Page 15 of Thorn Season
I would never know which of my family members had been sent to kill me.
Garret tugged me behind him. “Be calm, Alissa.” He would reason with them—tell them they’d made a mistake.
But my stomach plunged when he dropped into a fighting stance. Like he knew he couldn’t dissuade them.
Like he hoped instead to shield me from their blades.
Something collided with the door, rattling the desk, and my specter fed off my panic. The power curled in on itself—shrinking—as the figures dispersed around the parlor.
One figure by the hearth, where Amarie warmed her hands each night; one by the window, where Tari and I always watched the snowfall; one by the armchair, where Father’s slippers poked between the legs. The slippers were old and shedding fabric, and a new pair sat wrapped in my closet for Father’s birthday. And suddenly all I wanted was to fall to my knees and beg—not for my life, but for a moment to retrieve those slippers, because Father wouldn’t think to buy them for himself and his feet would be cold once I was gone.
Once I was gone.
The thought lashed around me, near-choking. How would Father survive this? He would return to find the Hunters’ Mark on our door, and it would break him—killhim.
I’d scrubbed the mark this morning. I’d brought this upon us both.
The door splintered under the axe, and Amarie screamed. The Hunters pounced on Garret in the distraction.
He moved fast—dodging one figure, punching another in the ribs. He was reaching under his blazer when the smallest Hunter landed a blow that sent him careening into the drinks table.
Crystal shattered and Garret’s blood rained over the shards.
“No!” I stumbled forward, tripping against the table. I gasped as broken crystal sliced my palm, but I didn’t feel the pain.
“Alissa.” Garret’s whisper sounded clogged with blood. “Don’t show them. Don’t—”
They yanked him away from me; forced him to his knees; twisted his arms behind his back. I lurched toward him again but the tallest Hunter blocked me, one palm on his sheathed weapon, the other rising—
I staggered back, my rapid breaths spinning me off balance.Not here, please not here.I didn’t want Amarie to see them strike me.
I didn’t want Father to find my teeth.
The door crashed open, stalling the Hunter’s hand. It wasn’t a mercy.
The largest of the four—the axe-wielding Hunter—eclipsed the threshold, muscles rippling under leather. His gaze locked on mine, and he advanced.
My specter coiled tighter with each pounding step, and I held myself rigid. Stripped bare of the jewels and the charm and thebloodline—of every tool that had ever saved me.
These brutes had violated my home. Yet I’d never felt more like a criminal.
The Hunter was a foot away when Amarie darted between us. The moment layered within a breath—his hand reaching for her arm, her face shying away, the fury sharpening my panic to a knifepoint.
My limbs unfroze. I pushed Amarie aside and shoved the Hunter—hard.
He stumbled back, blinking in shock. His armor glistened with a streak of my blood.
“You do not touch her,” I snarled.
The room tensed, heavy breathing all around. The axe-wielding Hunter glanced darkly at the arm I’d stretched in front of Amarie, and I had a terrible premonition of him hacking it off.
But I’d promised myself I wouldn’t shrink like a coward before the Hunters. I would face them with my chin high. So I didn’t balk, even as my vision throbbed with my ragged pulse. Even as the man’s hazel eyes flickered over me in grim assessment—and then, scowling, he drew a glass vial from his pocket.
Dullroot.
I’d always dreaded to learn how the poison would feel, stifling my specter and robbing me of any chance at fighting back. After eighteen years, I should’ve been ready to find out. But amid Garret’s struggling, and Amarie’s weeping, and my own racehorse heartbeat kicking against my ribs, there came the same crashing realization that every Hunted Wielder must have experienced before me:
I wasn’t ready to die.
