Rhett, still in hellhound form, bounds after the vampire, shadows clinging to his massive frame as he flows through the darkness.
But I already know the truth settling in my gut like lead.
One got away.
One hunter who’s seen us.
Seen what we are.
Seen what we can do.
One witness who could bring everything crashing down around us.
The brothers gather in silence, reading the situation from my expression alone. Even Ruckus’ perpetual grin falters as probability shifts into darker configurations.
“We hunt him,” Maul growls, werewolf vocal cords making the words sound more animal than human. “Track him. Kill him. Tonight.”
“He’s got too much of a lead,” Scar’s voice drifts back through the trees, the vampire reappearing moments later with Rhett at his heels. Both look frustrated, an expression I’ve rarely seen on beings this powerful. “By the time we catch his trail again, he’ll be back to civilization. Too many witnesses. Too much risk.”
I want to argue.
I want to order them to pursue anyway, consequences be damned. But Scar is right. Killing a hunter in the middle of nowhere is one thing. Hunting him through populated areas, leaving a trail of bodies and questions, that’s how you draw attention we can’t afford.
“Then we find him before he talks,” I say, ice spreading from my hands until it coats the ground beneath my boots. “We have resources, connections, money… we hunt him the smart way.”
“And if he’s already talked?” Coil asks, his serpentine form having shifted back to human, hypnotic eyes still glowing faintly gold. “If he’s already made calls, sent emails, uploaded their evidence?”
“Then we prepare for war,” I reply simply. “But first, we clean this up.”
The brothers move with practiced efficiency, gathering evidence, positioning corpses, and preparing the scene. Thorn animates the forest itself, with roots and branches shifting to create what appears to be an animal attack or a tragic accident. Ruckus applies his luck magic, ensuring probability favors our version of events.
Within an hour, it’s done. Three dead hunters become missing hikers who ventured too deep into the wilderness they didn’t understand and never came back out.
It happens more often than people think.
We mount our bikes in silence, engines roaring to life with mechanical fury that matches the rage simmering beneath my skin. The ride back to the clubhouse feels longer somehow, weighted with the knowledge that we didn’t finish what we started.
One got away.
One witness.
One problem that could destroy everything.
My hands tighten on the handlebars until ice forms beneath my grip. Behind me, the prospects ride in unusual silence, their constant bickering finally quelled by the reality of what we are and what we do.
The clubhouse appears through the trees like a fortress, stone, steel, and magic holding back the darkness. We pull into the compound, parking bikes in their designated spots, movements automatic despite the tension crackling through the air.
Ivy meets us at the door, her bark-textured skin pale with worry. “Calder?” I question.
“Sleeping. The iron poisoning is contained, but he’ll need days to heal fully.” Her eyes search my face, reading the violence written there. “Did you…”
“Three dead. One escaped.” The words taste like a damn failure.
Her expression shutters. She doesn’t judge, she’s lived with monsters long enough to understand that sometimes violence is the only language prey comprehends, but I catch the flicker of concern before she masks it.
Inside, the flame in its crystal dome gutters weakly, barely maintaining existence. I stop in front of it, studying my reflection in the curved glass.
Cold. Empty. Monstrous.