Just like his father.

And yup, all of this winning personality and character of his? He’d brought it and a bag of chips right through this poor female’s door. In the middle of an impending personal crisis for her that she had no idea was coming.

He was such a fucking hero, wasn’t he.

With hard pulls, he shucked his leathers off his legs and then he put himself under the blistering hot water. The nerves in his skin immediately flared with agony, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from cursing at the pain. But he wanted the punishment. He had earned it.

For never being the hero.

Syn used whatever soap she had, running the bar all over his body and his hair and his face. After he rinsed off, he stood there under the slicing heat to make extra sure he was clean, and then he cut the boiling spray and stepped over the lip of her plastic tub. Using one of the two towels that hung on the rod by the toilet, he wanted to tell her she should burn the thing after he was done.

He felt as if he was contaminating her entire living space with his mere presence.

When there was nothing left to dry off, he stared down through the lazy, swirling mist at the pool of black leather and moisture-wicking nylon formed by his discarded clothes. He did not want to put them back on his soaped-and-rinsed skin. Not while he was under her roof. The set had been worn when he had slaughtered lessers who had deserved his killing, as well as a number of humans who had begged for mercy that hadn’t come unto them. His togs were bloodstained, sweat-soaked, and carrying the residue of gunpowder and death.

And yet she spoke of cologne.

Humans clearly had inferior noses—

The shriek outside the bathroom was high-pitched and could only have come from Jo.

Syn grabbed the gun that he had put within reach on her counter, ripped open the door, and jumped out with the muzzle up and his finger on the trigger.

Over by the door, Jo and a teenage human male both froze. Then the delivery boy’s eyes popped wide and his hands went up. Jo, who was bent to the side and holding a pizza box awkwardly, looked like she would have done the same if she could have.

Then her eyes dropped down.

And… not to his weapon. As they peeled wide, she was clearly shocked at his nakedness.

“I just dropped the p-p-p-pizza,” the teenager stammered. “I swear. That was all.”

Jo moved slowly, righting herself. “I was taking the change from him at the same time—”

“—that the box slipped—”

“—out of his hands.”

Syn breathed in and smelled absolutely no fear at all coming from his female. Putting his weapon down by his thigh, he nodded.

“Y-y-you want a refund?” the delivery boy asked. “I can give you a refund. I mean, I messed up—”

“Whatever she wants goes,” Syn said as he stepped back into the bathroom and shut the door.

Hanging his head, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

Oh, wait. He knew that list all too well.

And one of the entries was that a gangster had ordered Syn to kill the very female… he had insisted on going home with.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mr. F ran in a straight line. He ran fast. He ran quiet.

With the speed of a sprinter and the endurance of a marathoner, he went deeper into the rough areas of Caldwell, to the places where he wouldn’t have trod back when he’d been on his wanders as an addict. He passed by apartments and then tenements and then crack dens that sprouted like weeds in abandoned buildings. And still he kept going, his breathing even and steady, his legs churning, his feet landing solidly.

No, no, no—

The word banged around his head to the rhythm of his footfalls, and every time it hit the inside of his skull, he saw an image of those dirty white robes, that spilling shadow under the hem, the menace that contaminated the night air with its arrival. He did not know its name, yet he recognized who it was.

The one who had found him under the bridge. The one who had taken him to that abandoned strip mall. The one who had drained him and filled him with something terrible—

The end of the alley arrived with no preamble. One minute Mr. F had an endless, shitty road ahead of him through the forest of tenements and drug houses. The next, his path was blocked by a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence littered with plastic bags, off-kilter “No Trespassing” signs, and random pieces of faded, dirty clothing. Like the thing was a strainer in a drain.

At least he knew this flimsy barrier wasn’t going to be a problem.

Taking a running jump, he sprung some ten feet up and gripped a hold into the links with fingers like steel cables. Hand over hand, he climbed for the coils of barbed wire at the top, his upper body strength so great that he could allow his legs to hang free—

A hand clamped on his ankle.

And as soon as the contact was made, the wash of feelings that went through Mr. F was horrible, every sadness he had ever felt, all the fears he had ever had, each regret that had ever dogged him, coalescing in the center of his chest, a pneumonia of emotion. As strangled gasps came out of his mouth and he pulled at the fencing, trying to get himself free, tears came to his eyes.

Because he knew who had come for him and he knew he was not getting out of it. And not just the grip on the bottom of his leg.

He had made a bargain, and the fact that it had been one-sided and he had not known what he was agreeing to, was not going to matter—

“Did you honestly think you could run from me?”

The voice didn’t come from under Mr. F’s feet. It came from back in the alley proper behind him. Craning a look over his shoulder, he saw the dingy robes standing some thirty feet away, and there was nothing corporeal that he could see on his ankle. Yet the grip was even stronger now, pulling him down, dragging him back to the asphalt, back toward the evil.

“Truly,” the warping voice said. “Did you think you could get away from the likes of me, your creator. Your master.”

Mr. F fought the drag with everything he had, his fingers ripping down the links, the fence rattling, a black stain streaking on the vertical as his skin was broken. Losing purchase, he crashed down to the pavement and was dragged backward through dirty puddles and oil stains. With his bloody fingers, he fought the claiming and got nowhere—

All at once he was up off the ground and spun around. Suspended in midair, his feet dangling to a point, his arms were pinned to his sides and his body became immobile, though there was nothing on him.

The robed figure didn’t walk to him. It drifted, hovering above the filthy ground.

“I chose you,” it said in that weird voice, “because you were the only one with a brain. This may have been a mistake on my part. Brawn usually works better. One would think I would have learned that after all these centuries.”

With a flick of the wrist, the evil sent Mr. F flying through the air, and the momentum stopped only when he slammed face-first into the side of a tenement, his nose busting wide open, the impact of his chin such that it nearly dislocated his jaw joints. Pressure on his back increased until he couldn’t draw a breath, and he had some thought that he should be suffocating. He didn’t, though the pain made him see stars.

The voice of evil closed in on him as he was once again dragged down to the ground, the rough brick wall shaving off layers of skin on his cheek. “You are a summary disappointment.”