bed. Here, it's…" Chris twisted over the back of the bench seat and Nicky cackled, croaking, "Who's Spider-Man now?"

  "Man, your arms and legs are even longer than mine, so don't…" Chris grunted, finding the water, and shoved a bottle at Nick as he slid back into his seat. "Ow. See, this is why I have the van—"

  "I don't even want to hear it."

  "I'm just saying it's more comfortable to sleep in." Chris drained half a bottle of water, cracked his neck, and glanced at his brother. "Now can we go kill this thing?"

  "I could use lunch."

  "You'll fight better if you're hungry."

  "You are completely full of shit."

  "Yeah. But your college buddies are wondering where we are, and if you don't want to have to explain it to them, we probably shouldn't take any more time than we have to."

  Nick cursed under his breath and took his own phone out, answering messages. "Yeah, okay, fine. We probably need to stop for gas."

  "There's five gallons in the spare tank in the back of the truck. S'already got antifreeze in it."

  Nick's eyebrows rose. "Never let it be said my brother is not prepared."

  If he'd been prepared, their dad wouldn't be dead and Nicky wouldn't be there at all. Chris clenched his teeth on the thought and muttered, "It's about eighty miles north of here, anyway. There'll be somewhere to stop for gas if we need it."

  "Eighty…"

  Chris could see Nick calculating the time and coming to a number he didn't like, but he didn't say anything. He just used the phone as an actual phone instead of a thing to text with, like a weirdo, as Chris pulled the truck away from the pyre and headed for the main road.

  Not that it was much of a road. They had almost three hundred acres covered in lousy farmland and gravel tracks they'd laid down themselves to reach places like the burn site. There was a lake over that way, too far to really be of much use if a burn went out of control, but it wasn't like they spent every weekend building bonfires, even when Nicky had still been home. The gravel they'd laid down could lead them past the house, but the last thing Chris wanted was to have Nick's soft squishy California intellectuals tagging along on a hunt.

  Nick was over there making excuses to his girlfriend. 'Stuff to work out' and 'time to catch up' and other totally plausible crap that covered the truth. That they were going to go catch and kill a monster. An actual monster, the kind people didn't think existed, and which mostly didn't. Chris couldn't exactly remember—

  "That went well." Nick put his phone down and bounced his head hard against the headrest. "I told them to go home and I'd come back later but Stephanie says they're getting a hotel and will wait. I'd have come home on my own if I'd known…"

  "It wasn't like I could tell you in a text."

  "You could have friggin' called, man."

  "Yeah, like I was gonna mention a vampire on the phone, either. Do you even remember when we found out they were real?"

  Nick turned his head a couple inches, eyeing him, then scowled and looked away. "I guess…I don't know. I guess I was like eight? When Dad got the one but there was another and it followed him back to the motel. That was vampires, though. I guess I kind of knew about the freaks before that. Did you know before then?"

  "Yeah. He told me when I was littler than you. He'd come back from a bounty and hadn't gotten paid, and he told me it was because he didn't take money for the freaks." Chris's hands tightened on the wheel. "I'd forgotten that. I thought I'd always known."

  "He shouldn't have told you," Nick said in a low voice. "That was too much to put on a kid. You shouldn't even have known there wasn't any money."

  "Well, I could sure as shit tell there wasn't any dinner, so why not tell me the truth about why not?"

  "I don't know, Chris. He didn't really let you be a kid, that's all."

  "No, that was all saved for you." Chris bared his teeth like he could bite back the words, too late. From the corner of his eye he saw Nicky's nostrils flare and his jaw set, ending the conversation. Because that was Chris's particular talent, saying the wrong thing and not being able to find a way to back down from it. He drove a couple miles in silence, then turned the radio on. Old school Garth Brooks blared and he muttered, "Jesus," and rattled through channels until it picked up a Nebraska classic rock station that was at least better than the sullen quiet. Nick didn't object either way, his gaze fixed out the window as the miles slipped away, one bit of landscape mostly indistinguishable from another.

  The roads, though wet with melted ice from the thin sunlight and traffic, were clear, and the speed limit in Nebraska was forgiving. It only took a little over an hour of music interspersed with static to reach the GPS location his dad's last fight had been recorded at. The house sat on the edge of a small town, close enough that they could park elsewhere and walk back instead of announcing their presence by driving up through acres of nothing before coming in for the kill. There was a reason their dad had spent every dime he had on wide open spaces with not much to hide behind. Chris parked in front of a diner that he thought they might want to eat at later, and they both climbed out of the truck, stretching without speaking, until Nick said, "I gotta find a john," and went down the street toward a gas station.

