Third Strike by Heather Brewer

second. If you don’t mind, I mean.”
    Henry shoved the last of his ice-cream cone into his mouth. Between chews, he said, “Whatever you say, killer.”
    The tiny hairs on the back of Joss’s neck bristled. But he said nothing in reply.

5
    A BLAST FROM THE PAST
    A fter waiting for Henry to wipe his face clean with a too-thin napkin and then locate a trash can in which to throw it away, Joss crossed the road and entered the woods, hoping he’d be able to determine where the man who owned the ice-cream parlor, Mr. Driscoll, had died. He was very aware of Henry behind him—his feet tromping over fallen twigs and dead leaves, alerting any vampire within a twenty-mile radius of their presence. Joss understood that Henry hadn’t had the benefit of stealth training that the Society had provided him, but he also knew that if a vampire attacked them, he was going to have to save his cousin. After all, Henry was under the mistaken impression that vampires were kind, friendly people who just happened to have fangs and a thirst for blood, but really longed for peace between the species. It likely wouldn’t even occur to Henry that vampires were cruel, vicious monsters with an agenda all their own, fighting to drain every human vein they found dry of blood. Henry’s brain wasn’t wired that way. He’d grown up in a warm, loving household, where people were truly good and life would have a happy ending. Henry grew up not understanding the truth of the world: That it’s not always Grandma under the sheet, that the woodsman won’t come to save you, and that believing in happy endings will only get you eaten by wolves.
    At least, that’s how Joss had come to see the world. He knew the truth of things. He understood that sometimes horrible things happen to wonderful families—things that shatter those families into a thousand pieces forever. And that nothing and no one can ever bring those pieces back together ever again. He knew that there really were monsters that lurked in dark places. Monsters with friendly faces. He knew pain, and loss, and absolute fury.
    All Henry knew was joy.
    Joss hated him for that. And he hated himself for doing so. Just a little bit.
    â€œWhat are we doing out here?” Henry sighed impatiently behind him.
    Joss scanned the area with his keen eyes but saw nothing out of place. It was as if no attack had happened in this location, and he was beginning to wonder if maybe the report of the attack had been a cover-up. “What’s the matter, Henry, you don’t like hiking?”
    Henry stepped up beside him, shrugging. “I’m more of an indoor person most of the time.”
    Joss glanced at him with a furrowed brow. “What about sports? You and Greg play sports all the time. Aren’t those outdoors?”
    â€œYeah, but we don’t run around in the woods for no purpose.” Joss was just about to tell Henry that he could see more purpose in hiking through nature than he could in chasing a ball around some field, when Henry asked, “Are you looking for something?”
    The woods all around them were quiet and serene. Every once in a while, a critter would dash from one bit of underbrush to the next, but other than that and a few chirpings from the birds in the branches above, the forest was silent. There was no sign of a struggle or footprints or anything that suggested a coyote attack. Joss shrugged. “Kinda. The man who owned the ice-cream shop died out here.”
    â€œAnd you’re looking for his body? Gross.” Henry’s face turned a bit green, but it didn’t last.
    Joss moved forward and his cousin came with him. As they crested a small hill, Joss said, “No, this guy died a few weeks ago. I’m just curious if it’s true what they say about him having been killed by coyotes.”
    Henry stopped Joss in his tracks with a hand to the chest. “Wait. So you found out that some