Chapter 12

Dylan

Marc shakes my hand. "I would… I believe it would please Ian for us to be friends."

Ian groans, but I know Marc well enough after this past week to know that was practically an agreement to be besties. "Just wait, dude," I promise, "I'm gonna friend you so hard."

He blinks in confusion, which is partly why I said it. Not even I know what it means. Ian and Matt get it, though, because they laugh.

Then Matt sighs. "I know it didn't sound like it, but I am grateful," he says to Marc. "We both know you did it for Ian, but that doesn't mean I'm not grateful anyway. Dyl was right when he said you didn't have to do it." He swallows, then adds, "And he's right that you'd like San Francisco. I promise we won't take you to the parts of the city that we enjoy, only the pretentious bits."

Wow, did Matt just invite Marc up to visit? That's gotta be growth. Maybe next I'll work on getting Connor to like Marc.

Marc looks at Ian. "What is happening?"

"Just go with it. I'll explain later." Ian grins at his bestie and mouths, "Thank you."

Still off his game, Marc says, "I've heard good things about San Francisco."

"And I don't think we'll push our luck any more today," Ian declares. "Bro…" He grabs Matt in a hug and they compete to see who can squeeze the hardest. "Glad you're not dead."

"Me too. I'm the smart half of our brain."

When they finally let go, I'd swear they're both a little teary-eyed.

"Call when you get back to Dylan's place," Ian orders. "We'll come up for that visit in a couple of weeks, but in the meantime, Operation: What the Fuck is Going On is full systems go."

"That's a stupid name," I tell him, and he shrugs.

"Come up with something better."

I already have, and if he'd checked his email recently, he'd have seen the details. So I just smile smugly.

"I'm bored," Marc announces, and then they're gone.

Matt swears. "I fucking hate when he does that. Just poof! Aren't there supposed to be lights or noises or something? A breeze?"

"That's what I thought," I agree. "But there's nothing. You're just… there. In the new place. Like… street, hospital."

Wincing, he reaches out and touches his pinkie to the side of my hand and, when I don't pull away, twines our fingers together. "Sorry I was an asshat."

"You get a pass this once because you've been through some stuff. Next time, I'll make you regret it." Last time he pissed me off, I rigged his phone alarm to go off every thirty minutes for a whole day and locked it down so he couldn't cancel it. He sent me a groveling telegram (it's like a singing telegram, only with lots of groveling) and twenty bags of Doritos, my preferred work snack, to make up for it, and the next time he saw me in person he begged for forgiveness very nicely.

He must remember that, because he nods solemnly. "I'll remember."

I look around at the miles of empty desert around us. "Ready to go? We've got a drive."

"Let's hit it. But first, did you guys remember to get me clothes? Because my ass is totally hanging out right now, and it's not as fun as it sounds."

I snort. "In the car. Change, and we'll go."

The official report to the Collective is that Matt isn't as severely injured as the doctors first thought, but he'll be spending the next few weeks recovering in my care, since I work from home full-time anyway and my place is closer to Reno to move him to. That lets his brothers get back to work but keeps fully healed Matt out of the spotlight for a while. It also means he can devote all his time to helping me work out the how, why, and who of the attack.

We've been on the road for an hour, Matt driving and bitching half-heartedly about not having his kit while I try to get some work done on my laptop, when Matt yelps and the car swerves sharply.

"What the fu?—"

"I know you can drive better than that, boy," a thousand-year-old ghost barks from the back seat, and I slowly turn to look at Norval.

"I think you startled him. Hello, by the way."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Hello? Is that all you have to say for yourself? I expected better from you, Dylan."

"Me?" What the fuck? "What did I do?"

"When a man is courting, he should be open about it," Norval lectures. "That means talking to his sweetheart's family. I knew that scoundrel demon wouldn't do the right thing, but you…" He shakes his head. "I'm disappointed."

He's disappointed? I'm speechless.

"Uncle Norval, please stop," Matt begs, glancing into the rearview mirror. "Dylan and I decided to see how things went before telling people because we didn't want to make anything awkward with the family if it didn't work out." The lie rolls smoothly off his tongue, surprising me. He's usually a shitty liar. "And anyway, my love life is my business, not my family's."

I wince. That was a mistake.

Norval gasps. "I did not hear you correctly, Matthias Simon Coates!"

"That's okay," Matt says blithely, like an idiot. "I can repeat it if you like."

"Matt," I murmur, wondering if a dead ghost can have a heart attack. Like, I know he doesn't actually have a heart anymore, but if he gets a shock bad enough, will his soul let go and cross over? I don't want to be the reason that happens. The guys complain about him and how nosy he is, but they love him deep down.

Way deep down.

"Dylan, we'll finish this conversation later," Norval says grimly. "I have some things to say to Matt."

"Actually, Norval," I break in, trying to defuse the situation so I don't have to spend the next few hours listening to a lecture-slash-argument, "could you save those for later, when the two of you have some privacy, and help us out in the meantime?"

