Alex Finch: Monster Hunter

by Cate Dean

  ALEX FINCH: MONSTER HUNTER

  The Monster Files Book 1

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2013

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

  Cover design by Jes Richardson.

  Sign up for Cate’s list: http://catedeanwrites.com/join-my-list/ to learn about new releases.

  Meet Alex Finch - tomboy, techno geek, monster hunter.

  Reluctant monster hunter.

  A school project, an absentminded project partner, and a misplaced backpack all change 16-year-old Alex Finch's life forever.

  In a single afternoon Alex finds the missing backpack, has a run-in with Sam, the boy she's had a crush on since first grade - and discovers that monsters are real.

  That mind-blowing incident throws her life in a completely different direction, uncovering secrets that cost her more than she could ever imagine. And the further she digs, the darker and more dangerous the secrets become.

  What else is hiding behind the ordinary facade of her California beach town?

  Alex is about to find out.

  Life is funny.

  Not ha-ha funny, but strange, smack-you-in-the-face, bizarro world funny.

  Who knew that one decision, one small, insignificant choice, would change my life? Change it in ways I could never even begin to imagine. And according to my mom, I have quite the imagination.

  Okay—let me back up, start closer to the beginning. Before the strange.

  My name is Alex Finch. Alex to everyone—except my mom, who insists on calling me by my given name: Margaret. Which is short for Margaret Agnes Alexandrea Finch. A mouthful, I know. I was blessed with the name of every aunt who didn’t have a child of their own. I was just thankful Mom didn’t have more sisters.

  Fortunately, Mom only drags the full name out when I’m in trouble. Since I tend toward the loner end of the social scale—meaning I spend copious amounts of time in my room—it’s easy to stay Margaret free most of the time.

  Basic statistics: I am sixteen, on the short side of short at barely over five feet, a devout tomboy, an only child, and more than a little bit of a techno geek, trapped in a school full of blonde and tan beach bunnies. Trust me, it can be challenging. The dance classes I’ve been taking since I was six get me out of my own head, and help keep me sane and centered. Without them I’d be kicking some blonde booty out of sheer frustration.

  I find myself talking to my laptop more than other people. Don’t laugh—I’ve had some of my best conversations with Red, my lightning fast, do-anything-I-can-program system.

  It may sound pathetic, and scream wallflower/no dates ever/why bother going to the dance syndrome, but at least Red doesn’t ask me if I’m sick again, and how a twelve week session in the tanning salon at the mall would give my pale skin such a nice glow . . .

  Yeah. So, there is my life in a few sentences. Short, pale geek, loner, and pretty much happy with the status quo.

  Until the day I discovered that monsters were real.

  1

  It could have been worse.

  Yes, it could have—I could have been stuck with Lance Rayner for the biggest, most important English assignment of my high school career. He had the sense of a rock, and dirt was smarter.

  Instead I was partnered with Misty Corwin. The Misty Corwin—Prom Queen, cheerleader, class president, and airhead extraordinaire. I had already chosen my book for the project, To Kill a Mockingbird, and was 99.9% certain she’d never even heard of it. I was doomed.

  And Misty cemented that fate by losing my notes three days into the project.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What do you mean, you lost them?”

  Misty tossed her waist length blonde hair over one shoulder, five foot ten inches of perfect lounging against the decorative arch leading into the school quad. She looked calm, but I could see the panic in those sky blue eyes. “I, you know, misplaced my backpack.”

  Who does that? I took a deep breath, let it out, promised myself a new toy for Red if I didn’t punch her. “Do you remember where you misplaced it?”

  “Um.” Now the panic spread across her face. This was not going to be pleasant. “I got on the bus near,” she looked around, as if some nefarious gossip was waiting to jump on every word. Yeah, I like words like nefarious. Sue me. “You know. The house.”

  “The house.” My hands itched, wanting so badly to shake her until she started making sense. She lost the notes, my notes on the project. Notes I had spent months on. She was going to be accountable. If the small, angry part of me I only let out once in a leap year had its way, she’d be paying in pain. “And that would be which house, out of the, oh, twenty thousand or so in Emmettsville?”

  Misty raised one perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow. “Sarcasm is like a second language to you, isn’t it?” I looked at her, startled, and I have to say, impressed. I didn’t think she even knew what sarcasm was. “The McGinty house—it’s the closest bus stop to my gym. I must have set the backpack down when I was getting change for the bus. I didn’t mean to, Alex.” She did the pretty little pout that worked with every teacher at school. I was, thankfully, immune. “This assignment is important to me, too.”

  “Okay.” I let out a sigh, partly because I knew she meant well, and partly to ease some of the desire to choke her blue. “Let’s go see if it’s still there.”

  “But I have practice!” She bounced off the arch, ready to cheer for her right to avoid this. “We have a game on Friday, and as head, I have to—”

  “You’re going with me.” I may be short, but I have this—tone. Mom calls it my “creep out the children” voice. Misty cringed like I had threatened her with imminent death. “We will hunt down the backpack, and you will not touch the notes again. Are we clear?”

  Misty seemed to shrink with every word. “Yeah. Can we go? I want to have some practice time.”

