Page 46 of Hunted in the Shadows
My smile dropped into a grimace. “Dude—”
“You’d wake up in a hospital bed.”
“You wish,” I scoffed.
A beat passed between us as I tried not to think about it. Tried not to picture—
“Are you blushing?” Cliff demanded.
“Nope. Don’t even try to make this about anything other than your vanity.”
“Youare.” Cliff chuckled fondly at my expense. “Lightweight.”
The last stretch of the boards bridging us to solid ground grew narrower, slick with moisture. This area was sturdier, swaying less with each lap of water against the poles that vanished into the depths. The outpost rose as a single-story fortress from the water, the air heavy with the scent of decay and something sharp and metallic. The weather-beaten wood of the structure had turned smooth from years of harsh weather and the rough hands of hunters. Old—but impossible to infiltrate. The wood was reinforced with iron and steel at every opening.
Abandoned supplies lined the railings surrounding the outpost—cages, nets, assorted hunting gear. I lifted a brow at the sight of a crossbow protruding from a canvas bag.
We approached a few hunters who idled outside the entrance, smoking and talking. Their conversation quelled, and they eyed us with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Any lost hikerswho’d trespassed this far would certainly turn tail upon seeing even one of these guys. One of them, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a missing tooth, chuckled as we passed.
“Hey, pretty boy,” he called out, nodding at the gun holstered on Cliff’s thigh. “Know how to use that thing?”
Cliff kept his gaze fixed ahead with militant focus, even when the jeers turned vulgar—though admirable in their colorful description. I pushed them from earshot as the bouncer peeled away from the shadows of the entryway to stop us before the final walkway leading to the building. He was a monolith of a man, likely pushing seven feet tall. I was generally one of the tallest people in any given room; lifting my chin to meet his appraising stare felt strange.
“State your business,” he rasped, voice coarse from years of chain-smoking.
“Just a couple of researchers collecting data,” Cliff said casually.
“Who’s your coordinator?” The bouncer asked, providing the second half of the pass phrase.
“Tammy Gordon,” I answered.
With a quietshiiink, he withdrew a machete from his belt. “Follow me.”
As we trailed behind him along the walkway, I braced myself for what had to come next, but a glint from above distracted me. Nestled discreetly under the weathered wood overhang was a sleek camera pointed in our direction, its modern casing a harsh contrast to its surroundings. The state-of-the-art security measure proved Gwen’s claim about the upgrades.
A chittering hiss came from within a stack of crates near the door. Leathery wings and clawed hands poked through the slats. Ahools. They were often mistaken for bats, though they could grow to be much bigger.
Strange—they normally avoided humans unless provoked, and they weren’t native to this area to begin with. I’d heard about theversatility of their wing hide, though, and had no doubt these people were delaying the kill until the little beasts were fully matured.
Something else thudded, water sloshing. I jerked my attention back down, noting that one of the luggage-sized crates near the edge of the wrap-around walkway was a tank. A creature surged back and forth inside, palms beating on the glass. White-blonde hair drifted around a slender face. The hollows of her cheeks were pronounced, and her large eyes were flooded with unnatural blackness like the dead of night.
“A siren?” I breathed.
I’d never been able to observe one openly. No one could—not without being glamoured into a watery grave. A siren’s captivating eyes were just as dangerous as those razor-sharp teeth. This one appeared to be in a bizarre state of in-between—part decay with hints of beauty meant to lure unwitting victims into diving after her.
She made a pitiful crooning noise.
“Dumb bitch,” the bouncer buttered. He stormed over and pounded a fist on top of the grimy glass case. “How many times have I told you to keep your mouth shut?”
The siren gave a waterlogged screech, covering her eyes with taloned hands. The bouncer pounded again, smirking as she curled up at the very bottom with animal disdain twisting her pretty features. He sauntered back to us.
“Don’t worry, boys. She can try, but we keep her half-starved. Too weak to hypnotize a damn frog.”
That pleading, frightened look on her face didn’t bring any sense of comfort. Sylvia’s face flashed through my mind’s eye.
“What are you going to do with her?” I asked.
“She’ll be shipped off soon enough. Something about breaking down her blood for medicine—bullshit, if you ask me. They’re paying top dollar for us to keep her breathing, though.”
