Slate Gray

Chapter 10: Perrin Slate

"Quit harassing Terrence," Dad barks, exiting the room behind us. "You leaving?"

"Yes, sir," I say, snapping to attention and saluting him with overexaggerated reverence. "Just waiting for the intern to finish loading the car, sir."

Dad furrows his brow. "Stop that."

"If you say so, sir."

He looks like he wants to shove me over the railing but instead holds out a box of bullets and the AR-15, zipped into a leather case for easy transport. Henry Malone's murder weapon. "I think it makes more sense for us to divide and conquer. You're overdue for a solo hunt and this way, you'll at least have the kid for back up. After you grab the RV, head to Malone's park and call me once he's banished."

"And which end do I shoot the demon with?" I ask, my eyes satirically wide as I reach for it.

But Dad snatches it back. "If this is a trap, then we don't know how Naberius will try to spring it. That should terrify you. It sure as hell terrifies me. What if something happens and I can't reach you in time?" Behind his grumpy demeanor, his eyes are filled with worry, obviously dwelling on the last time he was too late to save a child. "So, I'm begging you, please, for my sake, take this seriously."

Humbled, I shuffle my feet. "Yes, sir."

Dad once again offers me the rifle and I sling the strap over my head so it lays snugly across my back.

"We'll rendezvous at that diner outside of town," he confirms as the three of us head down to the parking lot. "Terrence knows where it is. It's called, 'The Last Supper' or something."

"Quite the ominous name," Ace comments, buttoning up her (my) peacoat.

"What's in a name?" I stash the bullets in my pocket. "That which we call a diner by any other name will still have blueberry pancakes."

Her eyes sparkle as she licks her lips. "Ooohh and French toast."

"Precisely."

I yank her into a hug then, her arms encircling my waist. My fierce, capable, baby sister. It was therapeutic as shit to tell her everything. To shine a light on all the dark, stained parts of my soul and watch her run towards them with open arms.

"Ready?" Terry asks, bouncing with excitement as we break our hug.

"Calm down, Sparky," I grouch, patting myself to make sure I have everything.

Boot knife? Check.

Fake ID? Real ID? Check and check.

The rest of the cash Dad gave me yesterday that I conveniently forgot to return? Check.

An ancient page crinkling faintly in my inside pocket? Also check.

I snatched the damning thing when no one was looking, rolling it back up and stashing it on me to keep the target firmly on my back. Ace would probably diagnose the urge as another side effect of my overzealous hero complex. Personally, I'll just breathe easier knowing my screw up won't eventually become their problem.

Only then do I face my father. He looks pretty cranky to see me leaving so I hug him too. He smells like books and gunpowder and we slap each other inelegantly on the back when we pull away.

"So, where's your ride?" I ask our intern, searching the somewhat bare parking lot. I point to a beat-up Subaru. "That it?"

"Nah, it's over here."

We follow him around to the other side and a choked, disbelieving laugh escapes me.

Terry's ride is a motorcycle. Its black paint gleams dramatically in the wintery sunlight, the silver engine crouching like a coiled snake.