Huntsman by Cambria Hebert
13
Earth
The headlightsof my car lit up the end of the alley, sort of like shining a spotlight on the place I liked to keep private. It couldn’t be helped, though, as I needed the light to manhandle the dumpster out the way to reveal the hidden garage door in the side of a building.
A building I actually owned but no one knew about. It was a shitty, rundown structure just like every other here in the Grimms, but I bought it because there was this garage tucked into the back. Drug dealers used it as a den before I owned the place. I couldn’t blame them for choosing it because it was private, out of the way, and well-protected.
But as soon as the ink was dry on this purchase, I showed their small-time criminal asses the door and hadn’t seen them since. Most people around here didn’t challenge me much, but I wasn’t so arrogant and stupid to think they wouldn’t. I upgraded the small garage with a security system and a door only I knew the code to. And yeah, I parked a heavy dumpster in front of it to keep it out of sight.
The bottom floor of the building used to be some kind of business that had since gone bust. It needed a lot of work now to even be usable. There were a couple apartments on the upper floors. Those needed work too. So mostly, the building sat unoccupied, rotting away not only with age but also lack of use.
I thought about fixing it up and renting out the spaces, but that was as far as I got.
Once the car was parked in its spot, I turned off the headlights but stayed put behind the wheel. Eventually, the crappy automatic light that came with the automatic door flicked off, saturating everything in complete blackness.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark. In fact, I was most comfortable here. I knew the dark far better than I would ever know the light.
One day—no. Half a day. That’s all it took to churn up my insides, to make me feel like I was living in some foreign place instead of my own damn head.
My response to her was so… not who I was. Not who I wanted to be. Thoughts and waves of emotions I didn’t even think I was capable of slapped me around all day.
I hadn’t felt this confused since… well…
Shut. It. Down.
And what in the ever-loving hell was I thinking telling her we could hang out again? We couldn’t. I wouldn’t. There were so many reasons to stay away.
But you want to go back.
With a slew of dirty curse words, I slammed out of the car, moving around in the dark with genuine ease. Because the door was still open, I left all the lights out, going to the back wall to pull a familiar lever.
Confident, I reached in, grabbing the item I felt bare without, not needing light to find the extension of myself. The handle was weighty, cold against my palm, but a perfect fit. The long blade glinted even in the dark, its edge sharp enough to kill.
And kill it had. Many times.
Reaching up, I sheathed it in the holster against my back, then closed up my place. Once the dumpster concealed the door, I moved down the alley toward the street, which was dimly lit with the occasional streetlamp.
The Rotten Apple would be filling up by now. It was rare I wasn’t behind the bar, and Beau was probably watching the door, waiting for me to get there and relieve him.
At the juncture of the alley and the street, I peered right toward my bar where the light from the place spilled out across the sidewalk. Then my boots pivoted left as I turned my back.
Too unsettled to go home. My dark mood would only draw attention. Everyone knew I wasn’t someone to piss off, someone to challenge or cross. But downright scaring customers was bad for business, and the way I felt right now, I’d definitely scare some off.
It had been a while since I’d accepted a job. Since I’d taken a life for profit. The last job was Ivory… the only failed assassination gig I’d ever had. My spotless, perfect kill record was suddenly marred by my inability to perform.
And it wasn’t because I couldn’t. I’d had plenty of opportunities to kill that princess. Opportunity hadn’t been the problem.
The problem had been me. Never make it personal.
The most important rule in my line of work, a rule I never even blinked at until that raven-haired, ocean-eyed beauty stumbled into the Grimms.
I told my family I wouldn’t do it again, and I kept that promise.
But here I was slinking through the dirty streets of the Grimms, melting in with the shadows, slipping into my alter ego of being a ghost as if I were ready to break that promise.
As if I craved a kill.
And oddly, the main reason I stopped killing was also the reason I wanted to experience it again.
Emotion.
I quit because I broke my own set of standards, because I compromised who I was as an assassin. I was the best at what I did because I did it with clean precision. No hesitation, void of emotion, not one ounce of regret.
It was a job, pure and simple. A contract ordered, a contract fulfilled.
The control of that lit up my veins and gave me bone-deep satisfaction. I did what I wanted on my own terms. No one told me when or how. No one told me why. I was in control. Always.
Until Ivory. Until my brother went and fell in love with my target and, worse, dragged her home to sleep on my couch. Then my dog fell in love with her, and I… I started to feel.
That emotion was far different than the flat existence I knew.
It fucked me over, and it fucked up my family. I cared about that more than I expected too.
So I stopped. Not because they asked me to but because I didn’t trust myself anymore.
Although, I didn’t think I’d be able to tolerate the look of disappointment in Fletcher’s eyes if I started killing again and the kid found out.
Don’t tell anyone I admitted that.
Letting it get personal, allowing wild emotion to eat me up, put an end to my sordid career, but now those exact things were making me want it back.
How I craved the precision, the control… the flatlined sentiment taking jobs gave me. Right now, I felt churned up like sediment that usually lay undisturbed on the deep ocean floor was somehow being dragged to the surface.
