The Hunter's Call (Monster Hunter Academy Book 1)

by D. D. Chance

  “If by much, you mean gorgeous, sure,” I deadpanned. We’d walked the short distance to Beacon Hill without speaking, Tyler clearly needing the time to compose himself. Even now, he seemed way more on edge than I suspected most college guys did going to have an impromptu chat with their dad.

  “You’re not in trouble, are you?” I asked, though the question seemed ridiculous. Tyler was twenty-two years old, not seven.

  He lifted one shoulder. “It’s hard to say. Growing up with him was a pain in the ass, but since I started at Wellington, Dad has pretty much left me alone. Once it was clear that I had the monster hunting gene in me, our branch of the Perkins elevated a little bit in social standing among the rich and magical Boston families. Even saying that is kind of ridiculous, since we were already pretty close to the top of the heap. But with these people, you can never be too rich or too magical. Dad let it be known I was expected to act like a deeply powerful wizard at all times, without ever explicitly saying that’s what I was.”

  “That’s kind of a lot,” I agreed. “All I had to do was keep from being eaten.”

  He laughed and reached for my hand, and we mounted the staircase together. As we neared the massive front door, it opened, and a dark-haired man in a subdued but well-cut gray suit stood to the side, his long, narrow face somehow managing to look merry despite his passive features.

  “Master Tyler,” he intoned, his voice low and vaguely British—because of course it was. I was pretty sure that’d been a condition of his employment.

  “Paul,” Tyler said. “They haven’t gotten the best of you yet.”

  A wisp of a smile flitted across the man’s face. “And they won’t, Master Tyler,” he said with a tone that indicated this was a long-standing joke. “They won’t.”

  Tyler gestured my way. “Nina, this is Paul, one of the few saving graces of this house, for all that he should’ve left our sorry family a long time ago. Paul, I’d like you to meet Nina Cross. She’s one of my friends from the academy. Our newest monster hunter, in fact.”

  Paul turned to me and gave me a genuine smile. “Any friend of Master Tyler’s is welcome here,” he pronounced. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cross.”

  He turned smartly on his heel and led us through the house, which was like walking through a museum. Ornate, heavily framed paintings hung on the walls, inlaid wood and marble-topped furniture lined the corridors, and the hardwood floors gleamed with fresh polish. The rooms all smelled faintly of lemon and cloves, and Tyler seemed to fill the space naturally, while I did my best not to feel like a country mouse.

  But when we entered a room that could only be described as a parlor, I hesitated. A gust of cold air seemed to flow from the room, and Tyler gave me a conspiratorial wink as Paul ushered us into the gorgeously decorated chamber. Floor-to-ceiling gilt-framed paintings lined the Prussian-blue walls, hanging regally above the dark mahogany floor and a plush, buff-colored rug. Gold-filigreed furniture upholstered in thick, creamy fabric caught and held my attention. It was probably the most lavishly furnished room I’d ever seen.

  “Don’t be all that impressed. We were born into this,” Tyler reminded me, though I couldn’t pull my gaze away from the paintings. Is that a real Rembrandt? “We didn’t make it happen out of whole cloth.”

  “But we could have done so,” a man’s sharp, stentorian declaration broke over us, and I turned sharply to see that the room was already occupied by a man who had to be Tyler’s father. Dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, steel-blue tie, and crisp white shirt that somehow seemed not at all out of place for a casual afternoon at home, Mr. Perkins was as tall as Tyler and well-built, his body not at all going to paunch. Though currently marred by his too-intense, stony expression, his face was arrestingly handsome. He was Tyler, just thirty years older.

  His gaze dropped to where Tyler and I continued holding hands, but Tyler remained unfazed. “You rang?” Tyler asked drolly. “Dad, Nina Cross. Nina, my father, the esteemed Theodore Perkins.”

  His father stiffened, as Tyler had clearly intended him to do. “I would not have been forced to make such an abrupt summons were you ever to return my calls or read your emails,” he replied, echoing the injured tone of parents everywhere, no matter their socioeconomic position. “You do recognize that I am the one who makes your education possible.”

