Page 25 of Soft Flannel Hank

If he had learned about vampires from anyone but Nat Jasper, he might have felt much differently than he did. If he hadn’t known Nat for going on fifteen years now, he might have found it all too easy for his brain to twist that knowledge into some kind of ingrained prejudice that vampires were serial monsters.

But Nat wasn’t a monster. Nat was a good guy. And more to the point, Nat was kind.

Months before, he had told Hank how he had gotten to the point where, after years and years of working on it, he didn’t crave human blood anymore, how animal blood was enough to sustain him. Nat worked the night shift at the nearby national park because it gave him a job that didn’t raise suspicion about his weird hours, but it also gave him ready access to elk and deer.

Nat was justsucha good guy that whenever he took down an animal for its blood, the meat always went, butchered and neatly packaged, to the local food bank. Hank knew that there were vampires out there who hunted humans. He knew there were plenty of supernaturals who preyed upon innocent people. But he’d learned enough from his time on the force to know that there were plenty of mortal humans who did the very same thing.

“So what do you think?” Nat said, leaning forward onto his elbows on the table.

Hank shook his head once, trying to clear his thoughts. “About what?”

Nat rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “About helping me find her.”

“I’m not a cop anymore, Nat. You know that.”

“I do know that, Hankie Pankie.” He laughed when Hank scowled at the nickname. “But I also know that you were damn good at what you did. Somebody needs to bring her to justice, right? Why not you? Besides, I can’t exactly look for her during the day.”

“No, I imagine bursting into flames is not conducive to that sort of work.”

Nat made a finger gun with his right hand and clicked his tongue. “Right you are, my crotchety friend.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “I’m not crotchety.”

“A crabby patty.”

“Nat.”

“Crankapotamus?”

“Nat,” Hank growled, feeling his voice down in his chest.

“Fine, fine, fine. But admit it. You’re grumpy as hell.”

Hank opened his mouth to argue but shut it. “Fair.” And then, in spite of himself, he smiled.

Nat pretended to fall off his chair in surprise. “He knows how to smile!”

“You’re a clown.”

“And you’re too serious.”

Hank didn’t know if Nat had ever been serious about anything a day in his life. So… three hundred some odd years.

He tried to scowl, but it didn’t quite work. Nat’s cheer was too infectious.

“You’re never serious.”

Nat’s face softened. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning. He just… looked at Hank. He took a deep breath and said, “Not if I can help it.”

He paused and bit his bottom lip, the points of his fangs making deep indentations. “I’m serious about the things that matter, though. And this matters to me. I can’t sit by and let this woman just run around where she could hurt more people. My people. Such that they are. My family’s long dead. People like me… vampires like me… well, they’re the closest thing to actual family I’ve got anymore. So I told Callum I’d help him. And now I’m asking you to help me.”

Quiet fell in the kitchen. The leaky sink dripped into the metal basin. Hank heard his own breath, felt his heartbeat in his wrist against his thumb. He saw Nat inhale and exhale, but knew it was just an affectation to keep humans in the dark. There was no heartbeat under Nat’s pulse point, a fact which didn’t bother Hank nearly as much as he’d expected it to once upon a time.

“So what do you say, Hank? Will you help me.”

Hank looked at Nat. Perpetually twenty-five in appearance, but hundreds of years wise. It was a heady feeling to call someone like that your friend.

He dipped his head and, with a flourish, said, “At your service, Nathaniel.”