Half a day with Neo’s little sister, with her mood swings, confessions, and those damn flowers in her hair, and I felt more out of control than I ever had before.
Kill. Kill. Put everything back in order.
Several blocks over from the Rotten Apple, I knew I was being followed. The same ominous energy that stepped into the pet shop now plagued the dark streets. I didn’t bother to turn and look over my shoulder. I wouldn’t see whoever it was, but I didn’t need my eyes to feel their intent.
I chose to ignore them, wondering how long they would shadow me, what they hoped to see. Part of me hoped they attacked and gave me a reason to defend myself. I was already in a very dark mood, and I would welcome to excuse to spill blood.
My pursuer still followed as I turned into another seedy alley, this one just as dark as the rest. Even though I couldn’t hear the music that blasted inside the building, the pavement underfoot vibrated with its intensity.
After a quick succession of knocks on the black-painted door, a small rectangular window slid open, revealing the glow of neon lights, which was almost instantly blocked by a large head and a pair of flat eyes.
“Password,” he said, his voice deep but somehow still heard over the music rushing out through the opening.
I stepped closer and gave him the finger.
The window slammed shut, and then the door pulled open. I moved inside past the giant manning the door. His head was bald and round, his body massive, and his height much greater than mine.
“Sorry, I didn’t know it was you at first,” he said when my eyes met his.
I grunted, not accepting his apology, and turned my back.
“Hey!” he yelled, likely annoyed I didn’t give him a pass.
Halting, I rotated my head, leaving my back to him to pierce him with just one of my black eyes. I might be chaos inside, but on the outside, I would be in control.
“Nice seeing ya,” the doorman said after a beat of nothing at all.
I hitched my chin in acknowledgment and then moved into the exclusive club. The Grimms was the ghetto—actually, the slums of the ghetto—but it was also home to Blacklight, a private club where people here blew off steam. Hard to believe a place like this could stay afloat where most people were poor as dirt.
But no, Blacklight thrived because people came to forget. They came to live beyond their shitty circumstances, and they came to connect.
A lot of the same reasons the Rotten Apple was usually full, except with this place, you had to have a password. You had to have more than just cash to get in the door.
And because of this, I paused just around the corner, lying in wait to see if anyone else came in behind me.
No one did, and it proved my suspicion that whoever was tailing me probably wasn’t from around here. So where are you from?
Shoving off the wall, I moved deeper into the club. This building had been hollowed out and soundproofed, then redecorated with a high stage to the left and a full bar to the right. The brick walls were all painted black with light colors splashed randomly around. Spotlights hit the stage with colored lights, and the rest of the place, including the bar, only glowed under blacklights.
People wore body paint and clothes that lit them up. Bodies gyrated on the dance floor, and two strippers worked on their poles. Near the bar, a cage hung from the ceiling, inside it another scantily clad woman wearing a mask and dancing like her body was an invitation.
The loud music vibrated my eardrums and made my chest feel like it was shaking. The crowd parted as I walked, my mood preceding me and clearing a path. People stared, but when I returned the gaze, their eyes dropped instantly.
The weight of my blade under my leather jacket waited with anticipation, almost whispering it wanted blood.
The bartender appeared in front of me almost at the same time I stopped in front of the high wooden bar. A tall shot glass was produced, and I picked it up, throwing back the contents, feeling the spicy burn of straight Hennessy down my throat.
Another appeared, and I took that too, no hesitation.
The bartender waited, giving me a look when I set down the empty glass. Crowds of people yelled for him, demanding drinks, but he stood in front of me, silently asking if I wanted another.
I did.
Fuck, I wanted to take that entire bottle out of his grip and chug it. I wouldn’t because that would mean relinquishing the control I was already grappling to maintain. I shook my head once.
“Beer,” I said, and the bartender moved off to do his job.
The music changed to something that sounded almost identical to the song playing before, but the lights aimed toward the stage shifted from red to purple, and the bottom of the cage hanging overhead swung out.
Leaning an elbow on the bar, I lounged back, watching the dancer basically swing out of the open bottom, landing in the center of a crowd. Men closed in, for obvious reasons, but the sharp crack of a whip had them all scattering back.
The woman emerged from the group—black stilettos, black leather bikini bottoms, and a black lace top that was completely see-through—and made her way toward me. The long whip coiled around her wrist like a slumbering snake was so long it dragged on the floor behind her like a tail.
Miles of skin glistened with body oil, but her face was masked, only revealing red-painted lips and eyes lined with smokey shadow and gleaming silver gems.
The person standing closest to me shifted back, allowing her to shimmy in, her claw-like red nails climbing up my chest. “Been a while since you’ve come.”
“I’m not here for you,” I said, feeling nothing as her nails continued to climb.
“That never stopped you before.”
For the briefest of moments, I thought about giving her what she wanted. About pinning her against a wall and taking some control by taking her.
Her hand cupped the side of my jaw, and all of those meanderings shut down. Her eyes widened in surprise and, yes, a glimmer of fear when my hand shot up, clasping around her wrist and tugging enough so that her hand could not touch me there.