  “Actually, it gives me great pleasure to know that you’re not, at least not directly. I can thank the founders of Wellington Academy for that.”

  “Of which the Perkins family is a decidedly large part,” his dad countered, but the argument once again had the air of a well-worn exchange, much like the one Tyler had shared with Paul.

  I suddenly wondered about Tyler’s mother. He’d said she’d passed away a long time ago, and given the chill in this room, I could believe it. It couldn’t have been easy living in this big old house alone. I glanced to the walls with all their elaborate oil paintings, remembering Tyler’s story of ghosts. Perhaps not so alone after all.

  Mr. Perkins clasped his wrists behind his back and turned, focusing more directly on Tyler. “There has been a series of rumors circulating about the Perkins family being involved in these recent assaults,” he said, emphasizing the last word with a sneer of entitled derision. “Which is ridiculous. I’m sure you know the events I’m referencing. We cannot allow these rumors to continue.”

  “I figured that’s what this was about,” Tyler said, sounding so supremely confident that I blinked. I didn’t think he’d figured that out, actually, but you’d never know it from his attitude now. “We’re on it. We’re going to track down this Boston Brahmin character and take him out.”

  His father’s lips thinned. “That is not the only problem. I need to know—we need to know—who is behind the chatter being stirred up. Someone is trying to assign blame for these attacks on the Perkins family, and that cannot stand. We have never tolerated the slightest hint of scandal, and we’re not about to start now. It’s time for you to do your job, Tyler.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not the biggest issue here. I think we can survive a little bad press,” Tyler drawled. He pulled his hand away from mine and took a step toward his father, positioning himself between the two of us. I didn’t understand the move for a second, until I returned my focus to his dad. Mr. Perkins’s face had hardened swiftly at Tyler’s dismissal, his lips pinching together and his eyes flattening. All at once, he seemed larger, more imposing. He alarmed me, and I’d never been hit by the man.

  He took a step toward us, practically vibrating with anger. When he spoke, his words were low and intense. “And I will have you know that you couldn’t be more wrong. You know nothing of the strictures of our society, by your willful design, and I have allowed you your freedom. But if I say these rumors are a problem, you can well believe they’re a problem, and that you should do something about them right now with your innate Perkins talent—talent that I do not possess, to my own great misfortune. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I cannot act merely because I cannot wield great magic. That has never been a problem for the Perkins family.”

  He flicked snake-cold eyes toward me. Despite Tyler standing between us, I fought the urge to recoil. “And you’re not helping matters, Ms. Cross. In fact, I’ll happily recommend to have you removed from the academy unless I’m given some indication as to your value.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Tyler snapped, his tone as icy as his father’s. The walls seemed to shiver a little around us, restless spirits stirring. “You have no authority—”

  “I have every authority. Which you would know if you’d paid any attention to the family history. Do not test me on this, Tyler. It’s important.”

  Tyler set his jaw. “I told you, we’ll get the Brahmin—”

  “I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about the Brahmin,” his father bit out. “I need to know who’s behind this attack against our family, and we both know who can provide us the information. I want that informat
ion. Now.”

  “Dad,” for the first time, Tyler faltered. A hint of genuine alarm crept into his words. “That’s not how this works. I can’t just snap my fingers, and—”

  “Now,” his father insisted. And I saw it then, the genuine fear in his eyes covered over and shoved back at the indignation that he should ever be made to suffer such a base emotion. “I will not let what is left of our family be ruined by scandalmongers. I want to know what’s going on.”

  Tyler expelled a deep and heavy breath, his hands lifting as his head bowed. I stared at him as his expression changed, no longer projecting the gorgeous, confident college guy I’d come to know and already care for, but an innocent, unlined face with wide eyes, a child’s eyes, his gaze rapt as his fingers spread wide in supplication.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

  23

  For a long second, nothing happened. The fire crackled in the grate, a far-off clock ticked, and the world seemed to be holding its breath. Then the walls literally detonated with noise.