  Chris stared after him a minute, then went into the diner, bought a cup of coffee, and went to use their bathroom, which was no doubt cleaner and warmer than the gas station's, while the waitress poured the cup for him. Going to the gas station was something their dad would have done. Off the radar, nobody looking twice, uncomfortable but discreet. Chris had stopped doing that as soon as he'd started taking bounties on his own.

  Because yeah, that was him, all right. The rebel son, marking his territory by taking a piss at a diner bathroom instead of freezing his balls off in a gas station. He drank his coffee too hot, left the waitress a tip he couldn't afford in exchange for a smile that was worth it, and went back out to the old truck.

  Nicky stood in its open door, layered up with a canvas coat that had fit him better four years ago, flannel beneath it, his pretty-boy college student shirt beneath that, until there was enough fabric to slow down a knife and stop teeth. Chris's coat was leather and padded for the cold midwestern winter, but the layers built up just the same for him, making a pass at armor that nobody took a second look at. "Nicky?"

  His brother stared into the tool box that had been in the back of the truck, the one that was really full of weapons, not hammers and screwdrivers. His expression was blank enough that maybe other people would see it as unreadable. Chris read a whole lot into it, though, all of it summed up when Nick said, "This is exactly what I was trying to get away from, Chris. This is the reason I left. This whole life. Bounty hunting, I mean, it's weird from most people's perspective, but it's a life. This, hunting freaks, this is…"

  "I know." Chris went quiet a couple of seconds. "I'm sorry."

  Nick looked up, surprised, before giving a stiff, one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah. Okay. Let's get it over with."

  CHAPTER 3

  The part Nick hated, the thing that really bothered him, was that the knives strapped to his thighs, the holy water hidden in his coat sleeves, the silver cross worn at his belt…all felt natural. Comfortable. Like he'd been wearing somebody else's clothes for most of four years and he'd finally put his own back on. If he'd forgotten how to walk silently, or how to signal to Chris that the room ahead was clear, or how to stop listening to the raised hairs on his nape that said something intangible was amiss, then he could have believed that Nick Cassidy, pre-med student, boyfriend, roommate, general laid-back dude, was the real him.

  But he hadn't forgotten. He still cased a room when he walked in, even his apartment or a classroom. He just hadn't known he was doing it until now, when walking through the low-slatted afternoon light of a killer's house reminded him that he'd never, ever stopped being what his dad had made him.

  A hunter.

  Mostly a bounty hunter, sure. He didn't even know how his dad had gotten into it, except he'd been good at finding people, and then somebody paid him for it, and then somebody else heard he was good at it, and…that had been most of their childhood, really, driving around in whatever beater their dad had gotten running that month, and staying at cheap motels, or in the car, while he found his quarry and turned them in. Nick thought Chris kept his old Dodge truck—and his slutmobile van that he'd rebuilt the engine on—in working condition as a commentary on their dad's inability to keep any vehicle functioning for more than six weeks. He didn't think Chris did it consciously, probably, but…yeah. Chris had never in his whole life believed he could walk away like Nick had done, but he had his own ways of letting their dad knew what he thought.

  Anyway, it would have been harder not to learn to track and cross-reference and follow clues, following his dad around like that, than to pick it up along the way. Chris had actually tried to. He'd wanted to be like their dad. Nick just fell into it, because with Chris and their dad, what else was he gonna do.

  And like Chris, he'd been good at it. Good enough that now, creeping through a poorly-lit house, looking for a monster to kill, seemed more like coming home than last night's funeral had.

  He swept around the last corner, entering a tired-looking kitchen: worn linoleum that had been printed with green and white flowers once upon a time, dirty windows made cloudier by thin brown paper, rust stains in a sink missing its faucet handles, a gas stove with only one knob, and a table surrounded by wobbly-looking chairs. One door led outside, and an inside door led to what was presumably the basement.

  Chris stood at that one already, waiting for him, and nodded down its steps. The first vampire Nick had ever seen came at them during the day, which their dad hadn't expected. He hadn't known enough then, but to be fair, there really weren't a lot of monsters out there. Not the non-human kind, anyway. There were more freaks, regular-looking people who could do things normal people couldn't. Chris crept down the stairs, knives out—they were quieter than guns—and Nick followed a few steps behind with a blade in one hand and a fragile vial of holy water in the other.

  Vamps caught their prey with glamours, mostly. Made people think they were something they weren't, until they ate them. Knives and guns slowed them down, but the rule was to kill them with something blessed. Holy water did the trick, or a blessed blade, but the blades only worked once if you wanted to save the vampire's soul. Anybody could bless one, too, if they believed, but it took a minute, and spare time didn't come up a lot in fights. Their dad had always figured cheap vials of holy water could be refilled with two minutes at a church font in almost any town anywhere in the country, which made them more reliable than blessed knives.