Page 35 of Hunted in the Shadows
Monsters were one thing. Victims were another. But she was neither, and my carefully curated instincts grinded to a halt. She was perhaps a few summers older than me, with dark brown skin and a dozen black braids that cascaded to the middle of her back. Her eyes were darker than Jon’s, and though she was stunned, a gentle awe lay buried beneath her confusion.
Even so, I jolted back an inch when she took a tentative step closer.
“No, wait—don’t be afraid—please,” she said in a soft, stammering voice. “Please don’t go.”
One hand slowly lifted toward me, and all I could do was gape.
I scarcely registered the rustling leaves behind me until her eyes flicked from me and bugged wide.
“Hey! Don’t touch her!” Cliff’s voice was like a gunshot slicing the air.
My mind raced to catch up. Cliff materialized between us, his body like a wall of protection.
Naturally, the woman screamed.
She frantically dug for her pockets, whipping out a folded knife. Her fingers trembled against the polished wood handle. Before she could unfurl the blade, Cliff swatted it out of her hands to send it clattering into the dead leaves several yards away. I winced a little, touching the dagger sheathed at my hip. My first encounter with the hunters was perpetually fresh in my mind: scrambling to reach my weapon lying on the dusty floor, out of reach. Outmatched.
“Take it easy. I can explain.” Cliff held up his hands, his stare placating now that she was unarmed. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”
The woman was coiled like a spring, shifting her weight from foot to foot while her hands folded into fists. Her gaze darted between the knife and Cliff’s imposing stance—then back to me, like she was trying to piece together how the hell the two of us fit together.
Cliff inched closer, hands still raised like he was soothing a skittish deer. “How ’bout I take you down the street for a cup of coffee and we can talk through it all, huh? I’ll throw in some of those little beignets with the sugar on top. My treat. Just give us a chance to—”
His words cut off as the woman sprang forward, a fist aimed at his face. Cliff dodged. She lunged again with a cry. He ducked with the same frustrating ease.
“C’mon, don’t do this,” Cliff said.
With her next swing, he caught her wrist and held fast. She jerked in his grip, expression twisting.
“Let go of me!” she spat.
The woman was quite tall—nearly as tall as Cliff—but her frame was willowy, no match for his warrior’s physique.
“Sylv!” Jon’s voice carried across the yard, accompanied by crunching footsteps.
I turned, flying lower to meet him as he sprinted to us. His gaze roved me wildly, assessing the scene and demanding silent questions.
I was seen,a voice screamed in the back of my mind. “I’m fine, but—”
The door to the second floor burst open, and another woman appeared on the landing. She was petite, warm bronze skin contrasting against mint green pajamas. Her hastily laced boots and raven hair pushed back in a messy bun matched the wild look on her face.
“Hannah!” she screamed, bolting down the steps.
She was halfway down when I noticed the gun in her hands.
Jon inhaled sharply beside me. “Oh, fuck me,” he muttered. “Ofcourse.”
But when I read his face, his urgency had been replaced by a resignation I didn’t understand. He stayed rooted in place, even as the newcomer seized the back of Cliff’s jacket and wrenched him backward. The first woman—Hannah—bolted to the foot of the stairs, watching with alarm as Cliff twisted free of his attacker. He moved like he had been anticipating a gun pointed at his face, jarring her grip with a harsh twist of her arm. She cried out, and the weapon slipped from her grasp and into his own.
The new woman had none of Hannah’s frantic aim. Her movements were precise, powerful. She lashed out with her elbow, connecting with Cliff’s stomach with force enough to make me flinch from ten feet away. Cliff swallowed a curse and grabbed the collar of her silken top, pushing her up against the chain link fence to pin her. The barrel of the gun pressed to her stomach felt like overkill with how he towered over her—he had to have at least a full foot on her in height.
Silence crackled across the lot as Cliff drank in her fierce, ground-down expression. Shock flickered over his face. No—recognition.
“Gwen?” he breathed.
His grip on the gun slackened—the woman noticed, too.With brutal precision, she drove her knee into his groin. Cliff’s eyes widened in agony as he doubled over, a guttural groan escaping his lips. In one swift motion, she seized the gun from his lax grip and spun to face him, leveling the barrel at Cliff’s head.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Cliff?” Gwen barked.
