(SPECTR 1) Hunter of Demons by Jordan L. Hawk Page A

nice oceanfront property in Kansas to sell him.
    Although, Caleb did have to admit the agent hadn’t treated him badly so far. In fact, quite the opposite. After cooking a magnificent breakfast of pancakes and omelets, Starkweather had left him to collapse into the soft guest bed. When he’d waked, a bag containing several pairs of brand-new jeans, plain t-shirts, white tube socks, and white briefs had been waiting just outside the door.
    He’d been fed, slept, dressed in clothes which weren’t what he would have chosen, but at least weren’t hideous or uncomfortable. And although Caleb wasn’t exactly inclined to trust SPECTR, he had to admit it was an awful lot of trouble to go to, when Starkweather could’ve just had him disappeared into a cell somewhere.
    The situation couldn’t remotely be described as “good,” but maybe it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
    Or it hadn’t, anyway. Gray had gone quiet after the incident in the shower, but now Starkweather wanted to poke the sleeping tiger with a stick.
    The agent had changed into a pair of jeans, which showed off his ass nicely as he climbed the stairs. A tight black t-shirt strained across his broad shoulders. Damn, he was sexy.
    No, no he wasn’t. And even if he was, it didn’t matter, because Starkweather was a Spec.
    “Oh, yeah, I’ll relax,” Caleb said. “Promise to be gentle? This is my first inquisition.”
    “Sure thing. I’ll save the whips and chains for next time.”
    Despite everything, Caleb’s cock stiffened under his new jeans. Score one for the agent. He stepped into the office, hoping Starkweather didn’t notice. A large, wooden desk dominated the loft space, sporting a high-end computer and printer. Diplomas hung on the wall, over a low bookcase. Caleb shifted closer to read the ornate writing.
    “My credentials,” Starkweather said, and although the words were light, there was no disguising the pride in his voice. “Low-Country State School for the Paranormal. United States Department of Justice, Strategic Paranormal Entity Control Academy. A few extra courses of study and citations.”
    “Damn, dude. You really have drunk the Kool-Aid, haven’t you?”
    When Starkweather didn’t reply, Caleb turned, wondering if he’d finally gone too far. The agent leaned one hip against the desk, his arms folded over his chest, a strangely sad expression on his face.
    “May I tell you a story?” he asked.
    “Can I stop you?” Caleb shot back, without thinking.
    A wry twist of the lips lightened Starkweather’s face, but only marginally. “In theory. You could clap your hands over your ears and sing at the top of your lungs, which wouldn’t stop me from telling it, but might keep you from hearing.”
    “Nah, too undignified. Go ahead.”
    “I was fifteen when I found out I was paranormally-abled,” Starkweather said. His blue eyes—damn it, why did they have to be so bright?—focused on something far-off only he could see. “My parents sent me to rehab.”
    “They…what?” Rehab? For being paranormal? What the hell was rehab supposed to accomplish?
    “They believed if I just prayed enough, repented enough, the devil would leave me and I’d be normal again.” Starkweather’s throat flexed as he swallowed, but the look in his eyes was distant. Flat. “There was an…accident at the facility, which led to an investigation. The place was shut down.”
    Had he heard something about that? Or was Caleb getting stories about abusive boot camps mixed up? “What happened to you afterward?”
    “I lucked out. My parents voluntarily gave up custody to the state, and I ended up in the school for the paranormally-abled. I had a safe place to live, therapy, an education…and people who believed in me. People who didn’t look at me like I was damned. For the first time, I realized paranormals—mals, if you really prefer—could do good. Could make something of their lives. Once I graduated, it was natural for me to go to the