Huntress

by Elizabeth Hartwell

  The upstairs hallway is deserted, and as we approach the only room with a light on, the hairs on the back of my neck creep up. This is going too easily, and I can tell by Lance and Tym’s expressions they’re thinking the same thing. Werewolves are known for being feral, but they aren’t stupid.

  “John Doe,” Tym murmurs as we pass the door, checking the nametag. “Guess he isn’t talking too much.”

  I hear bootsteps in the hallway and decide we can’t risk it any longer. Opening the door, the three of us slip inside, quickly closing the door behind us. Just as the latch engages, we duck down, hiding as a werewolf walks by.

  “Too fucking close,” I whisper as the steps fade. Standing up, we turn and take in Brandon, who’s sitting up in his bed but doesn’t say anything as he looks at us.

  Just to double-check, I pull up the holo I have on him, and it’s a perfect match. The hair’s right, he’s got the jawline that looks like it could cut wood, slightly pointy but blunted just enough that he looks strong and not predatory with hooded, intelligent eyes, and nearly black hair that’s pulled back. Snapping off my holo, I look at Lance. “Get his prints.”

  “Hey, wait a—” Brandon starts but shuts up when Lance pulls his knife. “Who the fuck are you people?”

  “Your name Brandon?” I ask while Lance grabs his right hand. He’s chained to the bed, but there’s enough slack that Lance is able to get a clean scan of his thumb.

  “I might be,” Brandon growls, looking at us distrustfully. “I don’t fucking know.”

  “Jackie did say that he was claiming amnesia,” Lance whispers. He glances at his holo computer and nods. “But this is our boy.”

  “What the . . . who the fuck are you people?” Brandon asks, his eyes wincing shut as Lance brings his knife to his bindings. A moment later, his wrist is free, and he reopens his eyes, his mouth closing in surprise.

  “Come with us if you want to live,” Tym says, his deep voice cutting through all the other words. He holds a hand out as Lance cuts the other restraints, helping him to his feet. Brandon’s a bit unsteady on his feet but otherwise seems fine.

  “How long were you kept in here?” I ask as Lance finds a pair of boots under the bed and hands them to him. Brandon sits back down to put them on before standing up, his torn, beat-up pants incongruous with the hospital gown-like top he’s wearing.

  Standing up, I notice that he’s sort of the ‘middle’ in between gigantic Tym and lean, lithe Lance. His shoulders are wide, but not too wide, his arms corded with muscle but not to the point that he’s rippling with swells like Tym is.

  Even in his glowering looks, he’s between Tym and Lance. He’s got some of the classical ‘pretty boy’ features that Lance sports in spades, but he’s also got the piercing eyes and ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression that I know so well from Tym.

  “What?” he asks me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him. Something about him, it’s just . . . magnetic. That’s what it is, and that worries me. This motherfucker’s the descendant of the god of death, and I’m somehow attracted to him. Like, if it weren’t that there are a shitload of werewolves in this hospital right now who will kill us if they realize we’re in here, I might be willing to throw Brandon back down on the bed and invite Tym and Lance for a little four-way action.

  “Nothing,” I growl, putting a hand on my sword. “Listen, we—”

  There’s a crash at the door, and all of us jerk toward it as the window shatters. “I thought I smelled human.”

  Shit.

  The door flies open, and a squad of a half-dozen werewolves come through, three of them already changing. “Uh-uh,” the lead one says, looking at us. “That little piggy’s going to stay right where the fuck he is.”

  Chapter 22

  Lance

  Six furries, three of them already going full-on before they’ve even got the door open, and they’re all between me and the way out.

  Normally, in situations like this before, I’d pull a fade. After all, I don’t match up with werewolves in a one-on-one fight. And the amount of energy I’ll have to spend to use my abilities in this situation . . . well, discretion is the better part of valor for those who want to live a long time in this world.

  But this isn’t a normal situation, and this isn’t before. Instead, I’ve got Tym and Cerena with me, and this new guy who is apparently the whole reason we’ve been sent on this fucked-up mission.