  A raging roar of wind whipped through the room, rattling the pictures and spinning the furniture around. I lurched back, toppling over a chair I hadn’t noticed was there, landing in the embrace of its giant wingback arms. I immediately tried to scramble upright, but something kept me in place, a pressure that didn’t hurt me, but rendered me immobile all the same. I had my knife on me, but it was all the way down by my ankle, and my wrists were held flat to the armrests of the chair, my shoulders pinned back.

  “Oh dearie, stop worrying so much and enjoy the show,” a creaky, yet also clearly delighted voice sounded in my ear, the whisper of lilies tickling my nose above the howl of the wind. “We haven’t had this chance in so long.”

  Tyler whirled on me in the midst of the storm, his eyes going wide. His hair whipped around his face, and his hands were out, as if trying to clear a space around him from the press of bodies surging close. And there were bodies, I could tell, though they were little more than misty forms to me. In the blink of an eye, the room had been filled to bursting with…ghosts?

  “You can hear them?” Tyler demanded, and his father turned as well, his aristocratic brows shooting skyward.

  “You can hear,” he declared, but didn’t sound as upset as I would have expected, more satisfied. A wave of chattering exploded through the room, the decibel level skyrocketing. Flinching back, I twisted in my seat, desperately wishing I could clap my hands over my ears.

  “Oh William, William, you’ve done it now, haven’t you? Upset the largest and the best of the firsts, and that’s saying something. Who is it, do you suppose? Who could it be? Randy?”

  A chorus of scoffs met this suggestion. “Not Randy, Randy doesn’t have the power for this kind of thing. We’re dealing with somebody who knows black magic.”

  “Black magic,” tittered the grandmotherly spirit apparently anchoring me to my chair. “My favorite kind of magic of all. Do you suppose he’ll raise old Myrtle? I do miss her.”

  “Myrtle was a cow, and she got what she deserved,” another spirit snapped. My caretaker hissed with indignation, anger electrifying her retort—so maybe not so grandmotherly after all. This continued, while wind whirled and crashed, and I struggled to follow the conversation. Tyler’s father turned suddenly, as if shoved in the shoulder, his face going sheet white as he toppled back onto a couch.

  “You dare,” he began, but his protest was lost in a crashing wave of reaction from the spirit world, equal parts satisfaction and outrage.

  Through all of it, Tyler stood stock-still, his feet planted, his pants tight against his legs, his shirt untucking and lifting a little to reveal his clenched abs, his jaw jutting out against the force whipping through the room. He rocked a little, buffeted by the nearly unseen storm, but he said not another word.

  “Who is doing this?” his dad demanded from his sprawl on the couch, somehow managing to look elegant even toppled over.

  “Well, Malcolm would know, eh?” Someone responded, and another chorus rose. “Oh, yes, he would at that. But where is he, the blackguard? Always the way, isn’t it? Needs to put on the fancy, walk his own solitary path. Insulting, you ask me…” The responses began to build up, and I could almost see their owners now taking form in the mist, white-haired and sumptuously dressed, men and women alike, chattering and preening and now looking around with unmistakable interest.

  “He never did like coming out of the room. I bet he’s there.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, you’re right. I’m sure of it. Off we go, then, time for answers. I bet it’s the Greens. Nasty pieces of work, them, and that Winifred—”

  Tyler’s father moaned, lifting his hand to loosen his tie. He was clearly sensing the chaos around him, even if he couldn’t hear or see what was causing it.

  “Dad?” Tyler asked sharply, and his father waved him off.

  “Go—please,” he managed, and then, as I stared in utter shock, Theodore Perkins passed out cold.

  Tyler stiffened, then wheeled around and fixed his gaze on me.

  “She comes too,” he ordered, and to my surprise, the pressure lifted from my shoulders and I was able to spring out of the chair. The wind in the parlor didn’t cease, and I fought my way through it. Tyler was already running by the time we reached the door. He raced down the hallway and up a flight of stairs, then a second, this final floor clearly where the home’s bedrooms were located. We reached his room, and he flung open the door.