  I didn’t mention the fact that I would be missing dance class as I slung my messenger bag over one shoulder. No one at school knew that I was a dancer—and I didn’t want that to change now. I like having parts of my life separate, to avoid the pointing and laughing.

  I clamped my hand on her wrist, to keep her from sidetracking on me as we went past her fellow cheerleaders, and made her walk to the McGinty house. Where there was no backpack to be found.

  “You’re sure it was here?”

  Misty flipped her hair back, a sure sign she was irritated. “I was just here. This morning.” She spoke slowly, like I was an idiot, and pointed across the street. “My gym is right there. The same gym I go to three times a week. Good enough?”

  I pushed hair off my face, limp strands sticking to my skin. Walking here may have been punishment for her, but it didn’t do me any favors. The humidity coming off the ocean two blocks away made me long for air conditioning. Welcome to October in Southern California.

  “I’m going to check in the yard,” I said. “Maybe some kid threw it over the fence.”

  “You’re not—you’re going inside?”

  “It’s just a house, Misty.” She moved closer to the street, rubbing her arms. The McGinty house was the cliché that every neighborhood seemed to have—an overgrown, abandoned house that was, of course, haunted. I’m far too practical to believe that random spirits hang out in a dirty old house, waiting for some kid sneaking in on a dare. I handed her my messenger bag. “Try not to lose this one. I’ll be right back.”

  I opened the rusted wrough
t iron gate, which naturally squeaked. Inside, the wide lawn was overgrown with some kind of vine, spreading across patches of dry, dead grass, the mess covered by the first drop of fall leaves, and piles of trash. The sidewalk was cracked, and buckling under the pressure of the tree roots demanding more room.

  I scanned the side of the yard closest to me, looking for a backpack-shaped object among the trash, leaves and vines. Nothing.

  Pushing down pointless anger, I kept looking, forced to move deeper into the yard. Closer to the house, the trash piles got bigger, more dense. With a sigh, I pushed up the sleeves of my hoodie and resigned myself to getting dirty.

  Ten minutes later, all I had for my efforts were filthy hands and a nasty gash on my left forearm from a rusted can. Terrific. Tetanus shot time for me. I had a handkerchief in my messenger bag, and it was time to give up on the backpack, and my months of work.

  I could cobble the notes together again from the research on my computer. Unfortunately, most of them were handwritten during study period, when we aren’t allowed near the library computers. Please, don’t get me started.

  I know—I should have scanned them in, made a backup copy. I just didn’t expect anyone else to be touching them. Backups were number one on my new to do list.

  With a sigh, defeated, I started to turn toward the street—and I spotted it, a green bulk in the shadows of the porch.

  “Yes—” Forgetting the blood, and the filth coating my fingers, I moved to the steps. They looked—decrepit, but I wanted what was inside the backpack enough to risk it. Besides, the heavy leather of my motorcycle boots would protect me if I went through.

  I tested the first step. The wood screeched under my weight, but it held, so I took a chance. The screech became a squeal. I held my breath, ready to jump at the first crack. The squeal subsided to a grumbling moan. Encouraged, I moved to the second step. It got me close enough to reach for the strap.

  That was when I heard the growl.

  A feral dog—no surprise, since the house had been abandoned for years. I was already headed for a tetanus shot; I didn’t want stitches on top of it. Slowly, I straightened, feeling for the edge of the step. The growl escalated, turned into a vicious snarl. That snarl came from the half open front door, and somewhere above my shoulder.

  Whatever crouched in the shadows was huge.

  Heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat, I clutched the splintered rail, felt blood slide down my hand, drip on the step. Great. If the dog was hungry, the smell of blood would just make it a nastier opponent.

  I braced myself, my muscles tense, ready to spring. When I moved, it would have to be fast. And probably not fast enough. But standing here was a guaranteed lose-lose. At least if I ran I’d have a chance.

  I took in a shaky breath, bent my knees—and froze at the sound of footsteps behind me.

  “Did you find it? Oh, there it is.” Misty bounded up the stairs, barely making them squeak. How did she do that? Being ten inches taller than my barely over five feet, she had to weigh more than me. “I’ll get it and we can—”

  “Misty, no—”

  I shoved her on to the porch just as the snarling shadow bolted through the doorway, leaping over the stairs. Misty’s scream snapped me out of my panic. With the rabid animal outside, I took our only option: I dragged her inside and slammed the door behind us. The warped wood caught on the threshold, leaving a wide gap.

  We both backed away as a huge snout pushed through that gap. Misty screamed again. I clapped one hand over her mouth and pulled her further into the dark house, hoping to find a back door, a broken out window—some kind of exit. Hell, I was ready to kick out a wall if necessary.

  “Keep quiet.” I stood on tiptoe and whispered against her ear, waited for her to nod. “I’m going to try and find another way out.” I glanced down at her feet, and the three inch heels she wore. “Take off your shoes.”

  She stared at me, her eyes dilated. She was terrified, but she nodded, slipping them off. To my surprise she set them on the floor. She was leaving them behind.

