by Lucy Auburn
I jerk my eyes away from him, suddenly aware of the heat traveling through my body. It's unfair—Grayson never used to hit on me before. Ever since that moment in his room with the spirits, though, I've felt his eyes on me. There's heat in his blue gaze, and I don't know what to do with it. He's not a simple man.
Grayson wants—needs, even—more than a woman like me can give. But I have the feeling he won't be as easily turned away as Mason or Wyatt. Like the predator hiding in the bushes, he'll bide his time, tail twitching, eyes on me. When he decides to make me his, I won't be expecting it.
He might even succeed.
That scares me more than the thought of facing off against our undefeated Mark. I don't know what it says about me that one man with a bum leg kissing me intently is scarier than a mass murderer, but clearly I'm fucked up.
"I just need you to act normal," I tell Grayson, as if I know what normal means. "Our powers work better when we cooperate. And we both know that neither one of us will graduate unless we stop arguing and shit. So—"
"Stop jamming my tongue down your mouth and start holding hands like kindergarteners?" He snorts. "Got it. Let's be buddies, Ellen. We can skip rope."
Clearly this conversation isn't going anywhere, so I shoot a dark look at Grayson—ignoring the heat in his eyes and trying not to feel affected by it—and rush to catch up with the other guys on the path ahead of us.
They're bent down, staring at what looks like nothing. "I don't see it. Where'd he go?"
"Stay right there." Mason holds a hand up, motioning for me not to move anymore. "I don't want you trampling through these tracks."
I frown at him. "I don't trample."
"Daintily mince, then. Just stay right where you are." Placing his feet carefully, he walks off the path and through tangled weeds, looking at little signs I can barely see. "This stalk is bent... and over here, there are claw marks in the dirt..."
I feel like I'm watching a psychopath. Wyatt shoots me a look, and we both share a moment of that-guy-is-nuts over not understanding Mason's quirky hunter-tracker bullshit. Whatever he's doing, I don't get it, but I hope at least that he knows what he's doing. If we don't figure out how to hunt Marks together soon, none of us will survive much longer.
"Over this way... and here..."
Grayson joins Wyatt and I in watching our would-be tracker follow tiny signs in the woods. The skin on the back of my neck prickles in worry, and I look around for Levi, wondering why I haven't heard him shake the branches or stop awkwardly in a while. He nearly melted into the shadows, like the circus performer he used to be.
Right on schedule, there's a hollering sound from the tree branches above us, and a familiar pale form drops onto the ground below, hooting.
"I got him, I got him!"
Chapter 19
"Somehow I doubt that," Grayson says dryly, and I silently agree. Together we walk down the path towards Levi, as he grabs a moving animal on the ground and holds it up triumphantly. "You got a raccoon."
Levi frowns. "This thing isn't endangered? It looks endangered. Plus, I thought he could turn into any animal. Maybe this is—"
Mason is the one who tells him, "It's got mange."
If I thought the sound of Levi pouncing on a raccoon like a nimble predator was loud, the sound of him shrieking and throwing a probably-angry wild animal ten feet away from him is twenty times louder. The raccoon dashes past me and nearly knocks into Grayson, then swerves and disappears into the woods, no doubt with a story to tell.
One time, I was minding my own business, when out of nowhere this human with silver hair dropped from the trees...
Well, if raccoons do tell stories, that is. One day I'll have to hold Wyatt's hand and find out if I can talk to animals. Maybe birds can dress me and mice can tell me stories while he twines his fingers with mine. It would be like something a Disney princess does, only afterwards we'd stab a man to death.
"So." Mason brushes dirt off his hands and ignores the way Levi is nearly hyperventilating, wiping his hands on his clothing and dancing around on the path like a monkey. "The tracks disappeared at a certain point, but I think I know where he was going. There's not much around here, after all, and we didn't find anything that indicated he'd gotten to cook a meal recently, so it stands to reason that he left for food. Among other things."
Grayson says, "Like the thirst to kill, which all rogue assassins have if they don't learn how to channel their Affinities."
