Hunter of the Damned

by Jennifer Martucci

  “There’s no mercy for you. You know that as well as I do,” I say.

  The beast moves to lunge, his act a mere twitch before I respond by drilling his skull with the blade of my staff. It sticks briefly and but I yank it free and instantly plunge it into the neck of the one beside him. Both beings turn to dust on a cyclonic roar of energy. I’m left with my chest heaving, adrenaline seeping from my pores.

  Footsteps approach from behind. Scarlett and Luke.

  “Gideon,” Scarlett says.

  I nod, and in that moment, I realize she is right. I am Gideon.

  Chapter 9

  ̴ Agares ̴

  Pacing back and forth in the farmhouse, Agares feels tension gather in the back of his neck, bunching the muscles there. Each step he takes is deliberate, purposeful, like that of a caged beast, his mind working at a pace far faster than his feet. One hand moves to his nape, massaging and attempting to ease the ache forming there. But it does precious little. A thought still niggles at his brain. One he cannot shake no matter how hard he tries. It remains there. An itch he cannot scratch. Adron. The absence of his most trusted soldier leaves a feeling in him that borders on panic. And panic is unacceptable. Panic is reserved for the weak. For humans. Agares is better. He is stronger.

  Rolling his shoulders and straightening his posture, Agares glares out beyond the sliding glass doors of the living room. Beyond them, the night is shrouded in a veil of mist. Fog clings to trees in some places while hovering in other areas, lingering and haunting like spectral beings. The sight causes a slow smile to creep across his lips. Soon it will not be just the fog that lurks. A new breed of being that once prowled and kept to the shadows will blanket the earth. A war will be initiated. A new world order will be instituted.

  Though comforted by the fact that his army will begin their mission and start the war for earth, Adron’s absence continues to plague him. It gives rise to the notion that a Hunter of greater power exists among them, unnoticed as of yet. It gives rise to the notion that Gideon may be farther along in the evolution of his new human form than he originally thought.

  “Gideon,” he growls the name aloud and balls his hand into a fist so tight, his fingernails leave crescent-shaped marks on his palms. The idea that Gideon may have been the one to kill Adron if Adron is, indeed, dead, burrows in his brain like barbed wire, driving him to the brink of madness.

  Breathing ratcheting up several notches, Agares begins pacing faster, his thoughts spinning. He needs answers. He needs them immediately. He needs to know what happened to Adron, and if Adron perished, he needs to know whose hand caused it. The thought of just any Hunter being strong enough to best Adron makes little sense. It’s impossible. Adron is or was an elder. A servant of the Underworld who possessed power as ancient as the wind itself. Only one could be powerful enough to conquer him: Gideon.

  A sinking sensation grips Agares, tugging his innards to his designer shoes. He shakes his head and battles it back, deciding in that moment to utilize his powers to find answers.

  Closing his eyes and steadying his breathing, Agares pictures Adron. He focuses every ounce of his energy on him, reaching out with all his senses. Concentrating so hard his temples pound, Agares cannot sense Adron. His search comes up empty.

  Unease moves through his body and causes his heart to flux, banging hard against the cage in his chest. He turns and moves through the living room, stalking past an island in the kitchen and swatting an empty glass left there. The glass launches across the room and shatters against the far wall, leaving a dent in the sheetrock and sending shards of broken glass crashing to the hardwood floor.

  Lips thinned and stretched over his teeth, Agares can hardly contain the rage welling up within him. Adron is gone, his existence eradicated from this earthly realm and all others. His entire body shakes. For a being who prides himself on fearing nothing, threads of worry weave their way into him.