  Maybe the smart move is for me to pull a time stop, bounce out the door or out the window, and disappear into the night. The furries haven’t totally blocked the door yet. I could skate my way through there in two seconds flat and get behind them while they’re still focused on the others. They’re not interested in me, anyway.

  But I know the way Tym’s been looking ever since we crossed the border into Silverburg, even with us taking the rooftop route for half the way here. He’s got balls the size of grapefruits, but all the balls in the world aren’t holding back his issues with furries, and in about two seconds, he’s going to go super-smash mode up in here. With those new power gloves of his adding to the carnage, I’m not sure there’s going to be a building left standing when he’s done.

  And while she teases me, Cerena’s just about the best thing I’ve come across in my life. Yeah, it’s just a job, and I’m going to walk away when we get back to Solace, maybe share a beer with her down at some Ringtown bar once in awhile if she does go back to this stiff ass she’s betrothed to while dreaming of the sight of her ass flexing while she rode my cock that first time and the way she rode my tongue before . . . but if that’s going to happen, she’s gotta be able to walk out of here.

  Fuck the new guy, whoever he is. I really don’t care about him. He’s just a job. But still, I wait those five heartbeats to let the furries come in and space out. I’m waiting, my eyes not looking at them so much as I am Tym, waiting . . . waiting . . . now.

  I freeze time, and if someone asks me how I do it, I’ve got no fucking clue. I just know that I bear down, and everything comes to a stop. Cerena’s got her sword halfway pulled, and Tym’s eyes are going wide. I give him a wide berth, running around him as I look to carve the easiest path through my enemies.

  The first werewolf is easy. He’s got his chin lifted like he’s about to turn and wants to howl at the same time, and I drive the seven inches of my knife’s steel up through his chin, piercing his brain. I withdraw just in time to slash across his throat just in case before whirling and taking another werewolf through his ribs, jerking my knife to the side as I withdraw to make sure I sever his aorta and deflate his lung. It’s hard when I’m in time stop, because nobody reacts, and even their bodies don’t move while I kill them.

  Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention, and I look over to see the new guy, Brandon . . . his eyes are following me. What the fuck? In all the years I’ve been pulling this stunt, and I’ve been pulling it since I was in diapers if my mother wasn’t lying her ass off, which is a distinct possibility, considering her lineage, I’ve never had someone watch me while I’m in time stop.

  He doesn’t move, not while I gut the third and then a fourth werewolf, but as my strength starts to fade and I pull back so I can let things unfreeze, his eyes never waver. Instead, at the last instant, Brandon’s eyes go to one of the two werewolves I’ve left standing.

  Time starts again, and things speed up very quickly. Cerena, her hand already pulling her sword, does just like I knew she would and draws beautifully, the edge of her blade catching the lead werewolf across his chest and knocking him to the floor.

  What is surprising, though, is Brandon. He moves quickly, shouldering Tym aside and knocking out the last remaining werewolf with a punch that would take the head off a normal human, the werewolf’s jaw jerking hard to the side before he collapses to the floor, blood trickling from his lips.

  “What the—” Tym says, stumbling slightly as Brandon kicks the werewolf in the gut once.

  I know in my own gut w
hat Brandon just did, but I’m not quite ready to let that particular cat out of this particular bag. Instead, I put my knives away, grinning as I go to pick up the hammer that Tym’s dropped. “Relax, big man. Seems our new guy here has a good punch of his own.”

  Cerena, who’s taken the whole thing in with her usual cool as a winter’s morning combat demeanor, uses a bedsheet to wipe her blade clean. “Nice job, Lance.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, lifting an eyebrow as I hear movement down the hallway and downstairs. “However, I think we need to get a move on. And if you want to smack some heads, Tym, I’d say give it a little bit. Because there’s going to be plenty of skulls coming this way.”

  I take the lead, with Cerena going second, new guy third, and Tym pulling up the rear. I know that chaps his ass, but it’s probably the best idea for us right now, and Tym’s smart enough that he’s not going to say anything.

