❝Your secret is a painting?❞ I took a few cautious steps; the hairs on my arms stood on end.
❝Not just any painting.❞ Dorian approached the easel, shadows on his face as he touched the cloth protecting it. ❝It's a dark object, the manifestation of m...
Just like that, London became my home. Life wasn't luxurious - it was late nights and early mornings, plain meals, brutal workouts - and absolutely no distractions. I moved into the attic of Imogen's small bungalow, away from the bustle of the city - and focused on my training. Imogen wasn't family, but over time she became the next closest thing.
My first day of training I embarrassed us both when a heavy blade slipped through my clumsy fingers, clattering to the warehouse floor.
"I've seen your paintings--better than your footwork. But if you can handle a brush, you can handle a sword."
"Are you kidding? It's not the same thing at all!"
"Shut it. Pick up the sword, spread your feet--and swing."
She was right - fencing was a lot like painting - graceful arcs, concentrated jabs, and most importantly a light touch. During the day I learned how to fight and defend myself. My evenings were spent learning about monsters - and how to find them. I looked in the mirror one night, after a brutally long day, and didn't recognize myself. That was a good thing.
One evening, Imogen climbed through the trapdoor of the attic, dumping yet another stack of books on my desk.
"Burning the midnight oil, are we?" she said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee.
"Can't stop, not if I want to find him--and stay alive doing it," I replied, basking in the mug's warmth. London nights were cold and wet.
Imogen took a seat at the edge of my bed. "Do you know what Opal's problem was? She never learned to get inside a monster's head. She let them get in hers instead."
"Is that why she couldn't stop Dorian?"
"I'm beginning to think she never wanted to stop him. Some of us prefer the chase." She rose to her feet, stretching before heading for the door. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we hunt a banshee."
"A banshee?"
"Quite common in the opera, innit."
"Imogen..." She paused at the edge of the steps, watching as I twisted my highlighter in nervous hands. "I know how this ends. What happens when you become the monster you're hunting?"
"You keep running." Her lips twisted in sympathy. "A new hunt begins.
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I spent almost a year with Imogen. She taught me how to hunt every beast beneath the stars, moon, and sun, how to catch my prey and subdue them. And how to stay alive while doing it. I captured mermaids and werewolves, vanquished evil demigods and sent ghouls packing to the underworld. Combat wasn't my strong-suit, I used my wits to survive.
Imogen observed the shapeshifter passed out at her feet. Its body was in continuous transformation, shifting through the faces of its past victims.