  Snapping his eye shut once again, he concentrates a second time. Far more challenging than the first, it takes him several moments to surrender to calm, to relax enough for his astral travel to begin. Every cell in his body begins to vibrate and his vision changes, wavering as heat does when radiating off pavement on a sweltering day. Before long, the room in which he stands evaporates. A burst of light similar to a camera flash fills his field of vision before utter darkness carries him on a roaring wave, spinning so quickly and so deafeningly it feels as though he’s in the center of a tornado. His body merges with the darkness, with the whirling noise, dissolving so that he is one with it. Moving at the speed of thought, he centers his thoughts on the last place Adron was. Snippets of a location flicker in and out of his consciousness. A basement. Boarded windows. A girl with flaxen hair. Random puzzles pieces, all of them. But soon, those pieces fit together, and an image takes shape. After a brief period, the spinning stops. The roar quiets. His body materializes in its human form and he finds himself in a small town in New York called Patterson. He stands before a structure at the end of a long driveway.

  Light completely snuffed out, the place is awash in gloom. Standing on uncultivated land amid a forest of pines and cedars, he takes in the grounds of what resembles a long-since abandoned palace. Rows of trees, dried and lifeless, reach and stretch toward the skyline. A stiff, brisk breeze blows, slicing through the brittle growth and emitting a mournful bay, whistling and shrieking as it passes through trees and broken windows. Razor-sharp spires pierce the heavens and dominate the ornate façade of the structure. Windows are boarded, though the wood sags in some places. The mansion would make just about any human uneasy. But not Agares. Agares delights in the nightmarish quality of it, in the nearly audible screams and pleas carried on the wind.

  Walking slowly, he makes his way to the front door. He tries the handle and finds it locked. Giving it a small push, the lock shatters and the door swings open. Agares steps over the threshold and is enveloped in the death. The stench of blood and decay hangs heavily in the air, as does the scent of sulfur and brimstone, a clear indicator that others like him, other servants of the Underworld, have been present. But random servants of the Underworld are not why he’s here. Adron is.

  He focuses all of his energy on his slain comrade and feels an immediate pull through the foyer and into the kitchen to a thick wooden door. He opens it and finds a staircase that leads to a cellar. Descending the staircase, he makes his way to the basement. As soon as his feet hit the concrete floor, his vision is awash in crimson. Rivers of blood run from open wounds. Forearms slashed, he sees girls, countless young girls, with identical, vertical wounds from their wrists to the crooks of their elbows. Adron’s handiwork, he is sure, a thrill of amusement slinks up his spine. “I see you were busy, my friend,” he says to no one as kill after kill flashes before his eyes like an ancient film reel. But only when it reaches the final one does he take note.

  Pellucid blue eyes so pale they match the color of ice over water plead for mercy as the first wound hemorrhages bright-red. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders and she’s held in place, her expression one of abject fear and horror. He allows his vison to pan out. In his periphery, he sees first that a Hunter lay face down, unconscious on the floor. A fallen Hunter elicits a small chuckle to pass through his lips. He also sees a young man, a boy really, with dark eyes and hair. He’s being restrained by Adron’s powers as well. The boy’s eyes shine with unshed tears, pain evident in every single aspect of his demeanor. But with each moment that passes and the girl’s suffering worsens, a palpable shift occurs. Raw volts of power begin raging inside the boy like a lightning storm. Pulsing the palest of blue, his energy emanates like a blinding flash of light that shivers through the air. Unmistakable and overwhelmingly strong, it builds until his flesh can no longer contain it. Focusing on Adron, the energy blasts from the boy. He breaks free of the powerful servants of the Underworld’s hold on him and destroys him with ease.

  Witnessing it, feeling the raw wellspring of power that surrounds the boy in w
aves of heat and ice, Agares feels as though he’s suffocating, anger and shock choking him with veins of fiery frost. His mouth goes dry and hangs agape. The boy is so young, it seems impossible, yet deep in the yawning pits of his being, Agares knows it is Gideon he sees, that Gideon slayed Adron.

  And his power grows with each second that ticks by.

  Swallowing hard and fighting the sensation of being strangled, Agares struggles to regain composure. When finally he does, he narrows his scope, setting his sights on the boy’s face. A name begins to whisper through his brain, infecting his thoughts like a virus. Daniel. Daniel Callahan. The boy’s name is Daniel Callahan. Settling further and relieved at the revelation, Agares reaches further, extending his senses to locate him. And as he does, he realizes that Daniel lived nearby. He resides in the very town in which he stands.

