by Lincoln Cole
Abigail staggered, and instinct kicked in. She dove to the side as he fired more shots, and then rolled to her feet and sprinted toward the house. She ran along the side of the building, moving out of Colton’s line of sight, and around the corner. His next move would be to adjust to get a better angle at her, which meant he would come forward.
In anticipation, Abigail sidestepped and ducked just as he came around the corner. Colton fired more shots, but she quick-stepped and weaved, avoiding the bullets and closing the last few steps, and then she fell upon him.
Abigail kicked and punched with a flurry of blows, knocking Colton backward and to the ground. Then she stepped up, hitting him repeatedly with her fists and forcing him to cover his face with his arms.
She slipped a hit through, knocking his head back against the dirt. He tried to raise the gun again, but Abigail knocked it away and kicked him in the stomach. Colton grunted when the blow knocked the oxygen from his lungs.
He rolled, gasping for air, and tried to crawl away. Abigail hit him again and stepped around in front of his prone body, which she rolled over with her foot.
“What …?” he gasped, a horrified expression on his face.
“You should have left,” Abigail said. “When you had the chance.”
“What … are you …?”
The words came soft, but they froze Abigail in place. It seemed like being drawn from a dream, and she realized that she was making low guttural sounds as she stood over him. Her heart raced, and she could feel the blood pumping through her veins rapidly.
In shock, Abigail realized that she’d been about to kill the man. Without even making a decision. Just a fact of circumstance. She’d been about to kneel down and slice open his throat.
She felt angry, angrier than she’d ever felt in her entire life, and all she wanted was to murder Colton.
Worse, though, she still wanted to. Had a nearly overwhelming urge to slice him open and watch the life drain out of his eyes.
The realization terrified her, and her hands shook. Colton stared up at her, eyes wide, and a scared expression on his face.
“What the hell are you?”
Abigail kicked him in the face, knocking him unconscious. Then she stood there, fighting down her urge to end his life. Instead, she forced herself to take a step away, and then another, and then to keep walking until she reached the porch of the house.
Her hands still shook, as she struggled to regain control. She’d experienced anger before, but never something like this. It took a full five minutes before she could regulate her breathing and get her heart rate down. Even then, it took another few minutes to realize how badly her side hurt.
Dampness chilled the area where the gunshot had struck. Abigail checked it and found a hole on her left side where the bullet had passed clean through. Once she saw the wound, she realized that it hurt like hell and doubled over in pain.
What the hell is happening to me?
Something was terribly wrong, and Abigail didn’t know what. She felt powerless and out of control—something she wasn’t used to. The idea that she’d almost murdered someone without even making the conscious decision to do it seemed insane.
Once she’d regained some modicum of control, she went back over to where Colton lay and checked his pockets. A pair of keys had her guessing that he’d most likely parked further down the driveway.
Quickly, Abigail retrieved the binder and then set off in search of the car. She didn’t want to be near him for any longer than she had to be, and needed to be long gone before any of the three awoke. The car sat about a kilometer down the drive, back near the road itself.
In the trunk lay medical supplies, and Abigail made a rush-job of patching up her side. The kit only had alcohol, which burned like dragon fire when she rubbed it around the wound.
Abigail cleaned the hole as well as she could, and then wrapped a bandage around it. She’d lost a lot of blood, but the wound didn’t appear too bad. Luckily, the bullet had missed any vital organs. It would hurt like the jeebies, but she would be all right.
At least physically. Mentally, she felt a lot more worried than she ever had. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what the hell was going on. Could she trust herself?
Upset and at a loss, Abigail climbed into the vehicle and pulled out her phone, which she used to find the location the man on the phone had given her. Arthur had thought this person important, and maybe he would have some answers about what was happening to her.
Chapter 10
Colton Depardieu woke up groggy. He blinked and tried to remember where he was. It remained dark outside, but the sun had risen just above the horizon in the distance. He was at a farm, he remembered, and they’d been after Abigail.
They’d found her, in fact, and it had been a simple job of springing their trap and finishing her off. Somehow, she’d known of their presence and had managed to take them down and get away.
But, she’d also confirmed what he already knew to be true: she was a monster.
When she’d attacked him, her eyes had glowed, and her face wore a mask of rage. She was evil, plain and simple, and needed putting down.
Colton had wounded her—had shot her in the side, and even though it hadn’t been enough to stop her, it would slow her down. With any luck, they could track her. He checked for his keys. Gone.
Colton cursed. They’d slashed the tires on her vehicle the night before, but if she’d found their car, it would prove harder to find her. They could drive on the rims to get back to the road, and then pick up another vehicle along the way, but it would end up costing them time. They needed to get moving.
He felt pissed at the idea that she’d managed to get the better of him. Of all of them. They’d ambushed her at this stupid house and had every advantage, and yet, somehow, she’d survived and gotten away.
The woman hadn’t even had the guts to finish them off.
