Ethan opened his eyes, still drowsy and disoriented. His vision blurred into basic color blocks—the dark room, the sunlight filtering in through the cracks in the curtains. A small mound rose and fell on the bed, moving gently with each breath. It took him a moment to recall what had happened the previous night.
He glanced at the clock—6:17. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he managed to get two or three hours of rest. The revolver with a full chamber was still in his hand, which he carefully slipped back into the inner pocket of his jacket. He rubbed the back of his neck; it was painfully stiff.
He looked at the girl still sleeping beside him. Outside, the city's sounds had started up: the ding-ding of the streetcars and the chattering of birds. Rising from the chair by the door, Ethan stretched. His body creaked so much it felt as if his bones were splintering.
Walking over to the window, he pulled the corner of the curtain aside. The morning sunlight was gentle, but even that made him squint. Early commuters, drunkards waking from their stupor, flocks of seagulls filled the streets below. No sign of Michael Myers staring up at him from the road.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Evans' number. It didn't take long for the other end to pick up.
"I found her," Ethan said.
A woman's voice replied from the other end, "Where is she?"
"She's with me. You need to come here."
"You're with her? You need to get out of there immediately! Do you have any idea how dangerous she is?" Evans warned sternly.
"It's not up to me. Someone... I assume one of your colleagues... is looking for her, too. I don't know where they are."
"Stay put. We're on our way," Evans said before hanging up. They had probably already traced the phone. In that case, it was fine; he just needed to wait... but if they could trace his phone, could the people who attacked him last night do the same? No, that was paranoid. No one could have tracked him down in just one night based on a single face. Perhaps there hadn't been any need for him to be out all night.
He walked back to the bed and nudged Hex.
"Don't... don't leave... cupcake..." she muttered, swatting his hand away as she mumbled in her sleep. Her pillow was soaked with drool.
"Hey, I heard that!" he teased.
The girl turned, swallowing, still wearing his oversized T-shirt. Her chest was flat—he wasn't even sure she was breathing. She brushed the hair that had fallen into her mouth and slowly opened her eyes. Her lashes fluttered as she made out Ethan's blurred face.
"Good morning,"
he said, standing up and picking up her shorts from the floor where she had thrown them. He handed them to her with a grin.
"Who would've thought the dream of a monster would be... cupcakes?"
"Shut up. Don't laugh," she pouted, but it was too late. Ethan couldn't help but chuckle, and he kept laughing until she glared at him, holding the shorts tightly.
"Put them on," Ethan prompted.
"Can you... turn around?"
she said, blushing as the events of last night suddenly hit him.
"Oh! Sorry,"
he said, quickly turning around and hiding his head behind the curtain. Unlike what happened in movies, he didn't try to use a mirror to sneak a peek. Not that there would have been time; barely a second or two later, she called out.
"Okay, ostrich,"
she said. The way he had buried his face reminded her of an ostrich hiding in the sand. Hex had dressed in the clothes Ethan had lent her last night. She stood barefoot on the carpet—he had forgotten to grab socks along with the underwear.
"Ostriches lower their heads to eat gravel, not to hide from predators," Ethan muttered.
"Blah, blah, blah. I can't hear you," she said, covering her ears with her hands and shutting her eyes. A moment later, Ethan returned to his chair, and she sat cross-legged on the bed, resting her head on her hand, staring at him intently.
"So, are you planning to hand me over?" she asked.
"Yes. They're already on their way," he admitted.
Hex's expression dimmed, and she shook her head in disappointment. "Well, I guess it's time to say goodbye."
She stood up, and Ethan quickly blocked the door with his body.
"Goodbye, Ethan. Last night was fun," she said, ignoring him as she moved toward the door. Just as Ethan braced himself to forcibly restrain her,
the doorbell rang.
...
Harvey lit a match and brought it to his cigarette, taking a deep drag as the smoke filled his lungs. The morning bar was nearly empty. He looked up at the hotel.
"This is the place," the father said. He was wearing a white clerical collar under a black suit jacket—a classic clergyman's attire—with a phone in his hand. He checked the address against it.
"Let's go," Harvey said, cigarette between his lips as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. The father, unable to resist, muttered.
"My God, how many is that today? Are you trying to give yourself lung cancer?"
"If I live long enough to get lung cancer, I'll be a happy man. and you'll have to give my eulogy," Harvey joked.
"Oh, Captain, my Captain," the father replied, shaking his head with a chuckle as they pushed open the door. A bell chimed, and natural light illuminated the front desk, where a young man who looked utterly exhausted was slumped over. Harvey stepped forward, pulling out his wallet.
"Harvey Speck. This is James Ballard. We're with the Special Affairs Division," he said, flashing a badge at the young man. James, the father, stood silently behind him, glaring. The young man snapped to attention, his sleepiness vanishing instantly.
"Officers, how can I help you?" he asked.
"We have sufficient information to believe a dangerous fugitive checked in here last night. They took a hostage. I need their room number," Harvey demanded.
"Ah! You mean Mudridge?"
"Mugridge," Harvey corrected. The man typed the name into his computer, then quickly retrieved a set of keys from under the counter, handing over the one they needed.
"Room 206," the clerk confirmed. Harvey nodded and, after thanking the young man, turned to head upstairs with James.
"The Special Affairs Division (SAD)? Really? That's the best you could come up with?" James whispered as they climbed.
"I forgot what it's called here in Australia," Harvey shrugged.
"So, you used the Federal Bureau of Paranormal Activity Regulation's predecessor?" James asked incredulously.
"It's what came to mind. You wouldn't understand how the Vatican hammer that history into your head unless you're an exorcist," Harvey replied.
"But now the PAR only cares about World Fusion Events. This isn't even close," James said, shaking his head.
"He doesn't know that. Even if you explained, he still wouldn't even understand if the PAR deals with hunters or exorcists," Harvey retorted. They stopped in front of room 206. Yep, this was it. Showtime.
Harvey muttered a prayer under his breath, activating a spell—he needed it now that the kid had his gun. He'd only lost it because of the ambush! No way he'd have been disarmed otherwise...he swears.
James took out a mask from his pocket and slid it over his face. An inky black symbol materialized on the blank surface as Harvey's finger pressed the doorbell.