Matt Archer: Monster Hunter (Matt Archer Series, Book 1)

Chapters 3 and 4

Chapter Three

"Let me get this straight. We have magic knives and monsters, and I've been chosen by your knife." But to do what, exactly? A little worm of fear twisted in my gut, and I put my head down on my arms, trying to understand what I'd gotten myself into.

"Your knife. Not mine, not anymore." Mike's voice held a weird trace of awe. "The blade left me, Matt. I don't understand how it happened, but you're its wielder."

Mike's reaction bothered me...was he saying I would be stuck with the knife? For how long? The worm of fear grew into a salamander, chasing its tail around my insides. The reverence in Mike's tone disturbed me, too, like I'd done something spectacular rather than accidental. None of it made sense.

"I don't get it," I said into my arms, refusing to face him. "Why would it pick me? I'm only fourteen!"

"I don't know, but it did, and there's no turning back. Unless the knife passes to someone else, it's your burden," he said. "Matt, you're a monster-hunter now."

A monster-hunter? Was he serious? My head popped up from the table.

"What's Mom gonna say?" I asked. "We're talking about a woman who carries a full-sized first aid kit in her purse. I doubt she'll allow me to become some knife-wielding vigilante."

Mike jumped up and paced around the tiny kitchen. "We can't tell your mom. Dani would never let you hunt if she found out. The dangers are too great. She'd have a hard time understanding we have no choice in the matter, and she wouldn't let you risk yourself."

"So I have to kill monsters, and I can't tell Mom about it. Could this get any more complicated?"

Why did the stupid knife pick me? I was a totally average ninth grader—I didn't want be a hunter, fighting monsters on my own. All I wanted was to learn about Gettysburg and hope that Ella smiled at me once in a while.

"It'll be okay, Matt," Mike said. "We'll just have to figure out what to do. I only have six weeks to get you trained up and running before I deploy."

"No, you can't leave. You have to stay and help me with the knife." I glared at him. To heck with Uncle Sam. My uncle was staying put.

"Sorry, man, that's not possible," he said. "I thought of something that might help you, though."

"It better be good."

"You have fall break in a week, right?" Mike asked.

"Yeah."

"I'll take you to Fort Carson. We're going to put you through basic."

"Wait," I said, "isn't that the part where you have to get up at five every morning to run ten miles then do a hundred pushups?"

"Two hundred. Before breakfast." His mouth curved up on one side. "Matt, you're in the Army now."

* * *

I woke up Saturday morning with a nasty taste in my mouth—hot chocolate and puke. I rolled over, sliding and squeaking on Mike's black leather couch, and had to peel my left arm away from the cushions. The grain of the leather was imprinted on my skin. On top of that, Mike only had two extra blankets, one of them looking like it'd never been used, and since we'd deserted our sleeping bags at the camp grounds, I'd ended up freezing my butt off most of the night. These are the dangers of sleeping over at a bachelor's house.

"He needs a girlfriend," I grumbled.

Mike responded by snoring like a T-Rex upstairs. It was only nine and we'd talked until four. Old guys needed more sleep, so I let him be, heading off to brush my fuzzy teeth. That was a grosser process than normal, so I threw my toothbrush away afterward, hoping it wouldn't crawl out of the trashcan on its own.