“You’re not eating anyone,” I snap, approaching until I’m close enough to see the hunter’s pupils dilate with genuine terror. This close, I can hear his heart hammering against his ribs, I can smell the adrenaline flooding his system, I can taste the desperation and fear saturating every breath.
Perfect.
I press my palm against his chest, right over his frantically beating heart. Ice spreads from the contact point, racing across fabric and skin, burrowing deeper with each passing second. The hunter screams, thrashing in Bennett’s grip, but the angel holds him steady with effortless strength.
“Where are the others?” I ask conversationally, watching frost patterns bloom across his jacket like flowers made from death. “The ones who sent you here. The ones tracking our operations.”
He tries to spit at me, but his saliva freezes before it leaves his lips. Ice creeps up his neck, across his jaw, forcing his teeth together as his entire body begins to seize.
“The documents,” I continue, letting the cold burrow deeper. “The maps, the surveillance…who else knows?”
A distant scream echoes through the forest, human and agonized, cut off abruptly with a wet, tearing sound. Scar’s prey, probably. Or Wreck’s. Hard to tell when terror sounds the same regardless of the mouth it escapes from.
“Tell us before you freeze,” I warn, but the hunter’s eyes roll back as the cold finishes its work, ice threading through muscle and vein, sealing organs mid-function. His heart stutters once, twice, then locks solid in his chest, stopped not by violence but by inevitability. I step back as frost races across his skin, blooming outward until he’s no longer a man so much as a monument, his features caught in crystalline stillness, fear preserved with brutal precision.
Bennett releases him, the frozen body tips backward and hits the ground with a hollow, thunderous crack that echoes throughthe trees. The ice sculpture explodes on impact, shards bursting outward in a violent spray, fragments skidding across stone and frozen earth. Limbs shear away at unnatural angles, the torso collapsing in on itself as the statue gives up the lie of wholeness, breaking down into shattered fragments.
The forest absorbs the sound slowly.
Shards settle, frost drifts, and what’s left lies scattered at our feet, glittering in the low light, unrecognizable and utterly still.
“Efficient,” the angel observes with a nonchalant shrug.
“Brutal,” Rhett adds, sounding disappointed. “But effective, I guess.”
Another scream splits the night, this one lasting longer, carrying notes of absolute horror before dissolving into wet, choking sounds. Closer this time. The other hunters are being harvested, their terror and agony feeding something in my brothers that transcends mere hunger.
“Move,” I order, already heading toward the sounds. “We clean this up. All of it.”
Chapter Three
RAZE
We find the second hunter three hundred yards east, or what’s left of him. Maul’s werewolf form stands over the corpse, muzzle dark with blood, chest heaving from exertion. The hunter is torn open from throat to groin, organs steaming in the frozen air, eyes wide and glassy with the kind of horror that lingers even after death.
Flux shifts from hunting cat to human form, amber eyes reflecting torchlight as he examines the carnage. “He had a satellite phone. Was trying to call for backup when Maul caught him.”
“Did he get through?” The question comes out sharp enough to draw blood.
“No. Thorn made sure of that.” The treasurer gestures toward where the nightbark stands among the trees, branches writhing around him like affectionate serpents. “Forest spirits are hell on electronic signals.”
Thorn’s bark-covered face might be smiling. Hard to tell when your features are more plant than flesh. “The wilderness is with us, they’ve got our back, Prez.”
Ruckus approaches from the north, gold charms clinking softly, that perpetual grin still in place despite the violence saturating the air. “Found something interesting. You’re gonna want to see this.”
I follow the leprechaun through the trees until we reach a small clearing where Scar, Wreck, and Coil stand over the third hunter. This one is still alive, barely, held upright by Wreck’s skeletal grip. The wendigo has one hand wrapped around thehunter’s throat, not choking him but holding him in place while feeding on the raw terror pouring off him in waves.
Scar looks up as I approach, red eyes gleaming with satisfaction. In his hands, he holds a leather messenger bag, contents already spilling out across the frozen ground.
Maps, photographs, documents…
Our clubhouse.
Our routes.
Our businesses.
Shipping manifests for the cursed artifacts moving through next week.