The Hunt

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Behind his closed lids, Byron saw the past. He focused on it, grasping it with the ropes of his mind as if it were a lifeline. He remembered his parents and the home he’d grown up in in Brisbane, Australia. He saw his little brother, Lucas. This memory made him smile. Lucas looked so much like he did; they were like twins born years apart.

  Byron’s eyes were the color of charcoal, however – and Lucas’s had always been the color of night. Both boys had raven black hair and both boys had always shown a penchant for leather. There was a hardness to their blood that other werewolves didn’t possess. It set them apart from their peers and labeled them alphas from the get-go.

  Lucas had always been a stubborn boy; countless times, Byron had caught him attempting to swipe his big brother’s bike or getting into a fight with another alpha in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t long before Byron, who was then the alpha of his own pack, found himself taking his little brother under his paw and showing him the ropes. He knew Lucas would run his own pack one day. There was no point in allowing him to be sloppy about it.

  Byron chuckled now, the sound deep and rumbling and in such stark contrast to the sounds he normally made these days. He had to admit it was a pleasant sound. He had always had a very charismatic voice.

  Hell, everything about him had been charismatic. It was the gift that sent him to the top of the ranks in his society. And it was the curse that ripped him from that very society to see him a prisoner in another world for more than fifty years.

  Byron’s smile faded and his thoughts returned to that brief breath of freedom he’d managed to inhale twenty years ago. It was in mid-June. At least, that was how it had smelled. The truth was, he’d been captive for thirty years already at that point and there were certain aspects of his knowledge that were screwed up. He lost hours in a day and lost days in a week. The months went by like years – the years like centuries.

  But that night, twenty years ago, one of the Akyri guards who had been placed on his watch took his side. For some unknown reason, he’d sympathized with Byron – and the two of them had managed to orchestrate a combined force of brute strength, speed and black magic that saw Byron past the massive stone walls of the princess’s estate.

  He didn’t know what had become of the Akyri, but he would forever remember the man’s face. He’d been older than the others, and unlike most Akyri, his eyes had not appeared empty. In the dark nights of his pupils were stars of wisdom. It was an oddity for an Akyri. The creatures subsisted on dark energy, black magic. The craft itself was devoid of soul or positive influence. As a result, the creatures were in general devoid of it as well.

  Byron had taken out twelve men that night. Four of them had been Offspring, otherwise known as vampires, and the rest had been Akyri. Once they’d made it past the front gates of the estate, Byron and the Akyri who had aided him parted ways. The Akyri had never told Byron his name. And though he’d ultimately failed in his escape attempt, Byron would forever wonder who his would-be savior had been.

  Byron opened his eyes and shot a look of cold, hard steel at the four men stationed throughout the room. They were all Offspring. The princess didn’t trust his “safety” to anything but her own kind now. Not for twenty years; not since he’d proven to her how very determined – and how very powerful – he could be.

  The vampires in the room ignored him. None of them were even watching him, though he could feel at least one of them rooting around inside of his mind. It was always that way. He had nothing to himself. No thought was sacred. He’d long since given up on any hope of harboring a private dream or wish of his own. He was a prisoner, a toy, an item to be had and used in the deepest sense.

  He was nothing. Not any longer.

  Werewolves were not immortal and if it hadn’t been for the steady, unwilling infusions he’d received of the princess’s blood, he would have begun to age by now. But thanks to her and the insidious poison in her system, he appeared and felt the same today as he had fifty years ago. He was willing to bet that he and his little brother looked more alike now than ever.

  He couldn’t even die to escape his prison.

  Byron felt his gums begin to ache as the anger in his mind once more started to flood his system with adrenaline. He was an alpha. Any other werewolf would have broken by now. But Byron’s willingness to fight was as fresh as it had been on day one, and his defiance rode at the top of the slopes as it always had. No doubt, it was one of the things about him that had turned the princess’s head in the first place.

  He thought of the spoiled vampire and her unending tortures and his jaw clenched, his muscles bunching as his claws extended – just a little. His vision slid from the normal hues of human eyesight into the blacks, reds and whites of a wolf in hunting mode.

  “Simmer down Fido,” came a low taunt from one of the vampires. Byron’s cold metal eyes slitted and zeroed in on the other predator. The large man stood beside the door that led to the master bedroom. He had a cell phone in his hands and was busy texting some unknown recipient. He was disobeying orders by having that phone on him in Byron’s presence.

  Byron had only heard the term “texting” once and hadn’t been allowed to see what the hell it actually was, but recognized the frantic movement of the vampire’s thumbs across the phone. He caught glimpses of other vampires doing it outside the doors of his bedrooms once in a while.

  He also had no idea what a cell phone even did; he assumed it was a telephone with some kind of battery inside, but he was clueless as to how it managed to transmit messages without being connected to a wire. Perhaps through a satellite or via a radio tower? It also confounded Byron that these newest “phones” did not seem to have any buttons, though he wasn’t allowed a closer look at them. The vampire princess had forbidden the guards from going anywhere near Byron with this kind of technology.