"Yes. Well." His mouth thinning into a line, Mason absentmindedly strokes the handle of one of his blades. "If we go now, we can make it to the closest town before nightfall. But I'd suggest that we find a less... noisy path to take. Like the road. Maybe hitchhiking?" The face I make at that must make it clear I'm not in the mood to meet strangers. "No hitchhiking, but we should try to make it there soon. I get the feeling that he's about to kill again."
"If we m-m-make it in time, we should be able to... t-t-take him out."
Wyatt got more words out in that single sentence than he has previously without holding my hand, but the subject of what he's saying alarms me.
"Aren't we supposed to just observe this guy? He's pretty dangerous, after all. And we don't know what surveillance will turn up."
"He's Marked, so surveillance is just to make plans. We don't have to make a case to the council to prove that he deserves to die." Mason pulls one of his knives and, as he speaks to me, shaves off the tips of his fingernails with its blade. So that's disconcerting, but a big reminder of the kind of men I'm connected to now: killers. "If we spot him, and we're not sure we'll be able to find him again, I say we make an attempt. It'll be dangerous, but no more risky than letting the moment pass by. I don't know about you four, but I don't want to be expelled."
Grimacing, Wyatt makes a distinctly heads-will-roll throat-slashing motion across his throat with one hand. Message received.
"I'll jump him if I can." Levi seems to have calmed down and centered himself again; his voice, coming from behind me, is level. "I just need someone to help me out."
"With wh—"
Looking behind myself, I forget what I was about to say next.
In the process of, apparently, getting rid of all traces of rabid mangy raccoon, Levi seems to have lost one key part of his outfit: his shirt. He's stripped his jacket off as well, and the two long dagger sheaths, along with their leather belts, that he had strapped around his shoulders. Standing in the path behind us, he's holding the sheaths up with a confused expression on his face, naked from waist to scalp, body on display.
And what a beautiful body it is.
His muscles are flat, lithe, and lean, but still impossibly carved, like a marble figure. Pale as he is, I can see every single individual muscle as he breathes in and out, his shoulders surprisingly broad beneath his clothes, his arms evenly toned. Levi has not just a muscular body, but a flexible and athletic one, as made clear by the rippling of his muscles as he tries to put the sheaths on and fails, a frown on his face.
My mouth is suddenly full of saliva, and I can't seem to string a sentence together.
Beneath the sarcastic demeanor, quick quips, and impossibly dirty jokes, Levi Ward has a body made for pleasure. He looks like he could bend in any direction, and do it with all his muscles engaged. Beautiful New York City ballerinas would stab each other to death to have his hands slide up their thighs and lift them up into the air on stage.
Oblivious to my lust, Levi tries to adjust the criss-crossing dagger sheaths over and over again, every movement just flexing his muscles further. I feel eyes on me, and swallow my desire-fueled saliva as Grayson's blue gaze narrows in my direction. I have no idea if the other two are watching, but at least one of my Conduits noticed my wide eyes for another.
Maybe I could get past Levi's smart mouth long enough to fuck my way out of this dry spell on top of him. After all, he's not talking right now, and I want to pounce on him like a wildcat in heat.
Especially when one of his daggers f
alls out of the sheath and, in a moment of breathtaking flexibility, he bends over backwards to snatch it up, his abdominal muscles tensing as he effortlessly stands back up again and flips the knife over to re-sheath it.
I've never had sex with a guy who could do that. I wonder what those sex positions are that he once teased me with. I bet he has a book somewhere that he could show me.
Levi finally notices me watching, and raises one silvery brow, mouth slightly tense with amusement. I wonder if he can read my thoughts. He's certainly flexing his abs and tensing his biceps as if he can.
"Are you done?" Mason sounds irritated, and his voice snaps me out of my daydreaming. "Just put your damn knife sheaths back on and shove the jacket over them or whatever. This is what you get for fucking with wildlife. How were you up in the branches anyway?"