  We’re clear until almost the end of the hallway, when a werewolf armed with a fucking machine pistol, of all things, comes out of a room. I can see his finger already tightening on the trigger, and I react, stopping time for a half-second and yanking his hand up, burying the barrel beneath his chin before starting time again and letting him blow his own damn head off in a three-round burst.

  “No wonder you’re still alive,” Cerena says as she takes the lead. “Even with your traits.”

  “You mean like a long, never-ceasing tongue?” I quip, and I see Cerena’s lips twitch in a little smile before we head downstairs. There’s nobody at the landing, but as we come out onto the first floor, I can hear them coming.

  A lot of them.

  And the back door’s twenty yards away.

  Chapter 23

  Tymond

  I don’t know why I came on this mission.

  I’ve been nothing but a giant signpost attracting the eyes of every werewolf we’ve passed since we stepped down into Silverburg. Despite my size, I know they can smell the fear coming off me in waves.

  For an hour, my tongue’s felt slick in my mouth, the spit electric as nervous sweat trickles down my back. Other than pulling a decent job of faking sick that I’m sure Lance could have done even better, I’ve been on robot mode this entire time.

  And when the wolves broke in the door, I froze. It’s the only way to explain how Brandon was able to bump me out of the way and punch the werewolf that was closing on me while I did nothing.

  “Fight or run?” Lance asks Cerena as we freeze at the bottom of the stairs. I can feel my fear ticking, teasing me, tugging at the limits of my control, telling me that my only way out is to take my hammers in my hands and to smash, smash, smash.

  I’m fighting it, but the longer we stay here, not going one way or another, the weaker my self-control becomes. Lance glances back at me, and Cerena does too, adding shame to my emotional burden as I recognize that they’re wondering whether I’m an asset or a liability in this situation.

  “Lucian wants the prisoner alive!” a werewolf coming toward us yells, and I see Cerena tense. It’s a stab to my heart, because I know how much her soul clamors for vengeance against Lucian for what he did to her and her parents.

  Instead, she points toward the window. “Tym, out the window. Out and we haul ass. We’ll pick our fight another day.”

  I don’t argue, just obey as I swing my hammer, busting not only the window but breaking the security screen on the other side. In two seconds, we have a hole, and I jump through, helping Brandon out before Cerena. Just as she touches down, Lance appears next to me and a couple of voices cry out in pain inside.

  “Delaying,” Lance explains. “Come on, how are we going to get out of here? I can hear the wolves fucking howling now.”

  He’s right. However the wolves communicate, they do it quickly, and I can hear howls echo through the streets of Silverburg. If we were by the borders of the district, we’d have a chance, but where we are now . . .

  “Wait,” I call out as Cerena turns to try and find her orientation with the embassy. I don’t want to tell her that the illusion of the embassy’s security is just that, an illusion. Regardless of how many Hunter guards the building has, the shell of the building would be cracked in minutes and the guts of the inhabitants slurped out with canine tongues if we go there.

  But there is another option.

  “What?” Cerena asks, looking at me warily. I want to tell her that by fleeing, we’re actually helping my rage, because in the battle of fight or flight, I’ve made my decision, and now my mind’s working at full capacity to save my life.

  “There,” I say, pointing out a rare thing in the Scorched Earth . . . an actual vehicle. “Let’s roll.”

  “You’re kidding,” Brandon says, looking at me like I’m insane. “Just how—”

  “Shut up and let’s go,” Cerena says, running toward the truck. There’s no doors, just some webbing over the space where doors would go, while Lance and Brandon jump into the back, Lance pulling his pistol and aiming around him.

  “Big man, you’d better know what you’re doing,” Lance says as he fires a shot, the Gauss pistol spitting fire and a superhot steel pellet that explodes a werewolf’s head.

  “Don’t worry . . . this I can do,” I reply, bending down and reaching into my belt for the small multitools there. I always carry them, and moments later, the truck roars to life, the engine spewing fragrant clouds of biodiesel . . . but running.

  “Holy shit!” Lance yells as I shift into the seat and put the truck in gear. “How the fuck did you do that?”

