Andrew Jaeger

Luck tended to come in streaks for Andrew Jaeger... Bad luck, mostly. From the fire elementals in St. Louis (and the incredibly surly shape-shifter who'd relieved him of two hundred of his rapidly dwindling cash supply) to the hit team that nearly caught up with him outside of Fort Wayne, he'd had more close calls than usual lately, and a lot more than he felt comfortable with.

And now, trying to get back into a routine that felt at least somewhat normal, he'd gotten himself torn up by a ghost that had gone wraith, something particularly nasty that had pulled itself together enough to do some real harm before he'd been able to send it back down. What was supposed to be a good deed on the road before he headed back toward...Seattle? Nevada, maybe? He still hadn't decided yet...had turned into yet another setback.

He'd been able to make a messy, amateur attempt at cleaning the gashes on his back, but they were raw and sore and every bone in his body ached. The idea of squeezing his six-four frame into the back of the SUV to sleep was intolerable, even if it meant being able to get back on the road faster.

As much as he wanted to keep moving, he needed to stop. He was exhausted both mentally and physically and it wasn't going to get any better like this. The jolts of fatigue-prompted adrenaline that keep rattling him remind him that he wouldn't be safe to drive much longer, and staring at the dusty rural road was making his eyes twitch.

When a roadhouse comes up on the highway a bit ahead, that settles it. Before he's even made the conscious effort, he's pulled the battered SUV into the lot and killed the engine, resting his forehead on the driver's wheel for a long few seconds. He'll stop for something to eat and coffee, wash up in the bathroom, and then make a decision. It's a fair compromise. He might be stubborn, but not stupid.

For the millionth time in the past year, he's thinking he's too old for this, a fact that's driven home by the way his joints creak ominously when he gets out to stretch. Steel-colored eyes scan the lot for threats, fingers gripping the hardwood cane that he finds himself leaning on more and more these days. He's a massive wall of a man, dressed conservatively in a long sleeved shirt, jeans, sport jacket. His gunmetal-colored hair is cut neat and short, though his chin is shaded with heavy stubble and his eyes are tired. He's really not that old, only barely forty, it just feels like it some days.

And stepping onto the porch, Jaeger realizes that it's definitely not the average truck stop. There's a faint buzz of energy, and when he looks more closely with bleary eyes, there's runes and sigil carved carefully into the sills and jambs. Nails in the archway, the smell of herbs and the grit of salt. Wood scarred by more than just run-of-the-mill barfights. The telltale signatures of hunters.

He's not even going to look more closely at the taxidermied bear in the dinosaur hoodie. He can feel its presence from the other side of the porch, and the glass eyes are watching him with a weight that can only be Other-Side. He hopes that it's at least well-trained.

Either it's a safe place to rest, or a bad mistake. But he figures that he'll find out soon enough, as he eases through the heavy wooden door.