"I wanted to prove that I still got it." Grumbling, Levi pulls his leather jacket back on over the belts and their sheaths. "I was crouching in the branches overhead when I saw something that looked like that cat or whatever, so I figured hey, job well done, let's go back home and eat the macaroni and cheese they bake only on Saturdays. But it turned out not to be a cat at all."
Grayson corrects him, "Thylacine."
"Whatever."
Levi bounds forward to catch up with the rest of us, and I have to avert my eyes from the way his jacket is flying open, parting to show the center of his leanly muscled chest, those two black leather belts crossing in the middle just above his abs. Just getting a whiff of his scent, which is like leather oil tinged with cinnamon, makes me want to rub against him and throw a leg around that waist. For fuck's sake, I think I might get blue vagina if I don't get this energy out of me soon.
Thankfully there's something to distract me from my current state. Based on Mason's instincts—apparently he's the only one of the guys who can really track a target down—we head towards the small town nearby, walking parallel to the road but out of sight of any trucks go by.
With Mason in the lead, his long braid swinging, and Wyatt just behind him looking like he could crush a man's skull between two fingers, I almost believe that we can do this. It's the two behind me, one struggling to walk over uneven ground, the other making more sound than the cars almost, that make me doubt our abilities to kill this man.
Especially when others who came before us failed so thoroughly.
Looking back at them, I point out, "This will go far faster and smoother if you two hold my hands." I grimace at the thought of what it'll look like. "Sure, we'll be like middle schoolers on a field trip, but—"
"Okay." Levi bounds forward and takes my hand, his palm somehow soft and calloused at the same time. He's still not wearing a shirt, and my cheeks heat at his nearness. "You know, I think we might actually get 'im this time. That or we'll die trying. Hard to say."
He says it so casually that I wonder if he really doesn't care which direction things go. Levi is always light in attitude, like he's bounding from problem to problem without his feet skimming against the ground. It's hard to imagine what might drive him to kill.
I look back at Grayson and arch a brow as he struggles to keep up. "Well? Pride or the mission, which do you choose?"
His eyes flit to my hand, and he pales. "You know that it'll only be temporary."
From up ahead, Mason calls back, "About a mile and a half left."
"Fuck." Grayson grimaces, then nods sharply, looking sick. "Let's just get it over with."
Levi snorts. "You sound like you're walking off to the gallows. Just grab her hand already. Maybe if you're lucky, she'll let you grab something else."
I glare at him, but Levi just winks, looking like a trickster demon who stole a handsome young man's body to lead virginal women astray. He'd be infuriating if I didn't want to lick him.
We both have to wait a few long moments for Grayson to make it close enough to stand next to us and reach for my hand. Ahead, Wyatt and Mason wait, both watching curiously. There's definitely a bit of jealousy on Mason's face, and some possessive irritation on Wyatt's, but I ignore them both. We need Levi and Grayson to be at full strength if we're going to catch up to our Mark.
There's a moment, as Grayson's fingers hover near mine, where I think he's going to take it all back. I know he doesn't want to grab my hand at all. But as the reality sinks in that he'll never make it there on foot, he clenches his jaw and puts his fingers in mine.
I watch, briefly, as his face changes again. As relief fills his features and tension melts away. There's something beneath the surface, though, because we both know it won't last, even as he puts weight on his leg and the three of us start walking again.
Thankfully Levi is here to break the tension. "Gray, think we could swing her in the air like a little kid? We're almost tall enough."
"No we're not." He rolls his eyes. "I feel like a little kid, holding hands like this. What's next, will Ellen have to wipe our asses?"
I wrinkle my nose. "Gross."
"I've smelled your farts," Grayson reminds me. "You have no place to talk."
We bicker back and forth like this, lobbing jokes and insults, their hands in mine, for the time it takes to make it to the end of the line. There are a few scattered houses in the distance, nestled between sparse trees, power lines running to them. Our tracker leads us to the nearest one, which has no lights in the window or car in the driveway.