He’d known her as weak-willed, and this proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. He would find her, and then he would end her.
Colton rose to his feet, planning to find and wake Jack and Anong. They would need to catch Abigail before she made it too far. With any luck, the bullet wound in her side would make it easy to finish her.
Not looking forward to the call, he pulled out his burner phone and dialed the number saved there. Aram answered on the third ring.
“We found her,” Colton said.
“Where?”
“Ohio.”
“Is she dead?”
“Not yet,” Colton said. “But she’s wounded.”
“I’m sending backup to your location.”
“We won’t need it,” Colton said. “She’ll be dead within the hour.”
“I’m not taking any risks,” Aram said. “Make sure you don’t miss this time.” Aram ended the call.
Colton stretched out his body and dragged in a few breaths, trying to clear his head. He had a raging headache as he walked back toward the barn to find the other Hunters.
Not there. He rounded the corner. That, too, proved empty. Broken beams lay scattered about, and the ground looked messed up from where the fight had taken place, but his two friends had gone missing.
“Jack?” he shouted. “Anong?”
No answer. Colton looked around, confused, and then headed back to the house. Maybe they had woken earlier and gone inside?
Still, if that were the case, why hadn’t they woken him? They knew the importance of finding Abigail. If they had gone in to rest and just left him out there, he would be furious.
Broken windows had teeth of jagged glass, the door hung askew on its hinges, and bullet holes peppered the walls everywhere. It looked like a war zone. Thank God this had happened in the middle of nowhere, or the police would be swarming by now.
They would get here soon, anyway. No doubt, someone had called in about gunshots. They so had to get a move on.
Jack and Anong lay face down in the living room. The bastards had fa
llen asleep. Colton walked up and kicked Jack’s boot. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Jack didn’t budge. Colton kicked him again, and then went over and tapped Anong on the foot as well.
“Get up, sleepy heads. We have work to do.”
Neither moved. He knelt next to them, frowning. And then he eased Anong over onto her side. Her cut throat gaped open in a red mess, but worse still, someone—or something—had cut out her eyes. Two gaping holes were all that remained where her brown orbs should have sparkled with life.
Repulsed and terrified, Colton dropped Anong’s body and stepped back, removing his gun from its holster. Still gasping in shock, he used his foot to roll Jack. He bore the same mutilations.
“What the hell?” Colton muttered, scanning the room. Now that he paid attention, he saw droplets of blood on the floor, leading from the kitchen. Not nearly enough to justify cut throats, but more than a dribble.
They hadn’t died in situ. Someone had dragged them here.
Gun wobbling in his trembling hand, Colton followed the small trail around the corner and into the kitchen. Large pools of drying blood congealed on the floor. Four eyes on a cutting board stared at him. The massacre had taken place in this room.
Noise from behind had him spin on his heels. A woman stood there with a cloak pulled over her face. Colton aimed and pulled the trigger.
It clicked but didn’t fire.
He pulled it again, but it kept clicking.
“I removed the bullets while you slept,” the woman said, walking closer. Not Abigail, though he had no idea who it might be.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Call me a concerned citizen.” She strode toward him. “I’m cleaning up the streets and taking vigilantes out of commission.”
Colton dropped the gun and drew his knife, and then fell into a fighting stance.
“You’re a demon,” he said. “I would recognize the stench anywhere.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say.” She stepped closer. “Especially to a lady.”
Colton stepped forward and stabbed. She deflected his arm, stepped inside his reach, and shoved him on the sternum with her palm.
He staggered back, gasping for air when his lungs collapsed. Never in his life had he received such a forceful hit. She stepped in again, knocking the knife out of his grasp and kicking him to the floor. Colton slid on a pool of blood, and when he hit the floor, the crimson mess soaked his clothes. Then the woman lifted a pan from the counter and bashed him in the side of the head with it.
Time passed while he fell in and out of consciousness. He had flashes of awareness, but when he finally came to, she had tied his hands, and he lay in the living room next to the other Hunters.
The woman stood over him, holding a huge butcher’s knife, her cowl hiding her face.
He tested the ropes. Too tight to wiggle out of.
“Reinforcements are coming,” he said.
“I know.”
“You won’t get away with this,” he said. “You murdered Hunters. They’ll never stop looking for you.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “By the time I’m done, there won’t be anyone left to come looking.”
She knelt down, pulling up his pants leg and exposing his shin and calf. “Ever been to a butcher shop? Ever watched someone carve up a cow? I’ve always found it fascinating, the way they strike down and cut right through the bone.”
“Please,” Colton said, shivering and trying to scoot back.
“But, often,” she said, setting down the butcher knife. “They will use other tools as well. Like a meat tenderizer.”
She picked up a heavy-looking mallet from the floor and held it up for inspection. It had ridged sides and looked cumbersome.
“Softens up the meat and makes it easier to cut. More tender.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Don’t do this.”
