This is a series of short stories, detailing the adventures of Chelsea Childling. You can start with her origin story or pick something from the index.
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Chelsea sipped on her beer, watching motes of dust dance in the sunbeam that stretched across the cement floor. Mid-afternoon in the desert, even in the fall, the sun burned white in the sky, and it was better to sit in the unair-conditioned garage than be outside, despite her growing anxiety.

The mechanic swore again. “What the hell am I looking at? Are those two fuel injectors?”

Chelsea sighed and turned back to her car. “Yeah, it’s based on the V16T. Please don’t touch any of it. I just need an oil change, new brake pads, and the dents buffed out. I’ll have my mechanic look at the engine later.” The engine was fine. Chelsea knew every click and purr of her car. She had helped her father and his friends build it.

The tiny woman with grease on her forehead grinned. “I promise I’ll get everything done by tomorrow morning, half price, if I can just study this for the rest of the day.”

Jim snorted from the lawn chair beside Chelsea’s. “Claire, she’s trying to get back on the road.”

Claire blew a strand of hair out of her face and right onto the grease streak on her forehead. “Sorry, but there’s nothing this cool for miles. Can I at least take some pictures?”

Something about the little woman’s obsessive interest reminded Chelsea of those days in “Uncle” Lance’s garage, watching her father argue over schematics. Her anxiety dissipated. “You know what? Half price tomorrow morning sounds good.”

“Oh thanks! I promise I’ll take great care of her.”

Jim stood and stretched. “Her?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Claire beamed at him before ducking her head back under the hood. “Nothing this complicated and intricate could be a guy.” She chuckled to herself as Jim and Chelsea shrugged at each other.

Jim gestured to Chelsea and headed for his truck in the parking lot. “Non-hunters are so weird.”

“Right?” Chelsea popped into the cab of the ancient red farm equipment. “Like I remember saying stuff like that once, but I don’t remember why.”

“Ma never tolerated that shit. She always said the difference between any two people was always greater than between men and women.” Jim glanced down the empty street before turning, without a signal. “I dunno. I grew up around hunters, and every now and then, I feel like I don’t know to even act like a normal person. I mean, how do I talk down to women and ignore obvious monsters?”

Chelsea laughed. “Please don’t start for my sake. I never realized how nice it was to be taken seriously without raising my voice an octave and making everything into a question.”

“Well, I promise not to take credit for your ideas on the next hunt.” He eyed her. “Of course, your ideas on hunts are a little fucking nuts. I can’t believe you took out Spring-Heeled Jack on your own.”

“I had my car as a weapon.” She patted the door handle beside her. “I wouldn’t try it with this poor old thing.”

Jim snickered. “You treat my truck like more of a dog than your dog.”

“When the truck starts talking back, I’ll treat it more like Bentley.”

Jim pulled into a diner. “Since you gave Claire your car for rest of the day, I’ll treat you to lunch before heading to the shop.”

“Sounds good.” Once her open-faced sandwich and fries had been ordered, Chelsea relaxed in the booth. “I’m still waiting on my next job, so Claire can take her time.”

“Any idea where you’re headed?”

“Somewhere on Route 66. Rita said its a whole thing, and I needed something useful to do.”

Jim frowned. “Maybe in the summer. With winter coming in, stuff will be shutting down soon.”

“Hm.” There was nothing to say to that so she didn’t try to find something. Rita Green might have to though. “You ever travel and hunt?”

“I’ve gone to Taos, but that’s about it.”

“What’s in Taos?”

“La Llorona.” Jim grimaced. “At least that’s where she was then.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s been seen all over old Mexico. So from the Gulf to the Cascades.” Jim’s eyes grew distant. “The legends say she’s the ghost of a woman who killed her own children. But the hands that drowned my mom were solid and real.”

Tears pricked at Chelsea’s eyes. “So road trip?”

Jim jerked his head “What?”

“You, me, Kristin, and Bentley. Let’s hunt La Llorona.”

He studied her for a moment. “You believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because no hunters out here go after La Llorona. She’s a ghost. And no body means no way to kill her.”

Chelsea frowned. “You just said she had a body. At least hands. I’m willing to go chop them off if you are.”

Deep, hard breathes shook Jim for a long moment. Then he settled back in his booth. “Okay, let’s do some recon. See if she’s been spotted lately.”

“Deal.” Chelsea sipped at her soda and tapped out a message to Rita. The next job down the road was going to have wait.