  I gasped at the sight. It looked like a museum display of a little boy all alone—a very unique little boy. Maps hung on every wall, from Boston’s elegant street grid to the sweeping breadth of the US to separate images of all the continents of the world. Beside them hung carefully lettered lists, drawings of weapons, and pictures of monsters. I didn’t know if the monsters were real or made up, but I didn’t have much time to study them as the ghosts came flowing in beside us and around us. Tyler slammed the door shut and locked it as the other spirits rushed toward a little man made up of slightly thicker mists, squinting up at a map of Boston. He had a top hat and long tails to his coat, which somehow made him seem even shorter.

  “’Bout time,” he snapped, his voice rushing through me as he poked his finger at Boston Public Garden, the action toppling back his ghostly hat, which dissolved in an instant, leaving a corona of flying white hair over the pinched eyes, long, beaked nose, and pointed chin with a scruff of a white beard. “You have the right of it, boy. This is where it starts. But don’t look to us for answers as to what git is behind this. We’ve got no bloody idea why they’re bothering poor William. He was a troublemaker and a blowhard, always thinking someone was after him, but I can’t say he might not have been right.”

  “Poor William, poor foolish William,” agreed the others on a gusting sigh. “Might have been right.”

  “Who the fuck is William?” Tyler protested, the first sign that he might be dealing with an entirely different level of assault, combining noise and ghostly imagery, while I only saw the barest outlines and heard an echo of the roar.

  The little man whirled and looked at Tyler with a disapproving glare, his white hair floating off his head in puffs of mist as he pointed a long finger at Tyler. “Language,” he said stiffly. “Especially with a lady present.”

  “But why him?” Tyler pressed. “What’s the significance? Is the family in danger?”

  “That’s all I’ve got, boy. I’ll tell you this, though, Mildred has the right of it. There’s some really deep magic going on here. All sorts of monsters to be coming out of the woodwork. Long overdue, you ask me.”

  The spectral chorus chimed in on this last, eagerly agreeing.

  Tyler rocked back on his heels, but didn’t give up trying to learn more. “But why us? Is Dad right? Is the Perkins family at risk?”

  Malcolm flapped his hands. “Please. We’ve been at risk since we laid the cornerstone of Wellington Academy. For every light, there is a darkness. For every good, an evil.”

&n
bsp; “But what—how—?”

  “You’ll see, you’ll see. But first get Willie out of this mess. He was a foozler and a flapdoodle, but he doesn’t deserve this, the old salt.”

  “That old salt is beating the crap out of people,” Tyler retorted, and the little man balled up his fists.

  “Language, boy. Now go get Willie. The whos and whats and behinds it will have to wait.”

  And then…they were gone.

  Absolute silence filled the room, as far below us, there was a crash, Paul’s alarmed reaction carrying two flights up. “Mr. Perkins. My God, sir, wake up!”

  Tyler sagged forward, and I rushed over to him, catching him as he sank to the floor. “Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

  “Yeah…yeah,” he said. He shook his head, leaning against me.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” I continued. “You were amazing.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed, a little unsteadily. “I mean wow. You freaking talked to the dead.”

  He grimaced. “Only my dead,” he said with a laugh. “My family. That’s plenty.”

  “Well, you were awesome.”

  “I’m so cold,” he muttered. “Been a while.”

  “Shhhh.” It was natural to hug him close, the aftereffects of magic rushing through us, the sound of spectral chatter echoing around the room. We rocked together, and gradually, the shock and adrenaline of the last few minutes ebbed away…inviting something else in its wake. A closeness I’d never felt before. A camaraderie. And a need that spiraled through me, slowly at first, then more quickly, more intense. A need to do more than hold Tyler…so much more.

  Tyler seemed to sense it too. He shuddered in my arms, turning toward me, his eyes soft, unfocused. “Nina,” he whispered. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against mine.

  Something cracked loudly behind us, but I couldn’t focus on that, I couldn’t focus on anything but Tyler in my arms, touching me, kissing me. The rush of sensation swept through me as violently as it had the first few times we’d kissed, only this time, there was nothing to keep me from giving in to it. I was alone, with Tyler, in his room, next to his childhood freaking bed, perfect and pristine. We shouldn’t do anything here. We couldn’t. It was his house. His father lived here. His father, the house staff, and the ghosts of all the Perkins past.