Hunter's Rise

by Shiloh Walker

  He was still waiting. So far, he didn’t see fine coming any time soon.

  Sometimes he did okay. After more than a century, for the most part, he dealt with it, not having any past to look back to, any memory of a family.

  Plus, after more than a century, he had a past… one he’d built. He should focus on that more. Think more about the friends he had. Granted, the good friends were few and far between. Toronto was a prickly, abrasive son of a bitch at the best of times and he knew it. He liked it that way. People were just easier when he kept them at a distance.

  He did have those friends, though, and they were close enough that he could almost call them brother, sister.

  But there were times when those black, empty years crept out to haunt him, a screaming void that wrapped around him and wouldn’t turn him free. Tonight was one of those nights.

  He lay there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, edgy, restless, his skin practically crawling with it, and the void in his mind was a black hell while instinct hummed under his skin.

  What are you doing with this life of yours?

  Why are you here?

  Why did you live?

  It wasn’t just because he was meant to be a Hunter. He wasn’t even that good of one. He refused to lead. He hated to follow. He questioned every damn thing, hated authority and most of the time, sheer boredom drove him more than any inborn desire to protect. That wasn’t how a Hunter should be and he knew it.

  But if he wasn’t called for this, then why had he survived that attack?

  He should be more than this. But whatever in the hell he should be, he didn’t know. And too often, he didn’t care.

  His brooding reverie was interrupted by a pounding fist on the door and he closed his eyes, wishing he could shut the rest of the world out today.

  “Go away,” he said, keeping his voice flat and level. He didn’t need to yell to be heard, not when the person on the other side of the door was a vampire.

  “Problems.”

  In response, Toronto lifted a hand and flipped off the vampire on the other side of the door. Not that Kel could see— he might have vampire hearing, but he didn’t have X-ray vision.

  Apparently, he didn’t need it.

  The door opened a few seconds later and Toronto tried to decide if he wanted to waste the energy and knock the idiot boy out of his room, or just continue in his brood. He had a pretty good groove going. He wanted to continue it.

  “Rafe needs you.”

  Forgetting his earlier resolve to try and push a little less was as easy as blinking an eye.

  “Tell the Master,” Toronto said, his voice mocking, heavy with derision, “he can kiss my ass.”

  Kel’s brows arched. “It’s your funeral, man.” Then he sauntered out of the room, not bothering to close the door.

  Toronto glared at the vampire’s back for a moment, but he didn’t care enough to get up and shut the door, and he lacked the motivation to knock the kid around. Because if he did that, he’d have to deal with Kel’s wife, Angel.

  He’d rather avoid that.

  The girl was spooky.

  Very spooky, and worse… she knew it.

  Kel wasn’t worth dealing with Angel, and the aggravation wasn’t worth throwing off the brood he had going.

  L

  ESS than two minutes later, Toronto felt the cold edge of a Master vampire’s anger chill the air, and he rolled his eyes. When Rafe appeared in the doorway of his room, Toronto just flung an arm over his face.

  Going one-on-one with Kel wouldn’t do more than irritate him.

  Going one-on-one with Rafe would irritate him, but it would also require a bit more concentration and would probably entail some pain. Actually… Toronto lowered his arm, popping one eye open to study Rafe. A good, dirty fight didn’t seem like a bad idea.

  “I’m tired of this fucking shit,” Rafe said, his voice terse and abrupt. “I told you— just hours ago. If you want to be here, then you’ll damn well be here. If not, you’ll damn well get the hell out.” He paused, and then added icily, “I suspect it’s not a matter of want with you. You don’t give a flying fuck.”

  The slash of the vampire’s rage cut through the air, a cold, heavy punch, but even as Toronto readied himself for that down and dirty fight he really, really wanted, Rafe turned on his heel and stalked away.

  That was it.

