Dawn crept through Bobby's dusty curtains like an uninvited guest, painting the cluttered room in streaks of pale gold. I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. Every muscle screamed in protest, a souvenir from yesterday's telekinesis drills where Bobby thought launching scrap metal at me "built character."
Over by the kitchen counter, Dean was already up—of course he was—flipping pancakes one-handed while scrolling through his nokia phone with the other.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he chirped, sliding a plate stacked with what might've been pancakes—or charcoal disks—across the counter.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Why are you so chipper?"
"Because," Sam chimed in from the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, "some of us don't snore like a chainsaw after a bender."
"I do not snore," I mumbled, grabbing a pancake and taking a bite. Regret instantly followed. It tasted like a burnt tire because Dean playing with his phone so this it what became the pancake now.
Bobby shuffled in next, looking like he'd aged another decade overnight. He tossed me a set of keys.
"Don't wreck her," he said.
I caught them midair, twirling the slightly rusted Nissan key fob between my fingers. Bobby's way of saying "good luck" without actually admitting he cared.
"We've got twelve hours to Nebraska," Sam said, his tone all business now. "Let's move."
The Impala rumbled out first, Dean at the wheel, Sam already nose-deep in research. Bobby's truck followed, belching exhaust like an asthmatic dragon. I slid into the 350Z's cracked leather seat and inhaled deeply—oil, old coffee, a hint of gunpowder. Home.
"Alright, girl," I muttered, firing up the engine. It purred under my touch. "Let's see what you've got."
The tires kicked up gravel as I peeled out, the radio blasting classic rock that rattled the rearview mirror.
13 Hours Later — St. Louis, Missouri
The city skyline rose in the distance, the Arch glinting like a giant silver sickle under the bleeding sunset. I rolled into the first motel I found—the Lucky Star, which looked like it should've been condemned in the '80s—and booked a room that smelled like bleach, cheap cologne, and broken dreams.
The clerk behind the counter was gaunt, with yellowed teeth and a crossword puzzle he seemed way too invested in.
"Room 12. Don't smoke, don't party, don't make me call the cops," he droned, sliding the key across the counter without making eye contact.
"Got Wi-Fi?" I asked, hopeful.
He blinked at me like I'd asked for the nuclear codes. "We don't got that."
Of course they didn't.
Room 12 was a masterpiece of bad decisions—flickering lightbulbs, floral wallpaper peeling in the corners, and a mattress that probably moonlighted as a medieval torture device. I set an array of salt lines and wards around the room before crashing, gun tucked under my pillow.
Morning came too soon.
A cold shower and two energy bars later, I was back on the road, windows down, letting the crisp Missouri air clear the lingering exhaustion from my system.
First stop: the morgue.
St. Louis County Medical Examiner's Office was exactly the sterile, fluorescent-lit nightmare you'd expect. I flashed my fake FBI badge—"Agent Romanoff"—at the receptionist, a harried woman sipping from a "World's Best Grandma" mug. She waved me through without a second glance.
The ME, Dr. Rosenthal, was elbow-deep in a corpse when I found him.
"Ah, Agent…?"
"Romanoff," I supplied, trying not to breathe too deeply. Formaldehyde was not my favorite cologne.
"Here about the missing hearts," he said grimly, peeling off his gloves.
"You're the third Fed this month," he added with a glance.
"We like to be thorough," I said, stepping closer to the body.
The victim's chest cavity looked like it had been cored out by a blender. No precision cuts, no hesitation. Whatever did this was strong, fast, and surgical in its own monstrous way.
"No defensive wounds," Rosenthal muttered. "No struggle. Just… gone."
I leaned in, using my enhanced vision—a gift from a particularly vampires I'd absorbed weeks ago. Faint, almost invisible marks ringed the ribcage.
Claws.
Precise.
Hess's work.
Had to be.
"Victims connected?" I asked.
"Different ages, different backgrounds," Rosenthal said, frustration coloring his voice. "Only thing in common—"
"Weird dreams before they died?" I finished for him.
He blinked. "How did you—?"
"Lucky guess," I said, flipping him a fake card. "Call me if anything else pops up."
The trail led to a rundown apartment complex on the city's ragged outskirts. According to police reports, Tommy Reynolds—victim number three—had lived here before he was found heartless in his truck.
Mrs. Grady, his neighbor, answered her door surrounded by a small army of cats. She handed me a cup of tea that smelled suspiciously like catnip.
"Tommy was a sweet boy," she said, patting a tabby clinging to her robe. "Quiet. But lately… nightmares. Said he dreamed about a throne made of bones."
I tensed.
Kharon.
"Anyone unusual hanging around?" I asked, keeping my voice casual.
Mrs. Grady's eyes lit up. "Now that you mention it—a man in a lab coat. Kept asking Tommy strange questions. Had the creepiest smile you ever saw."
Hess.
"Catch his name?"
She shook her head. "But he gave me the heebie-jeebies."
I thanked her, leaving my real number—sweet old ladies deserved honesty—and headed out.
Sunset found me at the edge of town.
The abandoned meatpacking plant loomed ahead, rusted metal siding flaking under the dying light. Perfect spot for a mad scientist setting up shop.
I parked a block away, shouldered my duffel, and approached on foot. Every step closer, the air thickened, like wading through invisible molasses.
Then I felt it.
That familiar, oily presence curling around the edges of my mind.
Kharon.
"Welcome, thief," a voice purred inside my skull.
I cracked my knuckles, a grin tugging at my mouth despite the danger.
"Miss me?" I whispered.
No answer. Only a low, thrumming pulse that seemed to shake the very earth beneath me.
I drew in a slow breath, summoning the power burning in my blood. Telekinesis. Speed. Shielding. Strength. Gifts I'd earned the hard way—and gifts Kharon seemed very interested in.
I wasn't just a target anymore.
I was a threat.
For a split second, doubt flickered. Was this the life I'd been reincarnated for? To be bait in some cosmic horror show?
No.
This was my story.
Kharon wanted a thief?
Fine.
I'd steal his throne out from under him and make damn sure he never saw it coming.
I ghosted toward the building, heart hammering.
Time to hunt the hunter.