Free Trigger by Courtney Alameda

 
    OCTOBER
    My father only pulled me out of school for one reason: to hunt down the dead. So, when he showed up at the door of my firearms class, beckoning to me, I got up from my seat without a word.
    Chairs scraped against the floor as the other students rose. Everyone stood at attention and thumped their right fists over their hearts, our teacher included. Saluting. Like all of the Helsing Corps’ commanders in chief, Dad won the respect of his reapers and cadets through his killer instinct and the novel’s worth of scar stories carved into his skin. As for me, my father gave me purpose, direction. Zeal.
    Hunting the undead gave us Helsings reason to live.
    â€œYou too, McCoy,” Dad said to my best friend and training partner, Ryder. “As for the rest of you, at ease.” Students folded into their chairs, sitting straight and sharp as razors. Showing off for my father, of course. Not more than thirty seconds before, the slackers were dozing through a lecture on the Colt M1911 handgun.
    Grabbing our backpacks, Ryder and I headed to the front of the classroom. I wondered if he sensed our classmates’ gazes at his back as keenly as I did. Probably not—Ryder was better liked than me and had more tolerance for suck-ups. Which is to say, more than my zero.
    The two of us were a study in extreme contrasts: At sixteen, Ryder stood six-foot-one, whereas I barely topped five-three. The other students called us Yin and Yang behind our backs, thanks to our coloring—he was dusky, like he’d slathered himself in his native Australian sun; I was pale, having inherited my mother’s platinum-blond hair, bleached-bone skin, and her brilliant tetrachromatic blue eyes.
    The things we shared? My father’s favor. A passion for triggers and lead. ISTJ Myers-Briggs profiles. And George Romero zombie movies.
    â€œWahlberg,” Dad said to our instructor, “these two won’t be returning to class tonight. Inform the attendance office.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Dad hustled Ryder and me into the hallway. To my surprise, six of my father’s black-jacketed Harker Elite guards waited outside—reapers trained to crew with and protect Helsing family members in the field. The men saluted me with murmurs of “Miss Helsing.” My self-consciousness over being pulled out of class slipped back; a large Harker presence meant Dad wasn’t taking Ryder and me out for a practice hunt.
    We’re going after a reaper-killer. The thought corseted my breath like a Kevlar vest and sliced my nerves to threads. “What’s going on?” I asked, looking at Dad, forgetting to slap the obligatory “sir” on at the end. “There are too many Harkers here for a simple training mission.”
    Dad’s gaze slid away and tacked itself to a point beyond my shoulder. “This isn’t a training mission, Micheline.” The Harkers shifted their weight and refused to meet my eyes, tombstone stoic.
    I glanced at Ryder, who told me he shared my conclusion with nothing more than his clenched, tendon-corded fists. All cadets started hunting necrotic monsters in their fourth year, but never anything tough enough to shock our best reapers into silence. I’d taken down a handful of necros in the field—all of them slow, stupid, and none of them killers.
    â€œWho’s dead?” Ryder asked, his trap muscles bunching.
    â€œWe’ll see.” Dad started down the hall, his people turning to accompany him. “Let’s move out—Lieutenant Carroll will brief us once we reach the dead zone.”
    â€œYou know I’m supposed to hunt with Mom tonight, right?” I called to Dad’s back. My voice skidded off the hallway’s matte-black lockers, echoing. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t show up for the exorcism at the Orpheum.”
    My words didn’t even slow my father’s stride.
    â€œDad?”
    â€œForget