The Wrath of the Chosen (The Chosen Series Book 1)

by K. C. Hamby

  He’s shorter than I thought he would be, but maybe he just looks short because of the four huge meatheads for security peering down at his clean-shaven baby face, worshipping every word dropping out of his mouth.

  No matter. I can take them all out before they even realize what’s going on. I just need to wait until they’re far enough away from the club so their falling bodies don’t call for attention. I already have a silencer screwed on the end of my rifle, so noise on my end isn’t going to be a problem.

  They make their way to the back of the parking lot like a pack of dogs, away from the rest of the people standing outside of the club, smoking what smells like a joint.

  Perfect.

  I lock Boss’s head in my sights and slow my breathing. My pupils dilate, and I gently place my finger on the trigger.

  “Focus, Fal,” I whisper to myself. I begin putting pressure on the trigger when my ears pick up their conversation.

  “Alright, now, you two,” Boss man says, pointing at the two meatheads on his right. I’ll call them Thing One and Two. “I need you to take those girls where the other three are. They need to be..priced accurately,” his slurring, Chicago voice purrs. He smiles through my scope and my skin crawls.

  This is definitely not good.

  Thing One and Two nod eagerly and start to walk back in the direction of the club.

  “Hey!” Boss calls to them and they turn around. “Make sure they don’t know where they’re goin’. I don’t need any of my merchandise escapin’ and knowin’ where they are, ya got me?” The Things nod simultaneously and rush back into the club.

  I take my finger off the trigger. Understanding assaults me like my bullet would have the Boss man. He’s scouting girls to sell. He’s going to sell them into the infamous sex slave ring I’ve heard so much about.

  I’ve heard whisperings of young women going missing and being sold off. He’s the one responsible for all of it. He has to be. Cosma wouldn’t send me after one of his accomplices. This is why this job is going to be so difficult. Not because Cosma didn’t give me enough information—which definitely doesn’t help the difficulty level—but because I’m going to have to free those girls before I take out Boss.

  Rage bubbles in my chest and a tightness spreads over me I haven’t felt in years.

  My wolf.

  She’s awake after all this time of my suppression. My rage is fueling her to come out and take over. My skin tingles with the need for a shift and my stomach cramps painfully. Panic rises in my throat.

  I can’t let her out.

  I can’t.

  I thought she understood I can’t be her anymore; I can’t shift and hurt anyone again.

  I pull in long, ragged breaths, trying to push her back down. She’s fighting me and my throat seems to close to block her. It makes it hard for me to breathe. I plant my face on the cool concrete of the roof, undoubtedly scratching and smearing the black paint over my eyes. The hard, cold concrete seems to slap my wolf back into submission and I am immediately freed from the dangers of shifting. I gasp heavily, catching my breath as much as I can before I have to deal with this job. Sweat accumulates on my forehead from the effort and I deflate onto the cement.

  After a moment to collect myself, I groan and push myself off my stomach. I quietly take apart my rifle and place it in its case while watching Boss and his other two idiot lackeys drive off, wanting nothing more than to plunge my knife into his throat. I yank my athletic bag onto my shoulder and pick up my rifle case, trying to forget about the reappearance of my wolf and what it means going forward.

  I head down to the street via a rusty fire escape and cross the street silently. I blend into the shadows of the parking lot and wait for Thing One and Two to come back.

  I’m invisible to the human eye when I blend into the darkness. I become a more solid form of vapor, making it easy to hide within the shadows. It’s another Lupi perk. It helps us hunt without being seen, making taking out a target and hiding a lot easier.

  I wait in the darkness for the Things to reemerge. I can’t think of a job I’ve had like this. I’ve taken out my share of terrible people, but a guy selling women to be sex slaves? This is a new evil with which I never wanted to make myself acquainted.

  I haven’t been sitting here but two minutes when I catch sight and sound of the Things opening the creaky, metal backdoor of the club. I hold in my snarl and put a lock on my wolf’s cage.