That gets his attention. The only thing Norval likes more than lecturing people is "helping" them. To be fair, he is helpful. He's been around a long time, he knows a lot of stuff, and he's deeply invested in the Collective. I'd go so far as to say nobody cares more than Norval.

"What's this about? Are you two in trouble? Is that why Matt got beat up?"

Matt groans and mutters, "I can't believe you asked for this."

"We're not in trouble. Not because of something we did, anyway." I think. "But we have discovered something concerning about Matt's attack."

Norval harrumphs. "Other than the fact he was attacked to begin with? A fully trained demon hunter, caught unaware. For shame."

Coughing so I don't laugh, I say, "Yes, other than that. Though it may be connected—it may not have been Matt's fault."

My boyfriend shoots me a grateful glance and rests his hand on my thigh, leaving it there as I explain everything to Norval.

When I'm done, his bushy brows are drawn together. "I can't say I understand all this code whosit, but if you say it doesn't look right, I'll believe you. So someone lured Matt here?"

"That's right. Someone who knows the Collective exists, what we do, and that Matt's part of it."

"And enough about our processes to know I probably wouldn't have been missed immediately. Like… they didn't want the job sheet deleted right away," Matt adds, and I nod.

"That, too. Unfortunately, checking the code on Marc's test file didn't help—it was flawless, but then my code is flawless too." It's not boasting when it's true. "The code on the faked job sheet is also really good." I can't bring myself to use the word "flawless." I'll find something wrong with it, if it's the last thing I do. "So it could have been created by a demon, but it could also just have been a human."

"You're the expert," Norval prompts. "What do you think?"

I bite my lip. "I think it was a human," I admit finally. "I can't get past what Marc said about intention being the key element. If a demon created the job spec and their intention was truly that it should be deleted five days after Matt was attacked, then it shouldn't have mattered that Ian changed the creation date. I might need Marc to create a few more files for me before I can call that conclusive, though."

Norval grumbles for a minute, then sighs. "You don't think it was one of ours, do you?"

I shake my head, then pull a face. "I don't think it was the Collective," I say carefully. "The sheet was definitely not created through the usual process. If it was an active hunter who has a grudge against Matt, which is one theory, then they either have a lot of computer knowledge—which I doubt, since I know all those people—or they hired a hacker to handle it."

"Hmm. What's the other theory?" Norval doesn't sound convinced.

"That it's someone who used to be in the Collective but got booted out," Matt answers. "Which is where you can help."

He catches on immediately. "Names, dates, compounds, last-known locations?" he asks. "How far back do you want me to go?"

That takes me by surprise, and from the way Matt glances toward me, he feels the same. "I guess… I don't know? I was just thinking recently. But there's no reason they couldn't have been holding a grudge for a while."

"Ten years, maybe?" I suggest. "Before that, you were a kid. It would be unlikely that any adult would have hated you, and if it was a kid, they wouldn't have gotten thrown out when they were underage."

"This is why you need me," Norval proclaims, and I brace myself. "You're thinking too small. They targeted Matt directly, but that doesn't mean their grudge was with him. What about people who hate Gabe—or even Connor? Or your parents? Come to that, let's assume that Matt wasn't targeted for personal reasons, but because he's one of the Collective's top hunters in the US."

"Thanks," Matt says, straightening. Norval smacks the back of his head. "Ow! Uncle, I'm driving!"

"Don't get distracted by empty compliments. You're a good hunter, but even the best can get beaten nearly to death." The comment is so pointed, I'm surprised it doesn't stab us.

"So we're assuming that Matt was targeted because this person got access to our statistics and saw that he's good," I remind Norval, not wanting him to go off on a tangent.

"Yes. But this person doesn't need to have been a recent hunter. A good grudge can be nursed for a long time. Generations, even. And it can be passed down from parent to child."

For a moment, the only sounds in the car are the air conditioning and the whir of the tires on the road. What the actual fuck ?

"Are you suggesting we should also look at people who were kicked out, say, fifty years ago, and see if they have kids or grandkids who might be doing this?" Matt asks faintly.

Norval snorts. "I was thinking more like a hundred years ago," he retorts. "Or a hundred and fifty. That's why I asked you how far back. The recent ones won't take a minute to do."

I rub my eyes. "Jesus. That could literally be hundreds of people to whittle through."

"I can help with that," he volunteers. "Once we have the list, I can start visiting some descendants, snoop around their houses. I'm good at being sneaky."

"It's true," Matt confirms. "He is."

Shaking my head, I try not to think about the sheer immensity of the task ahead. "I guess that's what we need to do, then. Norval, if you can get started on that list—don't worry about the more recent ones. I can have Ian pull that from the archives, or even get it myself. It's the ones from before computers that will be harder to track down."

"Just leave it to me," he asserts. "Now… when are we stopping for snacks?"

"You can't eat snacks," I point out, but Matt groans.

"He likes spooking scary truckers at rest stops."