  We moved into what looked like a formal dining room, and the front door slammed open. Misty jumped, but kept quiet, her gaze on me. I closed the door, noticed the blood trail I left behind me. We didn’t have much time.

  My gaze skated around the room, spotted the far window. It had been completely blown out, and was big enough to climb through with minimal damage. I motioned for Misty to go first, keeping myself between her and the door. Whatever stalked us had my scent, and the convenient spatter of my blood to lead it straight to us.

  Misty reached the window, and the way was still clear. I let out my breath, smiled at her.

  The tap of claws on wood warned me a second before the creature exploded through the door.

  I backpedaled, running into Misty. She let out a shriek and dropped to the floor. I swallowed, watching the creature stalk across the dining room.

  It looked like a mutant wolf—until it stood up on its hind legs, extended claws as long as my hand, and smirked at me. Yes, smirked. Seven feet of snarling, smirking black fur, with teeth that could rip my arm off without any effort.

  I crowded Misty against the wall, her whimpers almost as loud as the constant growling of the mouth-breathing monster. Panicked, I searched the floor around us for a weapon, any weapon, doing a mental head slap when I remembered my Swiss army knife in my back pocket. I froze mid reach when the creature stepped closer.

  It stank, like sweaty dog, with an odd, coppery stench that I finally recognized as blood. Horror coiled around the panic, and I pushed Misty along the wall, until we conveniently trapped ourselves in the corner.

  The creature turned its head, following our retreat. I swore that smirk turned into a grin. A nasty grin. It was toying with us, playing with its food. I was insulted, and relieved. The game gave me more time to figure a way out of this alive.

  I reached behind me to find Misty, and my fingers hit up against something metal. It pressed into my palm, and I realized Misty was handing it to me. I closed my fingers around it, recognizing the shape.

  A curved iron leg, like the kind off an old woodstove. We had one in our family room, complete with lion’s paw feet. If nothing else, I could surprise the creature, maybe give us enough time to get out the window. It was better defense than the three inch blade in my knife.

  I felt Misty ease up behind me. Good—she was getting ready. Now it was my turn.

  Stepping forward, I pressed the makeshift weapon against my leg.

  “Hey.” The creature tilted its head, dark, red rimmed eyes studying me. I’m guessing its food didn’t talk back all that often. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Before I could rethink my stupid move I swung the iron leg like a bat.

  It slammed into the left front leg—and the creature let out a howling scream that threatened to burst my eardrums.

  I didn’t wait around to see the results. Grabbing Misty, I bolted to the window and shoved her out headfirst, following so fast I landed on top of her. We untangled limbs, and I hauled her upright, ignoring the burn from my gash. My dash for freedom was brought to an abrupt halt by her pained gasp.

  “My hair is caught,” she whispered. Tears slipped down her face. “I’m sorry.”

  I followed the line of her sleek blonde hair, pulling my knife out of my pocket. It was caught, all right. In the jagged corner of the windowsill.

  “Hold still.” I set the iron leg still in my hand on the ground. How I managed to hold on to it was a discussion for another time. When I could breathe without terror squeezing my lungs. I tugged at her hair. It didn’t budge. I took a closer look, aware that the creature could burst through the window at any second. Long strands were tangled around the wood, wedged between the sill and the wall. I caught her hand, pulled her closer. “I’ll try to get it free.”

  She shook her head, glancing at my knife. “Just cut it. Hurry.”

  I snapped the blade out and sawed at her hair, flinching ever
y time she whimpered. After the last strands were cut, I picked up the iron leg, and moved away from the window, checking our escape options.

  We were at the back of the house, trapped by an eight foot version of the spike tipped wrought iron fence. McGinty must have been one paranoid man. And we weren’t getting out that way.

  Before I could stop her, Misty disappeared around the corner. The creature didn’t follow us out the window, like I expected, so it could be anywhere—and that included waiting for us to run out front and straight into its sharp claws.

  “Misty!” I tried not to shout her name, but I needed her to hear me. I skidded around the corner and ran right into her. She clutched my injured arm; the pain almost buckled my knees. “God—”

  “Sorry.” She snatched her hand away, and saw the blood-smeared gash. “Oh, Alex,” she whispered. “That thing didn’t—”

  “Rusty can.” I caught my breath, cradled my throbbing arm. Leaning in, I kept my voice as low as possible. The creature probably had the keen hearing of a wolf, and already pinpointed our position. “I’m going to go first. If I tell you to run, you run. No hesitation, no looking back.”

  “What about you?” Her concern left me feeling—odd. No one at school ever . . . Never mind.

  “I’ll be right behind you. Promise,” I said, when she gave me the skeptical eye. “Are you okay to run?”

  We both looked down at her feet, at the bloody footprints in the dirt. Glass littered the ground, and she obviously found her share of it.

  “I’m good. The pain’ll come after, I’m sure.” She tried a smile, failed miserably. I appreciated the effort. Miss Prom Queen kept surprising me. “Don’t play the martyred hero. I really, really don’t want to do the project on my own.”

  Before today, I didn’t want to do the project with her at all. Now I wanted to live through this, just to see what kind of awesome we could create. And I don’t use that word often—especially with anything relating to school.