  They’re dragging two incoherent girls with them. They’ve blindfolded and gagged them. After struggling with dragging the girls because they are barely aware enough to breathe, the Things pick them up and carry them the rest of the way to a white van.

  I seethe in the dark, trying so hard to keep myself together. If I blow my cover now, I’ll never find the other three girls, no matter how much I want to rip these guys apart limb from limb.

  I pull out a tracker connecting via signal to my watch from my jacket pocket. All I need to do is place it on the van and I’ll be able to trace its signal from my watch. It’ll help me find out where the Things end up taking the girls and maybe I’ll find the other three there. I can’t keep up with a van with a purpose. I’m fast, don’t get me wrong. It’s just safer this way. My wolf would be able to keep up without trouble..

  No, I am not shifting.

  I watch silently as Thing One and Two load their precious cargo into the van I can only describe as a stereotypical kidnapping van. They hop into the front seats and I’m already on the move.

  I silently make my way to the back of the van, turn on the tracker, and secure it behind the license plate where it can’t be seen. I check my watch to make sure it’s picking up the signal from the tracker and make it back to my hiding spot by the time the van cranks up.

  I sit in rage-filled silence with a pit in my stomach as I watch the van speed away. I just hope those girls will be okay until I can figure out how to get them out.

  I send a silent prayer to Hecate just in case.

  My watch beeps quietly, alerting me to the moving tracker. I slink out of my hiding place and make my way to the streets with the van as my destination.

  The chilly air caresses my face and my breath puffs out in front of me as soon as I hit the sidewalk. The bite of the air tingles my skin, but it doesn’t affect me like it does a human. My body maintains a warm temperature at all times. I hate the idea of being cold, so it’s one Lupi trait I’m extremely grateful for.

  The sky is overcast and a foggy outline of the full moon is all that decorates the dark clouds, so everything around me is dark and eerie. I’m not walking in a very well-lit part of the city, but I’m not too bothered by it. My eyes adjust easily. My boots lightly clump on the ground as I walk toward the tracker.

  The street is deserted, making my walk calming. There aren’t people staring like there are during the daylight hours. Which, I guess is good. My paint covered eyes would pull all the wrong kinds of attention. I can’t exactly explain the rifle in my case or the pistol strapped to my thigh. And even if I tried to explain, my charming social skills would immediately condemn me.

  Going out during the day bothers me more than it should, but walking alone at night allows peace to fill my dark soul. Or, as much peace as someone like me can obtain. I don’t think I’ve felt truly peaceful since I was young and had only the responsibility of showing my mom how well I was doing in my training classes.

  The familiar, throbbing pain in my chest shows itself and I shove the memories and emotions into the locked cage with my wolf as their only company.

  My ears ring. It’s too quiet.

  I search for any sound. The silence is deafening and the ringing in my ears grows louder.

  Wait, I hear something.

  Or more like someone.

  They—whoever they are—are trying their hardest to be quiet. They probably could have succeeded if it weren’t for my hearing. But with my hyperaware ears, they are basically screaming their less-than-pure intentions.

 
; I sigh. It has to be a Poacher; a younger one it seems because of how loud they are. I sigh heavily again, letting my frustrations be known to the cloudy night sky.

  I do not change my stride. I don’t want to alert the Poacher I’m aware of their presence. This needs to be secluded and as quiet as possible. Fighting on the street will likely not help me accomplish that without cops being called.

  I make myself more familiar with the shadows the buildings to my right are creating, but I don’t blend into the dark. I need the Poacher to see and follow me. My eyes scan for an alley of some kind I can turn down.

  Ah, there we go. There’s one about ten feet in front of me and to my right.

  The Poacher has moved closer. They are about twenty or so feet behind me by the sounds of it.

  I turn down the alley like it’s a part of my stroll and silently blend into the darkness behind a large, disgusting dumpster that’s smell envelopes everything I know and it takes everything in me not to hurl. I drop my bag and rifle case on the ground beside me.

