The Hunt

by Heather Killough-Walden

  She was tall and slim. From the way the jeans she wore hugged the lean but developed muscles of her legs and the bicep of her arm was outlined by her tight long sleeve as she shielded her eyes, Byron wagered she was incredibly strong. She had the long, strong and graceful look of a gymnast and Byron found himself instantly entranced by the sight of her. She was covered in clothing from head to toe, but the cut of it was one he was not familiar with, and the material seemed thinner, more form fitting than what he was used to.

  The only woman he had seen in fifty years had been the vampire princess. The blood-sucking bitch had worn dresses as a rule. They were always cut low and ridiculously revealing, but because he knew what she was and because she was who she was, it had never affected Byron. Not in the least.

  However, this woman before him now with not an inch of her flesh showing, was doing things to his blood and his body that he had begun to believe would never happen again without the use of black, unforgiving magic.

  A gust of wind brushed past the woman and caught a few strands of the long, plentiful mass of hair at her back, revealing them to him in the faint light of the waning moon and gray mists.

  That hair, he thought numbly. He’d seen hair like that somewhere before. It was long and so blonde it seemed ash-white. It was fine, but incredibly thick and shimmered like stardust in the beams of moonlight that made it to her through the tufts of smoke. It looked like an angel’s hair.

  Byron’s body flashed again with transformative magic and he once more took the form of a man. In that moment, he knew who the woman was, and when she lowered her arm a second later, he knew what he would see.

  Indigo eyes, he thought, bewildered by the events of the night that had brought him to that spot in that moment. It was her – the girl he had seen twenty years ago in San Francisco – the girl whose father had been murdered by a warlock just before Byron had been slammed back into chains.

  It was the little girl who was a dormant and had become an extraordinarily beautiful woman…. He glanced at the weapon in her hand and frowned…. A beautiful woman who was now a Hunter?

  His gaze narrowed and a chord of dissonance thrummed up his spine.

  The woman gritted her teeth and adjusted her grip on the gun. Hunters had been around for nearly as long as werewolves, and though he had to admit that he had never seen this particular weapon before in his life, he sure as hell recognized the symbol etched into its side.

  Something, somewhere, had gone horribly wrong. Something unpleasant settled around him – a portent. The woman before him was somewhere near thirty years old, and yet she was still a dormant; there was absolutely no mistaking that scent.

  Byron could imagine that any alpha wolf – or any wolf at all, for that matter – who caught a whiff of that scent would have been immediately interested in the woman, to the point that everything else in the world would have become virtually pointless. Surely, she’d been approached by wolves in the twenty years since he’d seen her last?

  God no, he thought as he realized what had most likely happened. Werewolves were intense beings; they were driven by nature. They were a part of the same wild undercurrent that drove tornadoes across the plains and made the earth shake. There was very little gentleness in a wolf when the cards were on the table and survival was on the line.

  An alpha’s first reaction to a dormant was a stark and startling one. An unprepared dormant could become overwhelmed by an alpha’s behavior and attempt to either fight or flee. It was an issue that was normally resolved quickly. Nine times out of ten, the dormant was attracted to her intended mate with nearly the same level of intensity that fueled his attraction to her, and the two came to a lover’s understanding. Unfortunately however, that wasn’t always the case.

  There was no doubt in Byron’s mind that the beautiful dormant before him had, indeed, been approached by other wolves. There was also no doubt in his mind that those wolves were now dead. She was still alive – and she was unclaimed. There was no other explanation.

  The idea that a dormant, the most precious and treasured being in werewolf society, could become one of the most hated and feared beings in werewolf society was appalling to Byron. It was fundamentally wrong. In fact, if he hadn’t been witnessing it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it possible.

  What the hell had happened to her? Byron found himself moving toward her. The scent of her dormancy, the absolute promise that she represented was intoxicating. He was stunned, and though he knew on some logical level that she had already attempted to attack him once, he couldn’t care. He felt magnetized.

  And there was something else. He could see the uncertainty and reception in her eyes. Whatever her mind was telling her was right and wrong, her body wasn’t listening. Her big, bright indigo eyes were filled with as just as much intoxication as he was feeling. The attraction between an alpha wolf and his mate was unmistakable and undeniable.

  My mate…. He hadn’t meant to think that. But as soon as he did, he knew it was true. Byron’s gums began to ache.

  His gaze flicked back to her face and he concentrated. He knew that the weapon was the source of the strange electrical hiccup he’d experienced moments before. He used his power now to deactivate it and was rewarded with a settling down of the airwaves around him, signaling that the weapon was dead.

  He’d acted just in time. Despite the attraction the woman obviously felt toward him, Byron watched as the woman prepared to shoot at him a second time. His heart ached as he watched her struggle with some unknown emotion. She straightened, tightened her grip on the gun, and closed her eyes. As she futilely pulled the trigger, he tried to remember what exactly had gone down that day twenty years ago. What had he missed? What could possibly have turned her down the path she found herself on now and robbed the werewolf community of this rare chance to survive?

