The Huntress (Lupus Moon Book One)

by Kevin Sorrell

  Kristen's face fell.

  Alex finished off her drink. "Tell your daddy I'll be back." She walked to a door next to the refrigerator. Stopped. Glanced at Kristen over her shoulder. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your friend. But trust me when I tell you that revenge...it solves nothing. It just burns you out, leaves you hollow. And when it's done, all that's left of you is something cold. Something dark. Something..." Alex paused, her words weighted. "...less than human." She and Kristen locked eyes.

  Alex turned and headed out.

  EIGHT

  Carly winced. The dawning sun had forced her reversion to her human form, but the pain remained. She sat on the edge of a decrepit wooden table as Lisa, a young, intense Chinese woman, examined her abdomen. Two black, crusted scars marked the points where Alex's knives had punctured Carly just hours before. Lisa traced them; Carly drew a sharp breath.

  "You got them out quick enough. I don't see any spread," Lisa said. "You going to be okay." She stepped back. Carly covered herself with a tattered, oversized t-shirt.

  "What about Nelson?"

  Lisa glanced to a dark corner of the large, abandoned gold mill they called home. Nelson was huddled on the dusty floor, blanketed by the remains of a burlap sack. His right arm was exposed, tanned flesh webbed in a network of blue and black veins. Putrid black blood drained from his mouth, collecting in a pool on his chest. Lisa's head dipped. "I'm sorry."

  Carly struggled to contain herself, but her eyes were already filling with tears. She clenched her fists, trembling with rage.

  "Where is they?" Carly and Lisa turned to the entrance. Tristan, a grizzled man with a messy brown mane blew in, flanked by Roxy, a sultry redhead, and a bald, massive beast of a man who went by Lucas. They, in turn, were trailed by Travis and Slasher, two smaller, dark-haired men. Tristan spotted Carly and made his way to her. "Are you okay?"

  "I'll live," Carly growled.

  Tristan turned to Nelson. Made eye contact with the weakened man.

  "He was stabbed in the jugular by a silver arrow," Lisa said. "The poisoned blood made it all the way through his system."

  Tristan flashed her a fiery look, then walked over and knelt before Nelson. He took his friend's hand.

  "It was a girl who stabbed him," Carly added. "Some teenage bitch from the high school. But the arrow came from a hunter's crossbow. A female hunter."

  Tristan's face darkened. He squeezed Nelson's hand, looked over his shoulder to the others. "A hunter, huh?" He looked away.

  Nelson, rasping lightly, could only follow with his eyes.

  "I knew we would encounter resistance at some point, but this is sooner than I expected," Tristan said. He turned back to Nelson. "And it's cost us. Dearly."

  Nelson tried to speak. Only a gargled moan came out.

  Tristan's face tightened, visibly pained. "I'm sorry, brother." He reached up, and in one swift motion, snapped Nelson's neck.

  "NO!" Carly screamed, lunging for Tristan. Roxy and Lisa restrained her.

  Tristan dropped his head. He placed a hand on Nelson's destroyed body. "There was no choice. He was already dead."

  Carly slumped; Roxy and Lisa held her as she sobbed.

  Tristan stood and faced the others. His hair obscured his face. "Fan out and see what you can find," he said in a low, grave tone. "Whatever is is, big or small, I want to know about it. The girl and the hunter must pay for what they have done. They will be destroyed..."

  NINE

  "...Nelson will be avenged."

  Baines examined himself in the full-length mirror. His eyes locked on a small patch of hair just beyond his left temple. He sighed.

  Another gray hair. He'd been collecting them lately, even going so far as to number them as he plucked them out. Baines chuckled. Why should it matter? He was still good-looking, and he'd kept in decent enough shape. He might not be in his prime the way he was in his days with Alex, Jeb, and the others, but he could still hold his own.

  Not that he wanted to prove it. Baines thought for sure that moving to Colorado with Kristen would take him far enough away from his past that he could leave it buried for good. But here it was, once again, threatening to taint his present and future. Baines didn't want to be that man again. He'd long grown tired of the fighting. The killing. But he would do whatever he had to in order to keep his only child safe, whether Alex called upon him or not.