  “What the…”

  Over his shoulder, Rafe said, “Make up your fucking mind. Either you’re here to be a Hunter or you’re not. If you’re not, get out and get out now—I’ll make it simple. Decide. Now. Or the next time you and I have this conversation, it’s going to involve serious bloodshed. You won’t keep challenging me this way.”

  Feeling a little deflated, and maybe, okay, yeah, a little guilty, Toronto climbed out of bed. Snagging a pair of pants from the foot of the bed, he tugged them on and lingered by the bathroom long enough to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth.

  The face in the mirror hadn’t changed much over the past century. He’d been attacked when he was in his teenage years. By the time he hit his late twenties, his body had hit full maturation and the aging process had stopped. Back then, it had still been called a curse. Now they knew it to be a virus, one that warped and mutated the genes until they no longer resembled anything human.

  Werewolves and shapeshifters aged, but it was a slow process and the stronger the creature, the slower the aging process.

  Toronto was pretty damn strong.

  His hair was pale blond, almost white blond and he wore it long, kept it tied in a queue at his nape. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue, rimmed with a deeper blue. More often than once, that pretty face had thrown people off balance, unless somebody looked deeper.

  Although werewolves healed with amazing speed, he wasn’t without scars. Some remained from the attack that had made him a were— bite marks on his arms, chest, thighs. Others were from his life since the attack, a nasty slice down his left pectoral from a silver blade, another low on his belly. There was only one that was likely from his forgotten mortal years— a messy affair on the back of his right forearm, a jagged line that somebody had ineptly tried to stitch closed.

  Scars aside, he had a handsome face, and he knew it. Handsome, bordering on pretty… but there was something that lurked just behind the eyes. A wildness that even more than a century couldn’t curb, and the body belonged to a warrior, a fighter.

  Right now, he was a fighter looking to rumble, and the one chance he’d had of a decent fight had been denied. But he couldn’t really be pissed about it, either— he had screwed up. Again. And there was the icy anger he’d heard in Rafe’s voice that wasn’t about him. Toronto’s fuckheadedness was just part of it.

  A heavy weight hung in the air, one he realized he would have sensed already if he hadn’t let himself get so caught up in his own problems.

  Heavy— almost oppressive.

  It all but choked the oxygen out of the air.

  Rubbing the heel of his hand over his chest, he padded on bare feet toward the Master’s office.

  H

  UNTERS.

  Memphis was lousy with them. The feel of them was an itch on her spine, but she ignored it. Once she’d decided to take the job, she’d driven the four hours to Memphis to start getting a lay of the land and the Hunters weren’t going to stop her.

  Technically, they couldn’t… unless she went around breaking laws.

  She wouldn’t, either. She had a job to do and she’d see it completed, come hell, high water or holier-than-thou Hunter types.

  If she needed incentive, she had it in the form of a photograph tucked inside her back pocket.

  Not that she really needed the reminder. His face was one she’d never forget. Actually, none of the boys Pulaski had taken were likely to be forgotten. Four kids, lost.

  Four kids who deserved justice; Sylvia could give it to them, and all she had to do was find his trail.

  She’d be a lot hard
er to dodge than the police, too.

  She’d have to move quickly— in, out— assuming he was in Memphis.

  If she’d done her homework right, the local Master here was Rafe, a vampire. He was a Hunter— no big surprise there. On the rare occasion a non-Hunter set up an official territory, it was usually somebody who was on good standing with the do-gooders of the freak world.

  Mostly, Sylvia didn’t have much issue with Hunter types as long as they stayed out of her way. She’d much rather a Hunter get a Master’s call than a non-Hunter. Hunters didn’t go feral— it was like they didn’t have that ability to break inside them— they somehow maintained that much needed humanity.

  Or maybe they just didn’t have that innate cruelty. She knew all about that innate sense of cruelty. It was something she’d seen in both mortal and non-mortal. That was one reason she made a very, very good living. She got paid for killing cruel sons of bitches.

  The Hunters did it out of altruism. She did it for a paycheck.