  Opening his eyes, Agares steeples his fingers in front of him. A wave of satisfaction washes over him. His mission to seek out and destroy Gideon may be accomplished in a matter of minutes.

  Chapter 10

  ̴ Daniel ̴

  Black smears are all that remain of the slain Servants of the Underworld, smears that resemble those made with charcoal. Their ashes have been carried away on an ancient wind, delivered to the bowels of the earth from which they originated, to where they’ll be destroyed permanently.

  Though each of the Servants of the Underworld I encountered here tonight have fallen, anger still simmers within me. The one responsible for killing Aeric was not among them. These were weaker beings, foot soldiers to a general who’s hiding in the shadows in wait. The one they fought for, the one who claimed Aeric, would have put up a fiercer battle. He would have fought harder, lasted longer. But Aeric’s death would have been answered with his life, of that I am positive.

  Skin prickling, I imagine the joy of vengeance I’ll feel when the day finally comes and the beast who claimed Aeric falls. My blade will be swift and my movements will be sure. He will die by my hand and it will not be a quick death. It will not be a pretty death either. He will be spared honor, and he will be spared mercy.

  “Aeric’s killer wasn’t here. The ones who died here were just pawns,” I say, vocalizing my thoughts aloud.

  “That’s what I thought also.” Luke’s voice is low and serious. “Aeric wouldn’t have fallen to any of them.” Respect laces his words, respect and sadness.

  “We need to find who killed him. I want him. I want his blood on my hands,” I say, my words echoing not just through the abandoned warehouse, but through every corner of my being, foreboding, and resounding with truth.

  Luke looks from me to Scarlett and nods in agreement before his body goes still, every muscle as rigid as a deer in a meadow who just caught the scent of a predator.

  “What is it?” Scarlett asks, her posture suddenly defensive.

  “Another Servant of the Underworld is outside, the one who locked us in.” Luke’s gaze never wavers from the door, as if he’s tracking the beast’s movement through the steel door.

  “Let’s go take care of him.” Scarlett grips the hilt of her sword and pulls it from its sheath soundlessly. She advances a single step but Luke stops her.

  “Stay here. I’ll take care of him. You two need to do a full sweep of this place, make sure there aren’t any more Servants of the Underworld still around.” A look of disgust creases his brow as his eyes roam the open space.

  Allowing the energy swirling inside me to push outward and extend beyond me, I search for the vile presence of others. None are detected. “There aren’t any in here,” I say with certainty.

  “Check anyway. Just to be safe,” Luke insists. “I won’t be long.” He exudes calm confidence as he turns away from us and dashes to the side door. He opens it and disappears into the night. I am left alone with Scarlett.

  Her back is to me and I clear my throat nervously. “Uh, do you think we should go out there and help him?”

  Scarlett turns to face me. Moonlight filters through the cracks in a paned window overhead, bathing her in a wash of light. The silver beams temper the fiery hue of her hair and illuminate her eyes. They are the color of sun warmed honey, a golden brown so rare I’ve never seen it before. They lock on mine and a crease forms between her brows. And for a split second I feel as though a ribbon of heat permeates the bitter frost that manifested within me in the wake of Sara’s death. Sara. Her name is still a mantra in my mind, the image of her pale blonde hair, supple and smooth and falling like billowing waves, ivory, alabaster smooth skin and ice-blue eyes tattooed in my every thought. Time has done little to ease the pain, to ease the ache of missing her. But standing here as I am now and gazing into Scarlett’s amber-colored doe eyes, for the first time in more than a year, I feel reprieve from the crushing weight of loss. Conflicted, guilt swirls with fury. Fury for tamping down the memory of someone I held dear, someone I love who’s beyond my reach, and guilt because I enjoy the arrangement of her features, the prettiness of her petal pink lips. I feel as though I am dishonoring Sarah by looking at Scarlett as I do. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” A small laugh slips from her. “There’s only one out there. He can handle it.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” I agree and shift my weight from one leg to the other. “Not like me.” The words roll off my tongue sarcastically without warning.