  Unfortunately, the princess went to great extents to make sure Byron never caught up on what was changing as time passed around them. He had no television, was not allowed to read newspapers, had no radio. Books, he was given, but seeing as how none of their publication dates passed 1959, he assumed they were classics by now and that the princess had specifically kept him from anything later.

  He knew why she did this. All of this.

  If he ever escaped – like he had once – not knowing how the modern world worked would make it a hell of a lot more difficult for him to get very far.

  It was clever on her part. He hated her for it. And for a thousand other reasons.

  Byron glanced up at the texting man and the phone in his hands, but found that the vampire’s starkly colored eyes were on Byron. He wore a tight t-shirt across an ample chest. The t-shirt failed to hide the wicked trio of scars that ran the length of the vampire’s right bicep to the inside of his wrist. They brought a smile to Byron’s lips.

  The vampire flashed his fangs, pocketing his phone. “You want to go again, pup?”

  “You can’t handle it,” Byron shot back, baring his own long, sharp, white fangs. He wasn’t bragging; the warning was justified. This particular Offspring had held a grudge against Byron for weeks – ever since the two of them had gone head-to-head in one of the estate’s many hallways. Byron had left the vampire bleeding on the ground before the princess’s father and his small army of vampires and warlocks stepped in and subdued Byron. Again.

  The scar on the vampire’s arm was Byron’s memento. Apparently werewolves and vampires could harm one another just as werewolves could hurt each other. Who knew? For most werewolves, vampires were a myth. They had no idea the creatures even existed, much less that they could be affected so directly.

  The vampire stood stock still and eyed Byron with a mixture of hatred and wariness. Then he glanced at the other three Offspring in the room. Two were busy playing a game of cards at a table against a barred window across the enormous bathroom. They ignored Byron and his tormentor. The fourth vampire was reclined in an easy chair in one corner, a leather bo
und novel in one hand. That vampire glanced up for a moment to meet the other vampire’s gaze, and he smiled a secret, somewhat taunting smile.

  I dare you, the smile said. This book is getting boring.

  Byron waited and watched, ready to leap out of the tub and transform at the slightest indication that the vampire was prepared to attack. He would welcome the fight. Even if it left him scarred and hobbled, it would feel good and it would be worth it.

  The vampire sneered and leaned back against the wall, suddenly all faked nonchalance and arrogance. “He’d tear my clothes like a girl. I’m not in the mood to change at the moment,” he said, pulling his cell phone out of his back pocket and once more beginning to text.

  Byron tried not to smile, but his lips curled anyway. The vampire was terrified of him. He could smell the creature’s fear. Byron was tempted to fuck up the Offspring’s phone, make it go haywire or fry out completely. But he quelled the desire, keeping it to himself as he always had. There was a chance it would come in handy one day; there had to be a reason that it was the one fact the Offspring were unable to pull from his mind. They were unaware of his gift. It was a sign.

  The prospect of using said power against the vampire and watching the confused expression on the man’s face did almost make Byron laugh, however. Almost. It had been a very long time since he’d laughed.

  Byron took a slow, deep breath and once more leaned his head back against the edge of the tub to close his eyes. These long, hot baths were his only recourse from the life the princess and her family had thrust upon him. The water was magically heated; it never became tepid. It seeped into his muscles and tendons, working away the soreness and tension his struggles left him with day after day.

  Night after night.

  In a few hours, the vampire princess – Isabel Marie Wraythe – would enter his chambers. Her body and mind, infused with the dark magic of her warlock father and the fangs and parasitic nature of her Akyri mother would overwhelm him, no matter what he did. His arms and legs would be wrapped in chains, his bed wrapped in charms and wards that drained his strength and will, and the food he’d been given would have been laced with spells and potions that bent him to her will.

  In the end, he would be spent and drained and the next morning, he would awaken to fresh bruises and a dehydrated headache. It never failed.

  Well, it had failed once. Twenty years ago.

  Again, he recalled the Akyri who had helped him and the events of that night as they’d unfolded. He and his wayward companion had taken out the guards in the hall and scaled the once warded estate wall to find themselves in the midst of a forest. They parted ways with a single nod and no words and Byron ran on through a woods that gradually became taller and thicker. Redwoods.

  He’d recognized his location, known he was no longer in Australia, and realized that when he’d been taken thirty years before, he had been transported across the globe and into the United States. It registered, but he accepted it and moved on, racing as fast as his long, strong legs would carry him through what became state park ground. He made it to the main road and hitched a ride into the city. Lucky for him, the princess provided expensive clothing and shoes and the finest in everything having to do with hygiene; the lie that his car had broken down up the road served him well and matched his handsome, polished appearance.

  San Francisco’s skyline was the most welcome, most beautiful sight he’d beheld in three decades. Byron found it hard to breathe as the driver took them down Highway 101 and into the city by the bay. He was dropped off at a bus stop, where he charmed his way past the bus driver and made it further into town.

  A lot had changed, but it was night and all he was able to take in were the neon lights, the outsides of new buildings, and the shifted mode of dress. The cars threw him for a loop. When he’d been taken, automobiles were heavy metal works of art. Now they seemed to be thinner and flimsier, for the most part, and totally devoid of style. Still, he marveled at the controls in front of the bus driver’s steering wheel. Not to mention the gas prices he saw plastered to signs as he passed gas stations.