  Now, I wait.

  My pupils dilate, ready for the kill. I slow my breathing to a deathly pace.

  She walks right by me and doesn’t even pretend to glance back. I creep behind her, sizing her up.

  Goddess, she can’t be any older than eighteen. She’s nearly my height with her dirty blonde hair pulled into a bun, revealing the double scythe tattoo circling around the back of her neck. All Poachers have them. It’s how they identify each other and, ironically, how we identify them. It’s two scythes attached at the bottom of the handles with the blades turned in opposite directions, so it forms a circle pattern. I roll my eyes every time I see one. They think they are reapers, bringing death to those that deserve it (AKA Lupi).

  That’s too bad because I’m the Reaper.

  It’s a shame she’s so young. There’s no way she’s going to be able to fight me.

  I follow close enough to be able to grab her. I clear my throat and she jerks her body around to face me, stunned and confused.

  “Go home,” I tell her, my voice dripping with menace. “You’re not ready for this fight.” No matter how despicable they are, I don’t like killing young Poachers. They still have time to come to their senses before the lifestyle takes them over completely; they still have time to prevent their imminent demise.

  She spits at my feet. She actually spits at my feet.

  I sigh. “You will die if you do this,” I say, making one last attempt to get her to see reason.

  “Go to hell, Reaper,” she screeches, lunging at me with a small knife in her fist. She sloppily swipes and I easily dodge to the left. She slices up and I jump back just as the blade zings by me.

  I grab her arm, yanking it behind her back and take the knife from her, tossing it over my shoulder. It loudly clatters on the ground.

  She twists out of my grip faster than I’m expecting and hooks me right in the mouth with her small fist.

  “Shit,” I whisper to myself as I step back from the blow. That hurts my pride and my mouth. I taste blood from the inside of my cheek and a split opens on my lip. It’s definitely busted. I spit blood on the cement and glare at her.

  She smirks, growing cocky a bit too early. I fix her smile by planting my boot to her smug little face with a well-placed roundhouse kick. She hits the ground with a groan and a sickening crack of facial bone. Her breathing is ragged as she tries to scramble up to her feet.

  She makes it to her knees before I step behind her. Grabbing her head between my hands, I give a hard twist, snapping her neck.

  I let her crumple to the cement as I step back and wipe the blood from my lip. I spit blood-mixed saliva on the ground again, but the cut in my mouth has already started to heal. My busted lip is taking a bit longer. The cut is pretty deep. Just another scar to make me look so approachable. Perfect.

  I groan. This is going to set me back a while. I look down at my wrist. The tracker has stopped moving. I quickly log the coordinates into my watch to go back to later.

  I pull out my IPhone and call one of those reliable Voítheia who is usually my constant go-to when I need a job done perfectly.

  “I need some help,” I say as soon as the other end is answered. I give them my location and hang up to deal with the situation until they arrive.

  I grab the Poacher by her shirt and drag her body to the dumpster, so any passerby won’t see her lying on the ground, dead. Her body slides across the cement and her head rolls awkwardly on her destabilized neck. I can already smell the rigamortis slowly taking over her body. Her face is puffy from the broken cheekbone and her dark eyes stare into the night sky, cloudy and devoid of life. I quickly close her eyelids and yank my hand away like she’s shocked me.

  I don’t like dealing with the dead, but her being out in the open would give me some unwanted attention I don’t have time to deal with. I sit on the grimy ground beside her, putting as much distance between us as possible, and wait.

  I wonder how Nina would react to this. I bet she wouldn’t think I need protecting anymore.

  I huff out a breath of air and it materializes in front of me. I still find it strange she was trying to protect me. I’m not sure what she planned on doing if I were defenseless and he had attacked me. She doesn’t seem like the type who could have taken him down. However, she did hit him pretty hard a couple of times before I got there, so what do I know? I can’t even lie I was, and still am, impressed by that. My chest warms and what feels like fire covers my cheeks.

  Why the hell am I thinking about this again? It’s over with and got me this difficult job.