As we get closer, it becomes abundantly clear that it's time to zip it. Mason holds up a hand and looks over his shoulder at us, pressing one finger to his lip. He motions for us to join him as he crouches down near a shed out back behind the house, Wyatt beside him, trying and failing to get small.
"I think this is it," Mason says. "Levi, you have the file, right? Hand it over."
He does, and Mason flips through the papers carefully, while I study the house. "How could you possibly know it's this one? I don't get it."
"Look." Mason pulls out a photograph and shows it to me, tapping his finger against it. "The wreath in that window—doesn't it look off to you? It's not a normal holiday wreath. No holly or anything. That's because it isn't a holiday wreath."
My stomach churns as I study the back window of the house and realize he's right. "It's a wreath of all the trophies he's collected from his victims. Like the one he left behind in his hotel room in Johannesburg, then broke into the police station to take back from the evidence room."
"Exactly. It was important enough for him to risk being caught taking it, so I had the feeling he'd have it on him. I just didn't realize that he'd actually hang it in a window. But it makes it easy to figure out where he is—especially because no lights are on in this house. I bet either the power isn't connected or he didn't turn them on so he wouldn't be caught."
The wreath is a macabre thing. I'm glad we're far enough away from the house that I can't make the details out, but there's the unmistakable lock of blonde hair running through it, and a silvery watch reflects the sunlight distinctly. Copenhagen didn't just collect trophies—he put them on display.
Which means he's not afraid of being caught. "The people who own this house... do you think they're out of town? Or maybe it's just a vacation home?" The guys don't answer, though Levi does squeeze my hand. "I guess he probably killed them."
"If they're lucky." I frown at Grayson, and he stares back at me in challenge. "What? He tortures his victims. The owners of this house probably aren't prostitutes, so they don't fit his M.O., which means he probably just killed them. If they're still alive, I doubt they're in great shape. Some things are worse than death."
Levi adds, "Things like Ellen's farts and Wyatt's singing voice. What? Don't look at me like that, big man. You sound like a dying water buffalo when you sing, and it's not because of that stutter."
I'm the one to ask, "What next?" I find myself looking to Mason, because he's led the way so far. "I mean, what do we do? Scout more? Go inside? Prepare to kill him?"
He frowns. "Don't ask me. I've only ever killed twice, and both times
, they came to me, not the other way around. The first was even in my house—my stepdad. I've never had to hunt someone, much less a high-level Mark like this. If we're caught here, we're done for."
"I didn't know that was your first kill." It's hard to imagine Mason killing someone, I have to admit, so it surprises me to learn that he's killed more than once. "You tracked this guy down so easily."
"My second kill was a hunter—my mom’s boyfriend this time, not husband. He taught me a lot of skills, like how to identify tracks and follow them." Mason raises a casual shoulder. "I taught him where not to put his hands. My mom didn't bring home another man after that, and I got kicked out of the house."
It hollows out a spot in the middle of my chest to hear him talk about his past so casually, but I know not to dwell on old wounds. So I move on to ask, "Have any of you actually snuck up on a target successfully before?"
Unhelpfully, Levi answers. "I snuck up on my first kill. Lion tamer—she was very creative with the whip, and not just on the animals. But that was before my weakness."
"Somehow I doubt we'll be able to sneak up on this guy while holding hands." I look up at Wyatt, but he just shakes his head. "So no great stalkers here. Wonderful. Guess we'll just have to wing it."
"Whatever you're winging, figure it out soon," Grayson says, "because I'm pretty sure I just saw him move past that window. Either we do this now, or we leave before he spots us and come back another time."
Just as he tells us this, the back door flies open, and our Mark paces out into the backyard, straight towards the shed.
Chapter 20
We're up a creek without a paddle. Worse—we're about to be caught by a serial killer without a plan on how to kill him. The instant I let go of Levi's hand, he'll be loud enough for anyone to find us, and Grayson won't be able to keep up. Wyatt is fine in battle, but Mason—Mason could die from just a single stab wound, and we already know that Lionel likes stabbing.