  His only child. It could've been Kristen. She could've been the one who was...

  A pang of guilt seized Baines. It was natural to be relieved that his daughter survived the attack, but only if Jenny could've made it, too... But she didn't, and Kristen did. Thank God for Alex.

  Baines reached up to smooth an errant stand. Paused. Kristen was in the reflection, fully-dressed, standing at the bedroom door. Though eternally grateful she was still alive, it didn't change the fact Kristen had disobeyed him, nor dampened his anger over the betrayal. Baines continued, pretending not to see her.

  "You can ignore me all you want, but you're going to have to talk to me sooner or later."

  Baines didn't respond. He swiped a piece of lint from his long sleeve button-down shirt.

  "How long have you know known werewolves existed, or did you know?" Kristen persisted. "And if so, how long did you know they were here? A month? Two?"

  Baines faced his daughter, but remained silent. Kristen narrowed her eyes and stormed out of the room. She had grabbed her purse from the couch in the living room and was almost to the door when--

  "I was trying to protect you." Baines stood timidly in the hall. "I suspected something was going on, but I didn't have proof. People freely believe in God and Satan, but they're reluctant to believe other supernatural beings exist."

  Kristen didn't respond.

  Baines crossed to the fireplace mantle, picked up a large, gold-framed photo. It depicted himself, a much younger Kristen, and another woman on a boat. They were huddled close, smiling. Kristen clutched a fishing pole; a baby catfish dangled on the line.

  "I just wanted you to be happy," Baines continued. "There's so much darkness and evil in the world. The last thing I wanted was to bring reality crashing down on you."

  Kristen walked to the center of the room. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dad. I could've handled it. If I knew, I could've done something, warned others. Jenny would still be alive if I..."

  "No. Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." Kristen glared at him. Baines set the photo down and joined her. "Whatever you're feeling, you can't put this on yourself." He touched Kristen's cheek. "It's not your fault."

  "You're right. It's not," Kristen said. She pulled away. "It's yours."

  The words ripped into Baine's heart.

  Kristen walked out the front door, slamming it shut behind her.

  TEN

  Neiland wasn't buying it.

  The detective tossed yet another photo onto the growing pile on the corner of his desk, where he had been sitting the last half hour. The images were gruesome, taken from a massacre in the woods that involved seven Boy Scouts and their leader. They had all been torn to shreds, their innards strewn across the campsite where they had taken their yearly sojourn.

  Neiland scratched his jaw, fingertips raking the hairs of his closely-cropped beard. No matter what the chief wanted to believe, there was no way a bear had been behind the deaths. The wounds and general carnage were too severe. Then there was the competency of the kills. An attack of that nature would send a bunch of kids scrambling. It would take something lightning fast to track down and slaughter each one. Given that, it would seem the kills were far less likely for food than for sport.

  The thought chilled Neiland to the core. Even more telling was the fact that, while the campers had a small amount of food at their site, none of it was touched. When asked about it no one could offer a rational hypothesis, other than to suggest that the offending animal was rabid, and therefore long beyond reason; however, there were no traces of the virus detected in any of the victims. The only lead
they had was a small ax recovered from the scene, presumably used to chop firewood. Its blade was covered in blood that didn't belong to any of the campers, which lead authorities to believe its wielder got in a few whacks on the attacker before succumbing to his wounds.

  "Won't let it go, will you?" Neiland jumped, spun his chair to Chief Wallace. The fat man sneered. "What's your theory this time? Aliens?"

  Neiland looked away. Now was not the time.

  "I told you, Craig, we're done with that case."

  "Maybe so, but it still doesn't add up," Neiland said. "You know I hunt. There's not a bear, let alone any animal, that would do something like this."

  "We gave those parents closure," Wallace said. "What would you have me do? Tell those people 'Sorry, we don't know what killed your kid, but if it shows up again, we'll get it?'"

  "It'd be better than lying to them."

  Wallace glowered. "Craig..."

  "What about those tracks?" Neliand asked. He rifled through the pile and produced a photo of an unusual print embedded in soil. It was canine in nature, yet incredibly large--a perfect mystery to everyone who had seen it, including animal experts and wildlife rangers.

  Wallace looked away.

  "Exactly," Neiland said. "We have no idea what we're dealing with here. Whatever it is, it's not afraid of people or fire. What if it comes closer to town, or worse?

  Wallace returned a stern glare. "Not gonna happen. And even if it did, we'd be ready."

  Neiland glanced at the other five men in the office. He hoped his boss was right.

  "So where are we on current matters?"

  "Dr. Ackerman's testing the material we found on that bolt," Neiland said. "We won't know anything until he does."

  "Then focus on that. I need you here. Now. In the present. Understand?"

  "Yes, chief."

  Wallace waddled to his office in the back of the station. Neiland frowned, turned to the photos on his desk. He shoveled them into a well-worn manilla folder.

  ELEVEN

  Jessica Moreland burst into tears when she saw the Baineses on her front porch. She engulfed Kristen, squeezed as hard as she could, and unloaded on the teenager's shoulder.

  Baines understood. It was the closest she would ever get to holding her own daughter again. He tried to put himself in her position, to feel her suffering, but he couldn't go all the way. Even the imagined pain and anguish were too much. Baines pushed the thoughts aside as Jessica's husband, Frank, appeared behind his wife and greeted him with a hearty embrace of his own, the men slapping each other on the backs like old friends. Baines could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  "Thanks for coming," Frank said. "Really means the world to us."

  "Of course," Baines said, genuinely surprise by the man's tone given their childrens' history. "And I know you're going to hear this a lot, but if there's anything--anything--Kristen or I can do, please let us know."

  Frank nodded, his pained eyes suddenly intense. "You could give me the name of the bastard who did this."

  Kristen, still in the clutches of her best friend's grief-stricken mother, flashed a look at Baines. Her eyes trembled.

  Baines met her stare, then softened his expression. He turned back to Frank. "You know I would if I could."

  Frank looked away. "I know," he said softly.

  Baines could feel Kristen's eyes on him, no doubt looking for a trace of guilt. It was indeed ironic, a man of God being so adept at bearing false witness. But he had to protect his friend and his family. Giving Frank the names Kristen had provided him would only result in Frank charging out and getting himself killed. There would be no more blood shed. Not if Baines could help it.

  Frank stepped to the side. Jessica ushered the Baineses inside, wrapping her arm in Kristen's.

  ***

  "How's Jessica handling things?"

  "'Bout as good as can be expected. Maybe worse."

  A half glass of whiskey sat in front of Frank as he and Baines occupied the small, round table near the back of the Moorelands' kitchen. The bottle on the counter was three-fourths empty--a fact not lost on Baines.

  Frank snatched up the glass and drained it. He slammed it down. "You have no idea what I wish I could do to the son of a bitch who did this," he growled.

  "You'd be surprised." Frank cut Baines a curious look. Baines adjusted his glasses. "I lost my wife the same way. Suddenly. Viciously. She died in our family home, before Kristen and I moved to Weeping Springs."

  "My God," Frank grumbled. "You said you'd lost your wife, but you never gave any details."

  "Don't like to talk about it," Baines replied. "But in times like this, it's good to know you have friends who have been through the same thing."

  Frank nodded, dropped his eyes to the bottom of the glass. "So how did you deal with it?"

  Baines exhaled. "It's hard. Trust me. It's easily the hardest thing I ever had to go through. But, as with most things, time is a powerful salve. The pain, the guilt, the anger, the rage... The more time passes, the more it becomes something you can manage."

  Frank frowned. He gripped the whiskey glass.

  "For the longest, all I could think about was how angry I was," Baines continued. "How much I wanted someone to pay for what happened. But ultimately, and you might not want to hear this right now, I had to trust that God had a better plan."

