Hey, guys! Just another friendly reminder that No Grave is coming out in a few weeks. During the lead-up, I’ll be posting a few small segments introducing some of the new cast and helping you remember some of the lovely people you met in No Reflection. Our second installment will introduce you to Tristan Wallace, monster slayer extraordinaire and another of our narrators.
Now presenting…Tristan Wallace:
“A liter and a half…that’s some bold shit, mano.”
Alex adjusted his aviator shades. The sun glinted gold off the lenses as he tilted his face toward the hospital across the street.
“Or desperate,” Tristan replied, scratching a bristling shadow of beard. Dracs didn’t usually drain that much in one go, not off a single victim. It was the sort of thing that got noticed, and monsters lived and died by one rule: don’t get noticed.
“A drac starving out in New York?” Alex gestured at the crowd milling over the gum-stained sidewalk. “No way. Place is an all-you-can-eat buffet for a smart monster.”
“Never said it was smart,” Tristan muttered. He pointed to the bun nested on top of Alex’s head, “Speaking of which, boyo…how many times am I going to have to tell you to get a haircut before you swing by a barber’s?”
Alex’s lips parted in an off-white smirk. “Least one more.”
“One of these days, something’s going to grab you by the hair when you’re trying to make a run for it, and that’ll be the end of that.”
Alex shrugged, leaning back against the slender column of a streetlight. “We’ll see.”
Tristan stared at the Missing Persons posters plastered up the length of the steel pole. A young woman’s face peered back from one of them, a girl he’d place in her late teens. He studied the shape of her nose, the narrow bridge and pointed tip of it, and the way her eyebrows peaked like arrows toward her hairline. Details were important. The devil was in them, after all. A stranger remembering the slight asymmetry of a young woman’s eye height could mean the difference between a family reunion and a funeral.
He’d had a daughter, once.
He tore his eyes away from the photograph and dug his hand into his pants’ pocket to touch the purple chip he carried with him. It was a small token with a slate texture and a hundred microscopic ridges running along its spine. He’d earned it at their last meeting two weeks ago. Nine months sober. He prayed to it, clutched in his palm like a bundled rosary, and withdrew his hand. Alex was still staring at the hospital. Tristan cleared his throat. “Sam’s late.”
“He’ll be here soon.”
Tristan nodded and tried to keep his eyes away from the dozen Missing Person posters fading white on the lamp post. He focused on the revolving hospital doors. There’s a job to do, he reminded himself. A monster to catch. He put on a worn, wrinkle-chipped grin. “What do you think Sammie’s going to set us up with, this time?”
“NYPD, bet on it. Hell, I’ll put down ten bucks.”
Tristan shook his head, “No deal, boyo.”
“No, just not stupid.”
Alex’s smirk spread into a full-faced smile. “NYPD, definitely.” He pulled on a silver necklace and lifted a small badge from under his shirt, “Boy’s gonna get me in trouble, one of these days.”
“If you don’t do it yourself, first,” Tristan replied. Alex had used his resources as a legal bounty hunter more than a couple times to help them track a monster through the New York streets. Of course, rule-breaking was par for the course for a hunter. “Besides, Sammie’s stuff is solid.”
“Says the guy who didn’t want to recruit him.”
“He’s a good Man in Havana, sure, but the boy’s still a bloody boy.”
“Twenty-five years old.”
“Kidding me, twenty-five years old. I was half-retired when he was shitting himself in diapers.”
“Yeah, and you’ll be glad to have him when it turns the other way around, old man.”
“Fuck you,” Tristan couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.
“And you better say a little less before I show you what kind of tricks an old dog like me’s picked up over the years.”
Alex stepped away from the lamp post with a wide grin, “Go ahead. Maybe I can show you some new ones.”
Tristan held up a hand and nodded to a figure maneuvering through the thick downtown crowd. Sam was so grayed out Tristan barely noticed him: he wore an unaccented beige overcoat over olive pants, a plain gray shirt, and featureless sneakers—clothing picked out to blend in, manufactured to vanish. His bright blond hair was trimmed short, but not military-style, with bowl-cut bangs an inch above his eyebrows and nothing hanging loose around his ears. He was a bit pale, ghost-like except for the fading remnants of a country tan, but there was plenty of pale to go around in the Financial District. Tristan smiled. “At least the boy listens when I tell him something.”
“Yeah, and you still picked him out.”
“I got training for that.”
Tristan could hear Alex’s eyes roll behind the golden sheen of his shades. “Whatever you say, mano.”
Sam pulled out a pair of leather-bound ID cards as he came up to them, “NYPD detectives. We’re just doing a routine follow-up interview with the victim…crossing, dotting, the usual type stuff. Tristan, you’re going in as Detective O’Malley. Alex, you’ll be Detective Vasquez.”
“Ten bucks,” Alex held out his hand.
“I didn’t take the bet, boyo.”
Tristan took the leather-bound bifold from Sam, “And who are you?”
“Be going in as Detective Howard.”
“Howard, Vasquez, O’Malley…sounds a bit memorable.”
“Well…” Sam took a deep breath, the kind people take when they know they’ve screwed up. “What’s a really common Irish name?”
“So maybe…Detective Brennan and, uh, Detective Ramirez?”
“I get this feeling I’m being typecast,” Alex said.
Tristan snorted, “That’s half the point. Quick and forgettable.”
“The names’ll have to wait ‘till next time, anyway,” Sam fumbled his own bifold open and showed them the NYPD emblem and ID badge inside. “I already made everything up under O’Malley and Vasquez, even got it so the badge numbers call up records if someone digs into them.”
“Really?” Alex asked.
“Now, they won’t hold up to a real investigation, but as long as no one starts making phone calls, we should be fine.”
Tristan nodded. “Then let’s not waste any more daylight.”
They split up, each one weaving away from the others through the lunch hour street traffic. It was part of their approach ritual. The monster’s axiom wasn’t just for monsters, after all. A good hunter was an invisible hand. A good hunter left a series of vague eyewitness accounts and disconnected paper trails in the wake of a downed beast. A dead werewolf didn’t look much different from a dead human, after all, and nobody did the world much good behind the coal-colored bars of a prison cell.Share This: