Everything and everyone in Kingman looked breakable to me. I was sure when the humans of the town looked at me they could tell I wasn't one of them. Not that they knew I was a vampire hunter, but that something was off about me. I stayed away from the locals as much as possible but, once in a while, I'd hear their whispered chatter. The words filtered through the cochlear device my agency implanted in my ear, the sounds low but clear enough for me to understand.

"She's a witch--" was a favorite of theirs. "Lures children to her place, grinds their bones, drinks their blood--you know the story. That old fairy tale. More missin' children every year, and it always ends up bein' a weirdo like her."

"Yep," someone else would be quick to pipe in. "A fucking ghoul, or some serial killer cannibal, hidin' out there in the foothills alone. Wouldn't surprise me if she's dumpin' bodies in Cerbat. Nobody'd be the wiser."

I had to laugh. The locals were creative. Cerbat, a ghost town, was located near the mountain range where I owned land and built my quiet home. That was the extent of my connection to their fantasies. They were nervous because I kept my distance, and due to that distance I did sometimes feel like the monster they imagined. My identity as a hunter, one modified with undead DNA, the V-cells coursing in my genetic makeup, was a dangerous one. I lived a covert life because of it. Maybe I was strange, but I wasn't dumping bodies in Cerbat.

I doubted, anyway, that they really believed what they said, even if it wasn't far from the truth. Not the cannibalism or the kid-stealing–I hated that stuff–but the killer part was spot on.

One sunny day in Kingman, while I enjoyed the 33C heat in summer-soaked Mohave County in June, I rocked lazily on my porch swing seat. A gentle breeze stirred twinkling notes from wind chimes hanging overhead as I scratched away words I'd written in a tattered old notebook. Beads of condensation trickled down the sides of the still-cool beer resting on my folding table. I took a quick sip, eyeing a page below drowned in blue ink marks, and tore that sheet out, tossing it away.

Crap. More crap. Wasn't sure why I tried. Always ended the same – total and utter garbage.

The drink went back on the table beside the swing. I scrawled a few more random words on the next page, since that's what writers better than me recommended doing, put anything down to prevent fear of a blank page. Those better writers, however, never advised what to do when the blank page was better than what I'd written. There were so many things I needed to say that never came out right in a lifetime of notebooks. I'd never find the right words, because the task was impossible.

Another light breeze rustled against my bare arms and legs. I stopped the fruitless writing, closing my eyes to enjoy the stillness. One month into an approved half-year leave from the agency and I was stinking rich by scientific definition, laden with a small fortune of a few tens of millions that sat in several accounts in various forms of assets, some overseas. I'd saved all that after completing 100 extended-stay missions for the agency and investing what I had in the right places. By any human account, I should have jetted off to some exotic locale to revel in excess, but that didn't happen. I didn't go anywhere. I had no plans to do much of anything besides sit on that porch, alone. Maybe I wouldn't move from my spot for a while–well, at least, not until it was time for another hunt.

I reached for the beer again, and an old flip phone laying on the table beside it sprung to life, beeping with a standard civilian tone. One of the few people who had my personal details was contacting me direct, using a number that wasn't part of the agency's layered switchboards. I glanced at the I.D. on the display and engaged the line with a smile. I liked who was on the other end–it was nice to have familiar talk with familiar people sometimes.

"Mr. Jorman," I said. "Good news, I expect, if you're calling this time of year."

"Of course, darlin'," a rusted voice greeted me on the other end. "I only bring good news."

"Where's the shipment?"

"Got it. Plain brown box, no markings or tags, as ordered."

I settled back in the swing, nodding as I took a long swig of the heavy stout, swallowing a dense coffee malt that stung my cheeks and sank to my belly. "Excellent. I'm ready for the transfer. Give me the details."

Jorman let out a hearty laugh, enjoying our secretive banter for my hobby of collecting cacti. "Tephrocactus geometricus, potted and ready to place in that garden of yours. I can run 'em up there if you're out of town, do a rotation of your stock, check your lines. Still got your keys...providin' you haven't changed the locks."

"Locks haven't changed, sir–not yet–but you don't have to make the trip. I'm here." I scanned the stretch of dry, rocky terrain that served as my front yard, a plot secluded by surrounding rock formations. "Farmer's market?"

"Same lot as always."

"I'll come down. Could use the drive. Give me an hour or so."

"All right. See you soon."

I snapped the phone shut and settled back in the swing, holding the notebook to my chest. After a few quiet minutes to myself, I slid out of the seat and prepared for the ride into town.

The trip was short, so I had no need to strap my hunting stake or pistol to my body. My weapons went into a crisp white canvas tote bag instead, which I slung on my shoulder and held close to my body. My sandals dangled between my fingers as I walked out a side door, heading to an adjacent garage where my pride, my joy, my Mustang convertible named Shelby, waited for my next drive. Clear blue skies above meant Shelby's top went down, and I let the summer light wash over me.

I raised the volume of the radio, some extended and endless two hour mix from a peppy local DJ, and pulled out onto the winding foothills, speeding south-east towards town at top speed. The trip would've taken the hour I’d advised Jorman if I were driving legal speed, but the sight of so many desolate roads tempted me to fly. Tickets were never a worry for me, not after a scan of my license, though most days I coasted without causing any trouble. I took detours to joyride in the desert that day at maximum speed for as long as I could manage, an effort to release some latent aggression, until, finally, I remembered why I came out. I slowed to head back where I was supposed to go, pulling into a lot across from the market long after my quoted arrival time. I slipped my sandals back on and made one last delay for another cigarette, before locking up Shelby and leaving the lot.

Kingman locals milled around vendor stands decorated with hand-painted signs boasting premium stock. I inhaled deep, watching the crowd for a few seconds, before entering the mill of shoppers. The market was bright with sun, which to inexperienced eyes meant that there were probably no vampires present. However, I knew better. It was never that easy. Vampires had familiars that were often human, and they worked to lure in victims as food whenever their masters were weak.

A splash of red registered in my peripheral vision from a few yards away. I slowed my prowl of the market to a stop and glanced at a vendor stand, where a plump woman and two children, a small boy and a girl, prepared fresh fruit and vegetable juice for sale. The red was pouring out of what they were crushing, and they squeezed red out with their fingers without mercy. My lids dropped low, almost closed, and I watched red spill and spill into clear plastic tumblers.

"Move!"

I stumbled as a sudden shove jostled me to the side to make way for some young punk, who had his arm slung around a gum-smacking blonde. The girl rolled her eyes like I was the worst part of her day.

"What are you looking at?" she snapped.

"Hm." I straightened and glanced at the mother-juicer as she spilled more red through her firm, crushing grip. "Not sure," I said. "Sorry about that. Really."

"Ugh! What a weirdo! Ken--is she slow? Like, retarded?"

"Nah, not slow," said the punk with a sneer. "Not retarded. Standin' there like a zombie...she's a junkie. Bet money on that Bunny. More come 'round every year."

"I don't care, Ken," whined the blonde. "She's makin' me mad, just takin' up room like that where people are walkin'. What’s wrong with her?"

“Just another idiot. Forget her.”

Weirdo...slow. Retarded. Not the worst I'd heard. They continued complaining, but my attention was already off of them. Ken and Bunny weren't targets or assets. They didn't matter to me.

"Oh, don't mind them."

My attention returned to the plump vendor behind the juice stand. She beamed cheeriness at me from a distance ad her face was recognizable, somewhat, since she owned a store on Beale, but this was the first time we were exchanging words. She smashed more crimson sludge against the steel netting of a strainer and called out to me again.

"They don't teach manners in school anymore. Used to be a class you had to take–remember that? Etiquette, they called it. No damn etiquette these days."

The girl beside her tugged on her sleeve and frowned. "I've got etty-ket, Mama," she said. "I always use etty-ket. My teachers say I have good manners."

"Yes, you do have good manners." Mother-juicer squeezed the girl's cheek. "So does your brother when the two of you behave." Red poured from the pitcher into one of the plastic tumblers as her attention landed back on me. "How are you today, sweetheart?" she asked. "You look a little tired."

"I'm fine," I replied.

"I've seen you streak down Beale in that Mustang. You never hang around long. I know you keep your business private, but...I hope everything's all right with you."

I offered her a faint smile.

"Life's fantastic," I said. "Thanks."

"Here. Try some juice." She beckoned me over. "Leah, isn't it?"

Leah-Leah-Leah–

Panic streaked through my chest in painful way. Leah–was my civilian name. She knew my civilian name. I didn't know her, but she knew me. She'd been stalking me right there in Kingman and I hadn't kept my cover. How did this vampire find out–?

She kept smiling.

I pressed my lips together tight, cycling through the centering exercises that Dr. Phillip Wilkes–or Bones as we called the agency's chief medical officer–recommended for me to complete whenever the hunter side of me flared at the wrong time. After almost thirty years of doing what I did, I found my genetic modifications were more, not less, difficult to restrain.

Inhale-exhale-one two three--my grip on the tote bag tightened. I deconstructed the moment using logic. My first name Leah was on public record. I had a pseudonym for a family name. The woman wasn't a vampire stalking me. She wanted me to try some juice.

Leah...relax.

"Yes," I agreed after a long few seconds. "My name is Leah."

"Well, Leah, try this." She snapped a lid onto one of the tumblers filled with red and poked a green straw through the top. "Beetroot and Pomegranate, fresh from the garden." A jolly laugh that matched her cheery personality bubbled out of her. "I'm no doctor, but I bet if you drink these every day you might live forever."

"Hm." I moved closer to stand, peering at the juice. "It's dark."

"Means it's potent." She pushed the drink toward me. "Taste it. You'll feel like a new woman."

"Looks like blood," I said.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "Like what?"

Blood was everywhere, all around the woman and coming out of her too. Red was splattered on the ground, on her children, and on me as well. It dripped from my hands and ran through my fingers. Even the fluid in the tumbler was blood the longer I looked at it. The grin on her face was bizarre considering the surrounding carnage. Or, more likely, I was the one who was bizarre, because I saw things that weren't there. The blood was from the past. There was no blood anywhere.

"Oxidized, you know." I babbled on and spiraled deeper into awful conversation because I couldn't help myself. "When it sits out of the body for a while. Blood's brighter when it's fresh. You'd be surprised how bright it is when there's a lot of it. Colorful, like a crayon. Not...that you'd ever see anything like that. Right?"

Her human joy faded. "Oh."

"Mama," said the boy, eyes wide. "What's ox--oxi-"

"Nothing!" she snapped. "Means nothing! Don't listen to her!"

I reached into my bag for my wallet and broke eye contact to ease the tension. "How much was the juice?" I asked, gesturing at the hand-painted sign on the table. "Three dollars?"

"Yes."

I slid a hundred dollar bill to her as a peace offering and mumbled, "no change". Cool, sweet fluid swished in my mouth, and I flashed the family a thumbs-up of approval. The juice was fresh and pleasant. Didn't taste anything like blood.

The young girl tugged her ponytail and grinned as I backed off, waving goodbye.

"I like your car!" she called.

Her mother yanked her closer. I smiled in return.

"Thanks," I said. "I like my car too."

I kept my head low as I hurried through the crowd, focused on my target as I swerved between moving bodies. The less time I spent at the market, the better. Enough mingling with the locals. I chugged down the rest of the juice and tossed the empty tumbler into the trash.

Jorman's tent and its colorful display of cacti sat within a section of the market dedicated to gardening and supplies. I passed through numerous vendors adjusting rows of fragrant flowers and sprawling foliage, making my way to a red-faced man in a straw hat managing a large, diverse lot. He stopped stocking a display of seeds and waved when I approached.

"Mr. Jorman," I said. "Sorry I'm late."

"Late?" He paused for a moment, then chuckled. "You said an hour...or so. This is the ‘so’ part. Maybe you're right on time."

"Well...thanks. I like your optimism."

"Good."

I followed as he disappeared inside the tent and maneuvered around his stacks of extra inventory. He bent down to pick up a cardboard box, and I dug into my bag for more money, nodding when he opened the cover.

"Needles triple the length of their bodies," he said, watching as I scanned thirty finger-length sharp plants, their pink and yellow flowers blooming at the heads. "Small in size, but not in pain. Reminds me of someone."

"Okay," I replied. "They're cute, and I'm easy to please. Let's make the exchange. Maybe I'll order some more. They'll look good mirroring tier 13-C."

Laughter rumbled as he replaced the cover. I paid him a generous amount, including another installment for the time he spent tending to my underground garden whenever I was away on a mission. He never asked for an explanation on my hobby or what I did for a living, which is why I considered Jorman a friend.

"I think Ariocarpus fissuratus would be nice for you," he said. "I can get a couple here next season. It'd be a gift from me to you. No charge."

"Hm. That's the one without the spines, isn't it?"

"Yes. But it's got pretty blooms."

"Pretty blooms. Then what?" I grimaced. "Not my style. If I get to that point, might as well start planting daisies."

"That's a shame. Thought it would be a nice change of pace after all the danger. You tell me if you change your mind. I'll get Sam to take this to your car–that boy's around here somewhere."

Jorman took a step toward the opening of the tent, searching for his grandson, and I waved him off, taking the box from his grasp. "I'm fine. I can do it. Tell Sam I said hi."

"Will do. He’s sure to say hi right back." He tipped his hat. "If you need me, you know my number."

I smiled.

"Appreciate it."

A series of tones rang from inside the tote bag, notes that sounded like jumbling piano keys. I hopped to attention and hurried out of Jorman's tent without looking back, breaking into a jog as I headed for the exit to the market. That sound was a signal that my time at the market had to be over, and it had to be over now.

The Mustang was easy to spot from a distance, a slick streak of black in the parking lot across the street. I bounded across the road and cut through rows of cars inside, reaching my vehicle in a short jog. Tephrocactus geometricus went into the backseat while I engaged my civilian phone, and an ambiguous, almost robotic voice responded when I made contact.

"Morning, Sunshine."

I crouched beside Shelby and balanced the phone between my cheek and shoulder, digging through the bag for my cigarettes. "Hello, O," I said, fitting one of the paper tubes between my lips. "Wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. Have to admit, though–I've missed you."

"We've missed you too." I heard a small blip as the agency operator logged the start of our communication. "You should come up, visit the family."

"I'm sure I can find the time."

"Great. Don't bother to pack. Everything you need is here, like always. Grandma made your favorite--stone soup."

"Yum. Stone soup? Can't wait."

The banter was code for the start of another mission, a critical one that I agreed to participate in as soon as it became active, no matter the timing or circumstance. My vacation was officially over, but I didn't mind a single bit. I was ready to go back and fulfill my duty--what I was meant to do as a hunter.

"Oh," said the operator, clearing his throat to signal he was about to bend protocol. "Also...your friend's in town. I didn't want to ruin his surprise, but I think you'd want to know right away."

"My friend," I repeated, emotion sparking and falling at the news. My eyes drifted closed as I exhaled a mist of smoke. "That's great. I'll...I'll catch up when I see him."

"He'll be glad you're back. Really glad."

Our call ended, and I stayed crouched beside Shelby to finish the cigarette, staring at the ground deep in my own thoughts. After another minute, I scraped the butt of the smoldering tube against concrete and flicked it aside, hopping back into the driver's seat. I revved the engine and peeled out of the lot, heading back down the main road.