  He saw himself in the lobby on the first floor of the apartment complex. He saw a man – a human – standing a few feet away, pulling mail out of a metal mailbox. Their gazes met. And then the warlock showed up and everything happened very quickly after that. Byron had flashed into wolf form, but following that was another flash, this one tainted green and red and scented faintly of night. There was a scream of pain, and the human went down. The warlock taunted Byron; he remembered that. And then the warlock disappeared again and Byron had been left alone in wolf form, standing over the dead body of an innocent.

  It was then that the girl had come skidding around the corner, all flying white hair and enormous midnight blue eyes. She’d looked at him – and looked at the man on the ground.

  He’d known then, in that instant, that the fallen human was her father.

  Oh my God, Byron thought as he watched the woman open her indigo eyes. She thought it was me. She thinks I killed her father.

  The woman looked at him, noticed that he was still standing and obviously unharmed, and then glanced down at her weapon. Her expression became one of stark confusion and dawning fear. She was a Hunter, and if that was the case, then she’d been trained in the best ways to destroy a werewolf – or as the Hunters referred to them, demons. So, she was no doubt well aware of the benefits of attacking a werewolf from a distance. It was a whole hell of a lot harder to kill one up close and personal.

  It all made sense now. She’d come around that corner twenty years ago to find a werewolf standing over the body of her dead father. She’d thought a werewolf had taken everything from her that day. He couldn’t blame her for becoming what she’d become.

  Byron’s imagination ran wild in that moment. He could see her trying to explain to the authorities what had happened to her father. What she’d seen. He wondered how much “therapy” they’d forced on the child. He could only imagine the “necessary” atrocities they’d inflicted on the little girl who was more precious than gold – and more miserable than Midas.

  It was that thought that fueled Byron’s sudden, unbending resolve. Whatever the reason, whateve
r their plan, the fates had brought the Huntress to him that night and he’d recognized her for what she was: a dormant – and his mate. There was no way he was going to let this chance slip through his fingers. He wasn’t going to let her go.

  Not without a fight.

  She must have been thinking along the same lines however, because the next thing she did was drop her gun only to fill her empty hand with yet another weapon. At once, Byron caught the acrid stench of poison. It laced the tip of the blade she palmed and he didn’t have to be a genius in Hunter-ology to know that one knick with the weapon would send him stumbling toward his grave.

  He watched as she seemed to consider a hundred different angles at once. Her beautiful eyes flicked like lightning from here to there, the wheels in her head obviously spinning at a thousand RPM. Byron tensed, his mind reeling and his chest aching. He didn’t want to hurt her. She’d already been through so much.

  But Hunters were dangerous, and despite Byron’s immense strength and power, he managed to prepare for the woman’s attack a mere, short millisecond before it came.

  Now, after their brief initial struggle, Byron’s face throbbed and his rib crackled as his supernatural healing ability kicked in. He turned around to face the woman who had escaped his hold and wondered how much damage he would not only have to inflict – but have to take – before he managed to gain the upper hand with her.

  Byron eyed her carefully, taking in every single breath she inhaled and every minute movement her highly trained body made. She watched him just as carefully and for once, Byron felt as if he were being seen for what he truly was – an animal – and not just any animal. She saw him as a very big, very deadly wolf with sharp teeth.

  All the better to eat you with, my dear.

  “If you’re going to kill me, the least you can do is tell me your name,” he told her once his nose stopped hurting enough for him to talk. He could feel that it had at least healed straight and he was grateful for that. It really sucked when it healed crooked; breathing became difficult until enough courage was garnered to re-break it and set it the right way.

  The Huntress seemed to have no problem in divulging the information he sought, because she simply answered him straight out. “Katherine Dare,” she said, her tone dreadfully cold. “Daughter of Doctor Anderson Dare.” Her indigo eyes darkened and Byron found himself gazing into a set of eyes that felt like black ice. “The man you murdered twenty years ago. Two days after my tenth birthday.”

  Katherine, he thought. He almost laughed. He’d always loved that name. He loved the way it rolled off of the tongue; it was an educated name, beautiful but subtle, fetching and unpretentious. He’d named his first bike “Katherine,” sixty-three years ago. It was too perfect that the woman before him would bear the same name.

  Destiny. And to him, just further proof that she was meant to be with him.

  “I didn’t kill your father,” he said. He knew she wouldn’t believe him, of course. What proof did he have? What proof would he ever have? But healing had to begin somewhere. It was either that, or the two of them would end it here and now on the clearing upon which they stood, and that sure as shit wasn’t going to happen. Nothing more would end this night. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  “You have no honor,” Katherine spat at him. She was in pain; he could smell the adrenaline and cortisol coursing through her blood stream. She’d no doubt nearly given herself a concussion on his face when she’d slammed her head into him. And he hadn’t gone easy on her arm while knocking the blade from her grip.

  Her words were laced with venom as she went on. “You’re bound to take out the rest of the family this night, you ungodly son of a bitch,” she hissed. “The least you could do is be honest about it.”

