Huntsman by Cambria Hebert
Prologue
Villain
Somewhere in Asia…
“The past is calling.”
The unmistakable light of amusement in my assistant’s eyes faded and snuffed out completely when I lifted my eyes, shifting deeper into the high-backed wingchair behind my desk.
“Excuse me?”
Clearing his throat, gaze lowered to the expensive handwoven rug stretching nearly wall to wall over the glossy and meticulously laid dark wood floors, he spoke loud enough to project his next sentence to me even though his chin remained downcast.
“You have a call. From America.”
Interest piqued with suspicion, I replied, “We haven’t dealt with anyone that far west in a long time.”
He made a sound of agreement.
“If you know that, then why would you put the call through?”
His tremble was visible, as was the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “I didn’t at first.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask for an explanation.”
Dark eyes snapped up. He knew I was losing patience. Clenching his hands in front of him, he nearly tripped over his words, making haste. “It’s been the same call for a few weeks now. I keep hanging up, but she keeps calling back.”
She?
“I was curious how she could even get this number, let alone be persistent enough to call every single day.”
“Americans think the world revolves around them.”
“She says she knows someone, someone you’ve been trying to find.”
I tilted my head. “Who?”
“She refused to tell me, insisting she would only speak to you.”
“Get out.”
The second I spoke, he jolted and spun, the black jacket momentarily puffing out around his slim hips. He scurried like a rat in search of food, making my upper lip curl.
As if he felt the snarl, his hip caught the edge of a decorative table on his way past. The crystal vase atop it fell over with a sharp snap. The rush of water splashed over the edge, carrying with it a long-stemmed black rose. The water and the once pristine flower plopped onto the floor.
With a low gasp and a sheer look of horror, the man dropped to his knees, which only amplified the mess.
“I a-a-apologize,” he stammered, trying to scoop up the water with his hands.
My five-inch heels were soundless as I walked over the carpet, my presence only realized when the pointed toes stepped up to the edge of the mess he was trying to clean.
All attempts to fix what he’d done ceased, and the shoulders beneath his suit jacket slumped. The way his head hung on his neck was pathetic, as though he’d already accepted his fate.
Simpering. Spineless. Good help was hard to find these days.
The only surefire way to get the kind I need is to create it. And sometimes, not even that is foolproof.
That thought made the anger burning inside me hotter.
“Chul,” I beckoned without even lifting my voice.
The white-paneled door opened immediately, a large man filling its frame. With a single, stoic glance, he took in the employee on the floor and the mess surrounding him.
“I don’t want to see him again.”
His nod was curt, and when his hand cupped under the arm of the now-former employee, the acceptance of his fate crumpled and he started to whimper, dragging it out into a God-awful wail.
“P-pleeease,” he keened. “I’ll do anything.”
Chul kept going, the man’s feet dragging over the floor as he went.
“You.”
Chul stopped, and the sniveling man looked up, hope blossoming over his red face.
“That joke wasn’t funny,” I informed him.
Hope shriveled, and realization dawned once more. “I’m sorry! Give me another chance!” he wailed as Chul hauled him away, shutting the door quietly behind him and cutting off his pathetic and useless pleas.
Silence descended once more, and I bent to pick up the rose. A thorn pricked deep into my flesh, stinging me with pain and drawing forth a swell of blood.
I stared down at the wounded finger and the sharp thorn, which was now smeared with red. Chuckling, I carefully placed the onyx-topped stem on the table and sucked my finger between my painted lips.
Metallic, sharp, and slightly pungent, my own blood burst over my tongue. Remembering the call, I went back to my desk to lift the gleaming black phone and press a button.
“Yes?” My voice was cool.
“I know where he is.” I did not recognize her voice. But her tone? That was something else entirely.
Distinguished. Powerful. Petty.
And most importantly… filled with revenge.
“Who?” I faked disinterest.
“The man you’ve spent the last ten years searching for.”
The hand not holding the phone curled around the edge of my desk, squeezing until every small joint in every finger ached and burned. The back of my neck tingled, making my eyes narrow into slits.
It couldn’t be.
“Who is this?” I demanded, power radiating from my core.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” the woman murmured, “who’s the most powerful of them all?”
Was she challenging me?
“Listen to me.” I began, thinking this woman had no idea who she was playing with.
“New York City. The Grimms. I don’t know what you call him, but here, he goes by Earth.”
I jolted upright, my already perfect posture going so rigid it was painful. I opened my lips to demand more, but the buzzing of the line against my ear cut me off.
She’d hung up.
Replacing the receiver, I stood at the side of my wooden desk, staring blindly at the deep-gray walls covered in ornate wainscoting. I also didn’t see the authentic Leonardo Da Vinci painting that hung between the moldings, the candle sconces, or the tall, leafy green tree that was potted in the corner.
All the high-priced elegance of this office faded away until there was nothing in front of me but an empty street cloaked by the obscurity of night and brought alive only by thick silver-gray fog that drifted above the pavement, concealing where the ground ended and the air began.
The sound of a gunshot boomed through the memory, ripping it away and knocking me back onto my butt. One high heel flipped off, landing on its side nearby, while the other dangled half on, half off my foot as I sprawled on the floor, hand clutching my chest.
Pain so vivid and real tore through me. I began tearing at the white silk jacket, ripping its oversized fit away from my body to find a blooming patch of red.
“I’ve been shot!” I wailed.
Across the room, the door shuddered open. Behind me, the paneled black bookshelves slid soundlessly in, and a man rushed out.
Surrounded at once, chaos thundered throughout the room as my men filled the space. The one who’d come from the bookcase dropped to his knees beside me.
“I’ve been shot!” I yelled. “Don’t just stand there! Find the gunman!”
The men all shuffled uncomfortably, and the one at my side grabbed my hands to hold them. “There was no gunshot. The estate is secure.”
Ripping my hands free, I moved to show him the blood.
There was none.
A broken cry ripped from my throat.
“Out!” the man at my side roared. “Do a perimeter search!”
“What happened?” he demanded when everyone was gone.
No blood. No pain. No dark street. Just me on the floor in my office.
Just me being weak.
Shoving his hands off, I stood. Without the five-inch heels, my height was insignificant, something I hated. Knowing this, he did not stand. Instead, he placed my shoes in front of me, offering one wide shoulder to use as I slid them on.
Only then did he stand, his height still more than mine but a much more tolerable difference.
“What happened?” he repeated.
The past called. My former assistant had no idea how right that statement was.
Except it wasn’t because it was still yesterday in America, but it was because that brief unknown caller had managed to shove me ten years into the past without even giving her name.
But she had given a name.
Could it really be?
My eyes lifted. “Call Daeshim. I want him here now.”