  “Remember those skills you wonder about?” I ask as I put the truck into gear. I’ve seen people do this . . . once, and while I hear a grinding sound from around the engine, I get us going.

  “You can pick locks?” Cerena asks, and I nod. “How?”

  “Tyr’s symbol . . . it’s the same as Mars,” I reply, drawing a circle with a pointed arrow on the control panel with my finger. “Most people don’t realize it’s not just a spear. It’s a key.”

  “Fuck me sideways,” Lance yells before firing another round behind us. “Think you can make this hunk of steel go any faster?”

  “Who the fuck are you people?” Brandon repeats, holding onto the frame of the truck as I roughly shove the gear handle into a higher gear. “Do you even know how to operate this fucking thing?”

  “I’ve seen it done before!” I yell back, grinning a little as we gain speed. I can still see werewolves running toward us, their bodies rippling as they change, but I don’t care. Lance is whooping, screaming insults at our pursuers as he fires off rounds, while I try and use what knowledge I have of the streets to get us out of Bane as quickly as possible.

  “Turn left!” Lance yells as the road in front of us explodes into a maelstrom of shrapnel. He ducks down, grimly holding on as I turn as best I can, the front edge of the truck glancing off a building as I make the turn. It’s a narrow road, and I push the button in the middle of the steering column, a horn blaring and sending the foot traffic scattering. Ahead of us, two werewolves turn to try and attack, but I push the accelerator as hard as I can, a battle cry tearing from my lips.

  “Die, dogs!” I scream, and we surge forward, running over both werewolves. I grunt in satisfaction as I feel the wheels double-thump over one of them, my lip lifting in satisfaction as I do.

  “What is this?” Brandon screams, his panic breaking through. “Where are you taking me?”

  “We’re the motherfucking cavalry, buddy,” Lance laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. I’m too focused on trying to keep this heap on the road. “No group too powerful for us to piss off, dirty deeds done cheap.”

  “Where’d you learn that?” Cerena calls back, and she’s smiling somehow in the midst of all this insanity.

  “Grandma!”

  We turn right, heading back out of the city again, and up ahead, I see another squad of werewolves . . . and the bridge.

  “Why’d we have to cross the bridge?” Brandon moans behind us. “Fucking bridge . .
.”

  I understand. One of the last remnants of the world prior to the war, the Bane Bridge is massive, nearly a quarter-mile long and towering high into the air. Thick, twisted steel cables descend to hold the wide surface of the bridge above the river below, which I assume used to be much larger than it is now. In some ways, it makes the fifty-foot drop even more terrifying, since there’s nothing below to catch you.

  I’ve seen people walk over this bridge, but now that I’m in a truck, the gaps in the support cables remind me that this is a multi-hundred-year-old relic of a long-forgotten age, and that while men once built this structure to take hundreds, if not thousands, of these trucks a day on its surface, nobody’s done proper repairs to it in a very long time.

  Before I can think of even trying to get this truck turned around and possibly going another way out of the city, a shotgun blast tears apart the night, and Lance flattens himself, yanking Brandon with him. “Time’s up, big man!”

  “Hand me your pistol!” Cerena says, sticking her hand out to Lance. He hands it to her, and as I gun the motor, she fires in front of us, missing her targets but scattering the werewolves out of the way. I’m going as fast as I can as we roll onto the bridge, and I hear the tires give off a popping sound as we roll over what looks like nails, but I don’t have time to worry about it now. Instead, I push the truck harder, the four of us bumping and almost flying as we hit the stones that are scattered throughout the length of the bridge, and I hold on grimly, my foot slammed to the floor and my hands gripping the steering wheel.

  Bursting out past the outer edges of Bane, I whoop once before focusing on driving. “Okay, this is a lot harder—”

  Cerena reaches over and throws a switch, and suddenly, twin fans of light stab out from the headlamps at the front of the truck and I can see a lot more easily. “Well, that’s better.”

  “Your quick thinking saved our lives,” Cerena says, leaning over to talk quietly in my ear. “So don’t let yourself keep thinking what I was seeing in your eyes in the hospital. You did a damn good job, Tym.”