  I should be angry, but I can’t find it in me to resent her anymore. She was coming from a good place. A good place I don’t possess any longer, or at least not to my knowledge. I can understand her wanting to protect me. That’s what I was made to do; I was made to protect. Maybe it’s why I can’t let it go.

  I hear car tires roll down the road and it yanks me out of my intrusive thoughts. The sound slows as it comes closer to my position. A sleek, black SUV pulls up, blocking the opening to the alley and shines its headlights down its length. The driver door opens, and I immediately recognize his wolfy scent: fresh cut cedarwood. It’s always had a calming effect on me. I push myself off the ground and make myself visible.

  He peels himself out of the SUV and stands at 6’5” with a solid, strong body. His black hair is shaved on the sides but sits long on the top. He calls it an undercut and I think it fits him well. He looks more intimidating with it like this, which I never thought would be possible until he started getting it done this way. His sharp brow and cheek bones frame his catlike, dark amber eyes and his jawline could cut glass. He looks like a statue covered in tanned skin. Every part of his wolfish face is set in concentration. His black shirt and leather jacket cling to his large muscles for dear life and his dark jeans come to an end somewhere inside his black combat boots.

  He looks a lot like me, minus the scar. Or, I guess I look like him since he’s two years older.

  “Ash,” I say curtly and nod at him once.

  “Fal,” he clips with a deep, strong voice of his own. My brother is in business mode right now. The joking and fun Ash has been left at home.

  He gets to work while I stash my bag and rifle in the back seat of his SUV. I make my way to the front of the car and see he’s already wrapped the Poacher’s body in tarp and tossed it over his shoulder. I move out of his way so I don’t get knocked in the head with the body of the girl I just killed and Ash walks past me like he’s carrying a sack of marshmallows.

  He comes back to the front of the SUV with a spray bottle filled with some sort of solvent he sprays all over the area the Poacher and I touched. It dissolves any evidence left behind such as blood or hair from me or her. Voítheia are thorough.

  We slide in the SUV and head to Ash’s house in silence. The radio is surprisingly not playing. He’s usually blasting one of his PennyForward CDs on repeat. It makes me want to rip off my ears, b
ut I guess when you have a gruesome job like he does, it’s not a good time to joke about how shitty his music taste is.

  It’s funny, I’m fine with killing because it’s my job, but I think Ash and all the other Voítheia have the worst job. Sure, they get emotional and physical freedom when they aren’t working with an assassin and the Pack pays them a hell of a lot, but they put the bodies they clean up in a tub of that solvent stuff and it dissolves them completely. For some reason, making someone disappear like that doesn’t sit right with me, but that’s why I’m not Voítheia.

  Ash drives along the streets in silence and out of the city limits. He chose to live in the suburbs outside of the Complex, just like he chose Voítheia life. He would have been Alpha of his class if he stayed on the assassin track, but after Mom..

  I shove the memory down again.

  Anyway, he decided he didn’t want to be bound to the Assassin Law and emotionless way of life. We just have a different way of coping with things, I guess.

  After about fifteen minutes of quiet riding, we pull up to his house. It’s a one story, earthy brick style house with a small front porch and a garage on the right side. He parks in the driveway though. The garage is where the tub of death resides.

  Ash gets out and tends to the body and I go inside before I can even get a general idea of what the process smells like. I never watch. I’ve just always taken Ash’s word on what happens.

  I walk in the front door and hit a light switch. His house has always felt warm to me. My apartment is bland with white walls and no decoration while his place has beige walls and brown, leather furniture in the living room. The kitchen to my right has nice mixed granite countertops with chestnut cabinets. The ceiling is high and wooden beams are exposed, crisscrossing loyally, providing stability and support.

  I walk to the counter in the kitchen and pull out a stool to wait for Ash to get done with his…duties.

  He saunters in ten minutes later from the garage looking solemn and goes about making hot tea for us both. He hands me a mug and sits beside me in silence.