  No, on a professional level, she didn’t have a problem with Hunters, as long as they stayed out of her way. They served a purpose and kept things under control when the monsters would have turned mortals into their personal play and feeding ground.

  But personally, Sylvia didn’t like them and she didn’t want to have to deal with them, especially not when she was on a hunt of her own.

  Master vampires were territorial bastards, and rumors were that Rafe, the local Master, was more of a bastard than most— he wasn’t going to tolerate having a murdering pedophile in his territory, but if she knew Hunters, he’d want to turn the man over to mortal authorities. Hunters did interfere with mortal issues, but when it was likely the matter would catch attention, they often let the mortal cops take the reins, guiding things like an unseen puppet master. Keeping in the shadows, not drawing any undue attention— after all, none of them wanted any of the mortals to know about them. Sylvia understood it. Attention to their kind was bad.

  Letting monsters like Pulaski live was worse.

  “In. Out.” She prowled around the house, keeping her distance, searching for signs of life, signs of the cops, signs that anybody might be watching her.

  All she needed to do was find Pulaski… and get the hell out.

  CHAPTER 5

  T

  ORONTO hadn’t even entered the office when Rafe’s gaze cut to him. The Master’s eyes were black, icy with anger and something else.

  “No time for you. If you haven’t made that decision— get your brooding ass out of here. Actually, if you haven’t made it, that’s decision enough and I still want you out and gone,” Rafe said.

  The abrupt tone of Rafe’s voice, coupled with the fact that they now had an audience, teased the edges of Toronto’s temper and he had to work to keep the fire down. He had agreed to serve Rafe when he came here— either he abided by the rules or he left. Although the people serving under Rafe were the good guys, too many of them had predators’ instincts, and those instincts only worked together when a certain sense of order was followed.

  They had order, they had rules, they all got along better. Usually.

  Though Toronto liked to jerk Rafe’s chain, for the most part, he respected that sense of order.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he snapped, his voice harsh, edged with temper.

  “Yeah.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here. And just like always, you’re being an asshole. Either lose the attitude or get the fuck out because I don’t have time for this shit.”

  Toronto’s hand closed into a fist. Part of him wanted to say Fuck it and just leave. Or just give into the burning rage, the wildness inside him— have that bloodshed Rafe had promised.

  The other part, though, was louder. And for the first time in what might have been forever, he felt the temper ease back, felt the edginess settle down. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t.

  You’ll have to learn to control that… Hell. Nessa hadn’t just been talking about the hunger.

  “I’m here— my decision was made.” Folding his arms over his bare chest, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb.

  Rafe stared at him, his black eyes glittering. And then he gave a short nod. This was it, though. He and Rafe might be at a fragile truce, but Toronto needed to come to peace with the monster inside him, or he’d have to leave.

  If he left, he would no longer be able to call himself a Hunter— he wouldn’t deserve it. That whole lead, follow or get out of the way thing. He wouldn’t lead, so that meant he’d have to follow… or just stay the hell out of the way.

  If he stayed and answered the challenge Rafe had put out, he’d be done as a Hunter as well. He was supposed to be one of the good guys— whether he won or lost the fight with the vampire, he’d be done.

  A good guy didn’t go for somebody’s throat just because he was having a bad day.

  Toronto wasn’t going to go that low. Eyes hooded, he watched as Rafe lifted up a small device from his desk. The lights in the room dimmed and a screen descended from the ceiling.

  Rafe liked his gadgets.

  An image flashed across the screen.

  It was a boy— human, probably twelve or so. It was hard for Toronto to judge the ages of human children sometimes. He had bright eyes, though. An infectious smile.

  “His name was Toby Clemons,” Rafe said, his voice flat, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t look at Toronto, didn’t look at anybody. Just stared at the screen. Anybody who didn’t know the guy might have thought he didn’t feel anything— he could have been discussing the weather for all the emotion he showed.

  But those in the room knew otherwise. They sensed the rage Rafe barely held in check.

