Chapter 3 — Miles, Moonlight, and Missteps

The highway stretched ahead like a black ribbon slick with rain, silver threads catching the occasional flash of a passing headlight. My boots slapped puddles on the roadside shoulder, the rhythm syncing with the dull thrum of the engine in the rental Travis had “borrowed” for the night. He insisted it was easier than walking, and I didn’t argue—mostly because it was his turn to navigate.

The guitar case leaned against the passenger seat, like some noble beast refusing to be caged. Travis hummed something tuneless from the front, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, and for a second I almost believed this was a normal night: wet roads, bad coffee in thermoses, and the kind of small talk that passes for companionship.

“Ever think humans are loud for no reason?” I asked, staring out the window at the blurred neon signs. Rain smeared their colors like someone was trying to bleed life into a watercolor.

He grinned, eyes flashing under the brim of his hood. “Yeah, they’re like fireworks nobody asked for. But they do make good targets if you’re… selective.”

I snorted. “Selective, huh? That’s your polite way of saying ‘I could kill people for fun’.”

“Polite enough,” he said. “I save the fun for songs and sarcasm. And maybe the occasional dramatic hair flip.” He tugged at his blonde fringe like a stagehand adjusting a spotlight.

The first night on the road felt like testing the water without knowing if there were sharks beneath. I kept my hands in my pockets, shoulders tight, but there was a rhythm to traveling with someone else—a quiet, uneasy truce that wasn’t about trust yet, but about mutual survival.

“So,” he said, leaning a little toward me, “you’re really just wandering? No plan, no safe houses, no secret vampire hideouts?”

“None,” I admitted. “I like spontaneity. Keeps people guessing. Keeps hunters guessing.”

He laughed, a short, warm bark that made me glance at him sideways. “Hunters, huh? Sounds… dramatic. I like dramatic. Makes life spicy.”

I didn’t correct him. Spicy was one way to describe being hunted for your blood and yet laughing in the same breath.

The first small town we passed through was a ghost story in daylight. Empty streets, streetlights flickering like nervous hearts. A diner called Betty’s Place flickered its neon “OPEN” sign half-heartedly. Travis raised a brow. “Coffee?”

I considered it. Hot liquid always beats cold misery. We parked the car with careful sloshes through puddles. I could feel the world pressing against us: the wind, the rain, the faint hum of a truck idling at the far edge of town. Danger was subtle, threaded in the small things you didn’t notice until it was too late.

Inside, the diner smelled like old grease and burnt sugar. I slipped into a booth with my back to the window, Travis sitting opposite me with that ridiculous, easy grin. He pulled the guitar case onto the seat beside him.

“You’re really going to carry that everywhere?” I asked, nodding at the worn leather strap.

He gave it a theatrical shrug. “A man’s got to have his priorities. Besides, it’s a good conversation starter.”

“You mean a way to make strangers slightly annoyed while pretending to be charming?” I countered.

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s both art and torture.”

I could have laughed, but we both knew laughter wasn’t safe out here. Not entirely. Instead, we drank coffee and listened to the jukebox’s tinny offerings. Somehow, it didn’t feel empty—like traveling through a ghost town wasn’t a punishment but a kind of freedom if you were clever enough to survive it.

At one point, a shadow passed the window. I caught it with the corner of my eye: fast, deliberate. Instinct had me sliding my hand to the knife strapped beneath my jacket. Travis noticed.

“Hunters again?” he murmured, calm but alert.

“Maybe,” I said. The word was flat, rehearsed. Hunters had become punctuation in my life: commas, ellipses, periods. They didn’t surprise me anymore.

He nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “Good reflex. But try not to stab me by accident.”

I couldn’t help the small smile. “Noted.”

The rest of the night passed in a series of small victories and minor disasters: avoiding a suspicious diner cook who asked too many questions, arguing over which exit to take when GPS glitched, and Travis making me laugh at his terrible pronunciation of local town names. Each joke chipped at my walls a little—dangerous, because walls were all I had.

Finally, we found a small motel at the edge of a town that looked like it had been left behind when the highways moved on. The owner eyed us with mild suspicion but shrugged when Travis made some offhand comment about being “traveling bards on a budget.” Somehow, we got a room. Two beds, the smell of old carpet, and a window overlooking a storm-washed parking lot.

As we settled, I felt the old reflexes flare—checking the locks, scanning shadows, counting exits. Travis caught me in the mirror’s reflection and raised his eyebrows.

“You still alive?” he asked, teasing but serious.

“Barely,” I said. “Don’t think you’re safe either.”

He grinned, flipping open the guitar case once more. “Good. I like company in misery.”

We sat on opposite beds for a while, neither moving much. Outside, the rain drummed like a metronome, a reminder that the world didn’t care about anyone’s plans. But inside, there was warmth—the first I’d allowed myself in a long while. It was temporary. It was fragile. It was ours for the night.

I drifted to the window and watched the storm, my reflection staring back at me. The road stretched endlessly beyond it, full of shadows and promises. I didn’t know what the next town would bring, whether hunters were waiting around the next corner, or how far I could trust this blonde, irritating, dangerous man who had decided to follow me into the storm.

But for now, I let myself believe in small things: coffee that wasn’t bitter enough to burn, jokes bad enough to be funny, and company that didn’t demand explanation.

Tomorrow, the world would remember we were predators, wanderers, fugitives. Tonight, we were just two people, sitting in a room with the rain as our witness.