A flashback from earlier today assaulted me. The feel of another palm gently cupping my cheek tingled my memory.
I’m sorry I wandered off and scared you. I’m fine, though.
A sharp cry snapped me back, the woman struggling against the hard grip I was forcing on her wrist. I threw her arm away, watching her tuck it into her chest.
“You’re in a mood tonight,” she purred.
I felt my jaw flex. “Get the hell out of my sight.”
Red lips parted with surprise, but then her eyes narrowed in challenge. Now was not the time to challenge me. Especially after you soiled such an innocent touch with your filth.
Sensing movement behind me, I reacted, catching the arm reaching out for me before I’d even fully turned around. A forceful yank slammed the body into the bar top with a pained grunt.
Pinning him down, I spun, hand closing around his neck as I bent him over the edge of the bar, head hanging off the wood.
The man wheezed, his sneakers grappling for something but only catching air. Everyone around us paused to watch. But I remained focused on the threat that tried to sneak up from behind.
Seeing it was the bartender, I loosened the hold on his neck.
“B—beer,” he rasped.
I glanced at the bottle resting atop a napkin just to my left.
Instead of shoving him back across the bar, I pulled, bringing him over to my side. He landed in a heap at my feet, scrambling up almost instantly. Eyes wide, he gulped as he stared.
“Don’t touch me,” I warned.
Nodding, he scrambled off.
The cage dancer watched him go. I could practically smell her arousal, and frankly, it was making me sick.
When she turned back to me, I slapped her with my stare. “Get lost. I don’t want you.”
Fury radiated from her, and I caught the whip as she brought it up. With one jerk, she lost balance on those stilettos, plummeting forward. I didn’t bother to catch her. I already told her not to touch me. She landed at my feet just like the bartender had seconds before.
Bending down, I dropped the end of the whip beside her. “You should know better than that.”
I turned my back before she’d even gotten up. Life around me started back up, and I snatched the beer to take a long draw.
The Hennessy had relaxed some of my limbs, made my brain feel a little fuzzier than normal but not enough to mute my senses.
Lowering the beer from my lips, I grimaced because it was a shitty brew, oxidized long ago and tasting flatter than an old woman’s ass. Not that I knew what that tasted like. The napkin sitting there had a damp ring in the shape of the bottle, the dampness allowing me to see the hint of ink underneath.
Setting the beer aside, I lifted the corner of the paper square, finding a message left in black ink.
Answer your phone.
I glanced around, but no one was looking, and the back of my neck did not prickle at all like it had in the alley.
My contact knew I was out. So why the message?
Crumpling the napkin in my fist, I sneered at the piss-poor beer and left. The outside air felt cooler than what was inside, but I barely registered the change, shoving my hands along with that note into the pockets of my jacket.
Maybe my contact knew what I’d been trying to deny. Once a killer, always a killer, and there was no quitting when venom ran through your veins.
The reasons for the note became merely a second thought because, almost immediately, I realized they’d waited.
Whoever had been tailing me picked up right where they left off the second I turned out of the alley, slinking along with conceited confidence, believing I didn’t know they were there.
Frankly, it was insulting, and it only fueled the anger and unrest already boiling inside me.
I went another block, then slipped into an alley, fusing with the dark without a single sound. Moments later, they followed, confused and worried they’d lost me.
My hand clamped around the back of their neck before they even saw me move, their body slammed face first into the wall. He struggled, actually seemed to have some moves.
The low vibration of my blade as it whizzed through the dark made him pause. His sharp intake of breath when the tip pricked into the vulnerable flesh of his neck fed something hungry inside me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Silence.
I pressed the knife a little deeper, hoping the spilling of blood would loosen his tongue. He whimpered, but that wasn’t the answer I wanted.
Pressing my knee harder, I pinned him more cruelly into the brick. I leaned in, hoping the pungent smell of the Cognac I’d ingested burned his nose.
“Last time. Who are you and why the fuck have you been trailing behind me like an untrained dog?”
“Just getting to know you.”
“I’m not very interesting.”
He shifted a bit, turning his head, though it caused my blade to puncture his skin even deeper. His stare connected with mine, that single eye holding more than its share of nasty.
“That’s an awfully pretty girlfriend you got. Never woulda pegged you as the type for a wheelchair kink—”
His words were interrupted by the sound of a garbled gurgle, and then he sprawled at my feet. I swiped the soiled blade along his jeans, ridding it of his blood. More gurgling sounds erupted as his wide, glassy eyes stared up.
“As a rule, I only ever kill for hire,” I told him, squatting by his head. “But it seems I’m not too good at following rules.”
He reached out, limp fingers grabbing onto the leather of my jacket.
“You never should have mentioned her,” I told him, angry all over again that this was the piece of shit who made V think it was her fault I wanted away from her.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Shrugging off his hand, I stood, sheathing my knife. “If you make it to the hospital within thirty minutes, you might live.”
I walked away and left him there to bleed.