  A prim and small smile curves the edges of her delicate mouth. “Hmm, I guess I deserve that.”

  I part my lips to speak, but she holds up a hand to halt me.

  “Look, I’m sorry I doubted you.” The sentence rushes from her so quickly I wonder whether I heard her correctly. My brows snap together and I rear my head as if I’ve been slapped. “It’s just that you acted like such a—”

  “Stupid kid.” I finish her sentence. “I know. I’ve got that insult committed to memory. No worries.” I shake my head slowly then lick my lips. “The sad thing here is that I wish I could argue with you about it, say you’re wrong or something. But the fact is I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m doing it.” I struggle with my words, struggle to convey exactly how I feel, and am left feeling frustrated. This new role I’ve assumed, or better put, the new role that has assumed me, is utterly foreign to me. I vacillate between feeling as though I have a purpose and know exactly what it is and feeling like, well, me. Regular old Daniel Callahan who spends twenty minutes making a decision about what to eat for breakfast.

  Features softening as if she’s read my thoughts, Scarlett tips her head to one side slightly. “You will. It’ll all come to you. I promise.” Seeing her as she is, it’s hard to recall her in the field when she saved my life, a girl whose movements were akin to the rapacious glide of a panther, both deadly and graceful, but definitely not soft. She turns her back to me and begins walking. I follow, our search completely unnecessary but we do so because Luke advised us to. We move to the far corners of the warehouse first, stepping cautiously and inspecting every nook. I conduct my inspection as well, but it’s halfhearted. My attention is continually diverted by her profile. The gentle slope of her pert nose and the line of her long slender neck is lovely. Both give my heart an odd flutter. And that odd flutter makes me feel as though I’m betraying Sarah. Squeezing my eyes closed, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why is this happening? How is it that I hurt so badly for Sarah, that the ache of loss is so profound most days I can hardly breathe, yet seeing Scarlett, her strength and beauty, causes that aching breath to catch in my chest? Confusion and guilt collide. I’m mad. Mad at myself for being what I am, and that because of what I am Sarah is no longer here. Mad at whatever powers that saw fit to claim her as collateral damage in an age-old war. I’m mad that when I look at Scarlett, my heart rate speeds. I can’t control it, can’t stop it. For better or for worse, she is like me. We have the same gifts, if they are in fact gifts. But how could any true gift be given by a power that allowed Sarah to die in vain? I curse myself silently and open my eyes. Luckily, Scarlett is not watching me.

  I scrub my face with both
hands then rake them through my hair. I search my brain for something to say. The silence stretching between us, though not awkward by any means, is deafening. “So are you and Luke a couple?” The sentence comes out more as an accusation that a question. Inexplicably, the notion of she and Luke as a couple sends a hot spark of jealousy snapping through my veins.

  At the sound of my voice, she turns, measuring me and allowing her eyes to touch my clothing then my hands and across my face like feathered fingers. Haunting amber eyes are cold an unswerving, her gaze filled with a quality that ensnared and entranced simultaneously. “No,” she answers firmly. “We could never be a couple.”

  Puzzled by the resolve in her tone, I wonder what makes her answer as she does. I assume Luke is handsome by any and all female standards, another fact that incites the unexpected jealousy I feel. He said they were “old friends”. What did he mean by that? They certainly aren’t old college roommates. She’s stunning. He looks like a tattooed underwear model. Seems like a no-brainer that they’d be together. Why that makes me want to pick something up and hurl it so that it shatters into a thousand pieces is beyond me. “You’ve been around a long time. And he’s been around for a long time.” I sound like an antagonistic seventh grader, blurting the word in an epic knee-jerk reaction I regret the second the words leave my lips.