She laughed. “So easy to break. If only I needed information from you, I’d feel rather disappointed at how easily I shattered you. No, friend, I don’t need anything from you. You’re just a victim of circumstance.”
She slammed the mallet down on his shin.
Bone crunched.
Colton screamed.
Agony roared up his leg.
She slammed it down again, and once more.
He jerked and crawled back. The foot dragged along the ground, attached only by the wrecked skin and muscle.
“Amazing, isn’t it? The tools we’ve created to make tasks easier. We are remarkable creatures at overcoming obstacles.”
She hesitated, and then added, “Well, I guess not we, right?”
Then she swung the mallet down again, crashing it against his knee.
He didn’t quite black out, but his world became pain and confusion after that. She kept talking, but the words no longer made sense. All he could do was plead and beg while she crashed the mallet against his legs and arms.
At some point, she switched to using the butcher’s knife and sliced off chunks of his flesh. She did it methodically, patiently, always doing just enough to make sure it gave him excruciating pain but not enough to kill him.
By the time she finished him off, he lay begging for her to kill him. It took what felt like forever before he died.
Chapter 11
Abigail arrived at her destination sometime in the afternoon. Not having eaten in almost twenty-four hours, she felt starved. However, covered in blood, she couldn’t risk stopping anywhere for food.
Her side ached and still seeped blood, but she had to admit, it didn’t hurt nearly as badly as she had anticipated. She would need to redo the bandages soon, but first, she had to find out the identity of the man who’d answered her call and led her here, and why Arthur had his number.
Abigail climbed out of the car and went to the little storefront. It looked like a poorly cared for incense and antique shop that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic. A tiny bell tinkled overhead when she went inside and, immediately, the aroma of marijuana overwhelmed her, masked only partially by other scents.
The counter stood empty, so she wandered through the store and down the aisles. Statues of dragons decorated most of the shelves, along with the occasional animal statue or trinket. Along one wall hung various tapestries and Kimonos, in no particular organizational structure.
“Hello?” Abigail called toward the backroom.
No response. She felt more than a little uneasy at the quietness of the store. Maybe someone had anticipated her arrival here and waited for her in the back. Colton might have awoken and called someone.
Abigail slid her gun free and moved with caution toward the counter, listening intently.
From the back, music played faintly, something slow and melodic. She pushed aside a curtain blocking the doorway and stepped into a storage room.
In the darkness of the back room, the smell of marijuana only intensified. No other noises reached her as she walked on silent feet across the storage room. It stood in complete disarray, and she had to step past and over various items on the floor.
The music came from a side room on the other end of the storage area. The door hung cracked open. Gently, Abigail pushed it the rest of the way, gun ready, expecting to find a dead body.
Instead, she found a forty-something man lying on a beanbag chair with a water bong on his lap. He just stared up at the ceiling, eyes open but not present. At first, she thought he might be dead, and then—when he blinked at her—she realized him to be extremely high.
A few seconds later, he screamed a high-pitched shrill and tried to extricate himself from the chair.
Abigail lowered the gun and held up her hand, attempting to calm him. He flopped onto the floor and jumped to his feet, holding the bong like a club. Water splashed out, and droplets hit her skin.
“Hey!” she said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Abigail,” she said. “You told me to come?”
“I did?” he asked, confuse
d.
“Yes,” she said. “Last night. I called you, and you told me to come.”
He hesitated for a long minute. “Oh God,” he said, finally, a look of horror on his face. “That was real? I thought I dreamed that.”
“Nope,” she said, annoyed. Abigail brushed the water from her arm. “Completely real.”
He settled down and lowered the bong. She slid her gun away. “I just …” he said. “I never thought I would actually get to meet you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Frieda told me to stay away. I was never supposed to make contact because it could get us all in trouble. And now you’re here. You look …”
Abigail fought not to roll her eyes. “Yes? I look?”
“Different than I expected,” he said with a shrug. “I guess I just always had this idea of what you would look like in my head, and the reality is nothing like what I imagined. I mean, Arthur told me a lot about you, but it’s never quite like the real thing.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Abigail asked. “Who the hell are you? How do you know Arthur?”
“Of course, idiot me,” he said. “Sorry. I’m Mitchell. Arthur’s brother.”
***
Abigail stood speechless. Arthur’s brother? He’d never told her he had a brother, much less that he remained alive, lived nearby, and had contact with Arthur.
“Arthur had a brother?”
“Had?” he echoed. “Has. I’m not dead.”
“He is, though,” Abigail said.
Mitchell tilted his head to the side, frowning. “Oh … oh right, that makes sense then.”
“You knew about me?”
“Of course,” Mitchell said. “He talked about you constantly.”
“He never told me about you.”
Mitchell’s expression turned to one of worry. “No,” he said. “I know. But he couldn’t. Frieda wouldn’t let him.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Council would have been furious and it could have gotten all of us killed. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you right now, and if anyone knows you’re here, they’ll probably kill me.”