  Frank shook his head. "Well I can't imagine what that would be." He stood and walked to the counter, refilled his glass. He downed the contents in a single gulp.

  "I understand, " Baines said. "Believe me, I do. And it's natural to question. But for me, my faith, Kristen, and a few close friends were all I had. If I was to maintain any semblance of sanity then, and now, I have to cling to them..."

  TWELVE

  "...because I don't know what I'd do if I lost any of them, too."

  Alex sucked in the fresh mountain air. She imagined it filling her lungs, then traveling throughout her body. It was pristine, a far cry from the dense, pollutant-rich environments she encountered in so many of her travels. And though it wasn't the first place she'd visited with excellent air quality, something about Weeping Springs stood out. Alex inhaled once more. Exhaled. She was relaxed. Energized. No wonder Baines would want to live here, she thought. Perhaps one day she could find a place just like it. When the hunt was over. If she made it that far.

  Sunlight glinted off her purple-tinted shades as Alex strolled the woods just southwest of town. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for; trampled grass, snapped branches, and a small shred of yellow tape dangling from the bark of an elderly blue spruce told her she had reached the site of the Boy Scout murders.

  Alex had seen the headline on the Internet. Even without it being the place where Baines and his daughter lived, the case would have been a top priority. Alex knew first the dread the boys and their mentor had endured, and it was her position that no one should have to face such extreme horror, let alone a child. Yet when she'd informed Dr. Cook of the location of her next hunt, the clinical pharmacist zeroed in on the coincidence of lycas killing humans in the very same remote town that Baines, a former hunter, had moved to. She insisted there was a connection.

  But Alex wasn't so sure. She'd gleaned from previous hunts that things were becoming increasingly active in the world beneath the one most knew, and she'd witnessed changes in pack migrations that suggested something big was going on.

  She hoped to stay ahead of the curve.

  Alex walked to the center of the site and scanned the area, looking for any tiny detail the authorities might have missed. Something caught her eye, and Alex moved to the base of one of the trees. She knelt, pulled something from the bark.

  A tuft of black fur. Alex leaned forward, examined the strands.

  Meanwhile someone examined her from a large tree twenty-five feet away...

  Alex brought the fur to her face. She sniffed it. Frowned.

  Her stalker approached. A Glock leveled at her spine.

>   THIRTEEN

  Kristen pushed open the door to Jenny's room and walked inside. Her home away from home, it was a palace of pink; girly artifacts adorned every inch. In a corner next to Jenny's bed was the well-worn sleeping bag Kristen had used the previous weekend when she'd slept over. The girls had planned another sleepover in the coming weeks, so the bag remained right where Kristen left it.

  Fresh tears clouded Kristen's eyes. She wiped them away, walked over to Jenny's crowded vanity. Makeup and grooming accessories dominated the space, but a gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket stood out at the base of the mirror.

  Kristen reached out, brushed the thin chain with a tentative hand. She picked up the locket and opened it to reveal a small photograph of Jenny, Jessica, and Frank. It reminded Kristen of her own family's photo on the mantle at the parsonage. She closed the locket.

  Her eyes overflowed once more. Kristen bowed her head, let the tears fall onto her faded shirt. It was still so surreal. Another person close to her, gone too soon. Kristen began to think about her mother when a shuffling sound drew her attention to the door.

  The Morelands' golden retriever poked his head in.

  "Hey, Bailey!" Kristen said, kneeling to greet the old dog. He trotted over and began licking her face, making Kristen giggle as always . She roughed the canine's fur, thankful for the temporary reprieve from her grief, but she couldn't help but wonder if he understood what was going on. Surely he'd wondered where Jenny was; the two had been together since the day Frank and Jessica brought a little ball of fur home from a friend they were visiting. The friend's dog had recently birthed a litter, and they weren't able to care for them all. The Morelands, feeling a dog would round out their household, accepted one on the spot, and Bailey had been part of their pack ever since.