  Byron gazed steadily at her. He could feel her anger all around her like a shroud. Very slowly, he straightened. His body was completely healed now and, for the first time in his life, after five decades of torture at the hands of a sadistic blood sucker, the alpha werewolf found himself wanting to take on someone else’s pain – if only it would mean they would feel it no longer. He knew Katherine Dare was hurting, and despite her poisonous hatred of him, he couldn’t stomach the idea of her suffering in any way.

  “I am being honest,” he told her calmly. “I didn’t kill your father. A warlock killed your father.” He watched the play of emotion run its course across her lovely face. Her anger gave way to confusion and frustration. And then that gave way to something like resolve. But he went on anyway. “And I won’t kill you either, Katherine. I would never kill one of your kind.”

  He’d barely finished speaking when Katherine’s chin lifted – and she whirled around and began running through the woods in the opposite direction. Byron watched her go, at once fascinated with the incredible speed she was able to reach so quickly. Then he seemed to come to his senses, swore softly under his breath, and took off after her.

  Chapter Eight

  “The Chase”

  I won’t let him take me alive.

  It was the only thought that ran through her head as she raced through the darkness and simultaneously dug into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. There was a vial in the jacket. It was a tiny vial, just big enough to fit between her two back teeth. All she had to do was bite down, and this would all be over.

  A Hunter was never to be taken alive by a werewolf. It was one of the things that was drilled into a recruit’s head during their first – and last – days of training. If a Hunter was ever taken alive, the werewolf council would question him or her, and though many of them could handle a good deal of torture at the hands of an enemy, ultimately the prisoner might break and divulge information that would compromise the organization.

  When the wolf with the gray eyes had told her that he would not kill her – that he would never kill one of her kind – she knew damn well what he’d meant. The demon was aware that she was a Hunter and he planned to take her to his leaders.

  Not going to happen, she thought. It was strange, this sense of peace that came with knowing it was all about to be over. She had failed in her quest for justice, but it no longer mattered. She’d given it her best shot.

  She just needed a few precious seconds to get the vial between her teeth and bite down. She could hear him crashing through the underbrush behind her just as she was raising her hand to her mouth.

  He hit her from behind and took her to the ground, but not before she’d managed to get the vial between her teeth. The jarring impact forced her teeth to clamp together and she heard and felt the glass container snap. Her tongue was instantly numb as the poison raced across it and then into her blood stream.

  Distantly, as if her body had been ripped in two the moment the poison had touched her skin, Katherine felt the wolf roll her over. Her arms and legs were numb and the sensation of his grip was experienced as if through body-wide Novocain. She couldn’t see him; darkness had claimed her vision. Her eyes were open – but she was blind.

  With that realization and with the knowledge that the damage she’d done to her body was irreversible came a cold, hard fear the likes of which she had never before experienced. She was going to die. She had killed herself.

  She’d thought it was the right thing to do. She’d thought that it was something she could accept. She was so very wrong.

  A harsh sob of terror escaped her now bone dry throat just before everything began to go cold. She took a shuddering breath and let it go, knowing it would be the last breath she ever drew.

  *****

  Byron’s entire six foot four frame shook with rage as he raised his wrist to his mouth and bit down. The razor tips of his fangs pierced the taut skin over his vein and blood welled to the surface. At once, he placed his wrist to Katherine’s mouth and tilted back her head. She was already unconscious; the blood only pooled in her mouth and trickled uselessly down the side of her beautiful face.

  “Stupid!” he spat, and then fol
lowed it up with a string of obscenities. Furiously, he wrapped his hand around her throat and gently worked it, attempting to force her to swallow. “How could you be so stupid?” he asked, though he wasn’t certain whether the question was directed at Katherine or at himself. He’d known that Hunters did things like this; it had simply been so long since he’d faced one, he’d forgotten.

  The Huntress lay still in his arms; the only sounds in the woods were the distant crackling of a burning mansion and the ragged breaths of a werewolf seconds away from losing his mate for good. I could have stopped this, he thought viciously. He’d done a thousand things wrong. This woman was special, had to be handled differently.

  If he’d pulled his head out of his ass from the beginning and realized it right away, they wouldn’t be where they were now – her on the verge of death, him on the verge of wanting it.

  He’d been more concerned with the fact that she was a dormant than with the fact that she was a human being in mourning. She was hurting so badly, had been in so much pain for so long, she was consumed by it. In the end, she’d made a choice. She would either achieve the justice she’d fought for all of these years – or she would die trying.

  All or nothing.

  Byron gritted his teeth as a distant memory washed through him. He saw a man with salt and pepper hair, stark blue eyes, and a face like tanned leather. He heard a gravelly voice and felt a hard grip on his shoulder. The memory was ancient…. All or nothing, Weather Man. You gotta let me go.

  Byron closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, temporarily overcome with the clarity of the image in his head. And then he shoved it away and was raising his wrist to his lips again to pierce through the healed flesh and re-open his vein.

  “Swallow, God damn it!” he growled as he once more filled her mouth with the healing liquid and willed her to drink it down. He could hear her heartbeat beneath the fragile cage of her ribs. It was erratic and slow and so soft that if he hadn’t been the powerful alpha he was, he would not have caught the sound.