  “He was twelve. He was killed by a scum-sucking piece of shit who had a predilection for pretty, preteen boys. This sorry bastard’s name is Alan Pulaski.”

  A couple of the Hunters in the room muttered— the name was familiar. Pulaski’s case had sent shockwaves rippling through the city once his crimes had come to light. The depravities had left many people reeling. And he’d somehow gotten out on bail. House arrest, as if that made a difference. He was still free. And alive. Dead and ripped apart would have been the most ideal resolution.

  “He was confined to his house. Nobody ask me why they let that piece of shit out when he should have rotted in a hole for the rest of his life. Pulaski skipped out, managed to get out of the ankle bracelet they’d put on him. That was found smashed apart a few blocks from his house. So far, mortal police aren’t having much luck finding him.”

  Lindsey, one of Rafe’s younger wolves, sat with her back against Rafe’s desk, staring at the image of Toby’s face. The werewolf’s dark eyes were like obsidian ice in the paleness of her face. “I take it we aren’t listening to this for kicks. You know where this scum-sucking piece of shit is? Can we have a race? Whoever gets him first gets a pizza party or something?”

  She flicked her black hair out of her eyes and despite the light tone, a storm brewed in her gaze and thundered in her blood. They could all scent it.

  Rafe paused by her feet, bumped the toe of one booted foot against her thigh. “You get him, sure, I’ll order you a pizza. Shit, I’ll buy you a damned pizza parlor. But there’s more to it than that.” He pointed the remote at the screen.

  The image changed, now showing a young man, probably in his midtwenties.

  He looked like a fucking schoolteacher. A preacher. A doctor. Somebody safe, Toronto thought, absolutely disgusted. Golden brown hair cut in that hip, shaggy fashion, a friendly, affable smile on his face, dressed in the clean-cut clothes of a well-off but not exactly rich American male.

  The other image was his mug shot. Not quite so appealing.

  But he didn’t look like a monster.

  Then again, most of the monsters didn’t really look like monsters half the time.

  “This is the scum-sucking piece of shit. His name is Alan Pulaski. He was one of Toby’s counselors at a youth retreat last summer.” He
paused, and the icy edge of his rage danced across the air like the first kiss of winter. “There was video found in the house after his disappearance. I’m not going to inflict that on any of you. There is no doubt of his guilt— well, not in our minds. We know how lawyers in the mortal world like to twist things, but they’ve got enough evidence to hold him solid and his running really screwed things up. Once they get him back in jail, he’ll go away. For a long, long time.”

  A sinking feeling hit Toronto’s gut.

  They had no problems dealing with scum-sucking pieces of shit on their own. Sometimes, sure, they turned things over to mortal hands, but not all the time. Certain bastards just needed to be dead and in Toronto’s opinion, this was one of them.

  What was Rafe up to?

  Once more, Rafe pointed his remote at the screen. Three more young boys flashed on the screen. “Video of these boys was also found in Pulaski’s house. If they are dead, their families deserve to know what happened. If he dies, they don’t get that. Life can suck bad enough— most of us know that. Living your years without any sort of closure, that’s a level of hell all its own,” Rafe said, his voice quiet.

  Toronto blew out a disgusted breath. Shit. Shit. And double shit. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, Rafe could have said that would have hit him on a deeper level.

  Absently, he reached inside his pocket, hoped there was some gum in there. There was— one half-smashed piece. He popped it in his mouth and half-choked on it two seconds later as another image came up on the screen.

  Damn…

  Absurdly, he found himself thinking of what he’d flippantly said to Nessa only the day before.

  Was it like wham, some sort of click and you just knew?

  There were all sorts of clicks.

  All sorts of clicks? That made a lot of sense to Toronto, because just looking at the picture of the woman on that screen was making everything inside him click… and a few things roar.

  She was vampire. Toronto recognized that instinctively, even though nothing about her physical image actually gave that away. He just knew.