  Eventually he got off of the bus and found himself at the gates of an apartment complex. Byron remembered staring up at the complex and wondering what in the world had made him decide to stop there. On the outside, it appeared no different than a million other apartment buildings across the country. But there was something buzzing under his skin; there was a vibration to the air that forced him to break the lock on the gates and stride through the courtyard to the front doors of the first tower on the right.

  Most born alpha werewolves possessed some sort of power that set them apart from the betas and others in their society. Byron’s gift since birth had been the ability to manipulate mechanical devices so that they did what he wanted them to do. At first – fifty to eighty years ago – this hadn’t been all that impressive. He could manipulate any vehicle and automatically knew how to fly a plane, operate a train, drive a car and ride a motorcycle. It was the general reason behind the fact that his pack took on the shape of a motorcycle gang. He enjoyed working on vehicles, and bikes were the most fun.

  However, beyond being able to manipulate fire alarms and ovens and factory machinery that was much safer left to its own devices, Byron’s power had been somewhat worthless in the practical world.

  But standing there before those gates in the middle of a town that buzzed with electricity, Byron could tell that now was a much different story. He didn’t know what all of the changes were, but it seemed logical that humanity had made a lot of them and that they would tend toward the technological side.

  The fact that he’d been given little chance to use his ability due to his imprisonment for the majority of his adult life didn’t stop him from knowing how to use it that night. Just as he’d automatically known how to fly a plane or ride a bike, Byron had known what to do with the electronic keypad in front of him. He’d simply waved his hand over it and the metal and glass doors to the apartment tower had clicked open.

  In the lobby beyond stood a man in his early forties who was pulling a wad of mail out of what appeared to be a metal mailbox. Byron had missed a lot during his captivity. A lot of surface things had changed, but underneath, some things more or less stayed the same. A mailbox still looked like a mailbox.

  The man turned from his task and his eyes met Byron’s. The buzzing in the air became stronger. Byron couldn’t have put the sensation into words if he’d been asked, but something about the atmosphere felt like a portent in that moment. He could sense that something was about to happen. Something crucial.

  The man’s eyes were an odd indigo color, deep purple blue that was both rare and stood out in the handsome frame of his face.

  Byron nodded at the man in greeting, playing it cool. And though he wore an expression of wariness no doubt brought on by the fact that he had never seen Byron at the apartments before, the man smiled and nodded back.

  That was when the music stopped and Byron’s dance with freedom came to an abrupt end. There was a warping in the air, a suction kind of sound and feeling, and at the center of the lobby, a warlock transported into being.

  Byron froze, his stormy gaze instantly moving from the warlock to the unwitting witness of this amazing event. The human male dropped the envelopes he had in his hands and slowly turned to face the newcomer. His mouth was open, his stark eyes wide.

  No, thought Byron. He knew what was coming. It was inevitable and it was unstoppable. Byron had no time to react, but he reacted anyway, instantly shifting into wolf form.

  The flash of his transformation once more filled the lobby with white light. At the same time, he heard the man bellow in pain. The warlock had already attacked. The strike came from nowhere, a magical hit that crushed the man’s chest, ripped his heart apart, and left him bleeding and prone on the ceramic tiles beneath him. Byron could only stand there, smelling the freshly poured blood and listening as the man’s heart slowed and ceased
to beat altogether.

  The warlock looked at Byron and slowly shook his head. “This is your doing,” he said softly. “Feel it. And try not to make the same mistake twice.”

  The sound of leather slapping on stone drew their attention just before there was a third flash and the warlock once more disappeared, leaving Byron still in wolf form and standing over the fallen human.

  A little girl of about ten to twelve years of age came skidding around the corner that led to a hall and apartment doors beyond. She had the most beautiful, amazing mass of white blonde hair Byron had ever seen. It was the first thing that struck him as he watched her skid to a halt. Her eyes were the second thing he noticed; they were indigo… like her father’s.

  The third thing to strike Byron was her scent. It was this scent, this sweet smell of promise that represented for Byron the culmination of everything he had ever wanted in the sixty years he’d been alive. It was everything any alpha werewolf wanted.

  It was undoubtedly the reason he had stopped outside the gates of that apartment complex that night. It was the reason he had chosen this tower over the other three that made up the vast apartment complex. It was the vibration in the air, the buzz beneath his skin that hinted at freedom and happiness and salvation. It was her – and her beautiful, perfect scent.

  The scent of a dormant.

  She was only a child and the dormancy was still immature. The scent was so faint as to be nearly nonexistent. But he caught it as surely as if it had been a candle’s flame in the darkness.

  The girl’s eyes met his and Byron’s gut clenched. His heart felt ripped from his chest as surely as her father’s had been. And then her gaze slid to the man on the floor and Byron found himself wanting to turn back time. He wanted to take back what he had done – just as the warlock no doubt intended. If he had known what the consequences of his actions would bring, he never would have attempted to escape. Not now. Not like this.