Page 48 of Hunted in the Shadows
“Hard to say when it’s calm,” I murmured back. At first glance, the creature looked like a dog—unusually large, but the sort of lovable mutt that should have been found dozing on a living room rug.
I scanned the area, curious of what other creatures might be entering the Pit sometime soon. Slight movement caught my eye from around the corner of the building. Surrounded by heaps of garbage, a seemingly human person was tied to a stake, hands behind his back. His blond head was lowered, and the air seemed to shimmer around his skin—burning in the overcast sunlight. I was surprised that they would keep a vampire around to this point of weakness; he wouldn’t be much good for training in the Pit.
“You’ve got to be prepared for any of its forms,” Cain was saying to the newblood. “Tell me—what are the signs that it’s about to shift?”
“It’ll pause, but only briefly,” the young man answered with an eagerness that should have been saved for a university classroom. “Striking mid-shift is the best way to take it out—”
“And if there’s no time to strike?” Cain said.
“Take the opportunity to get out of range and assess the new threat it turned into.”
Cliff sauntered forward to interrupt. “And you might wanna be prepared for your mind to go blank the moment you step in there. Takes time before you start thinking clearly in the heat of a fight.”
Cain’s weathered face split into a grin. “Well! The Appalachian Reapers finally grace us with their presence. Here I thought some ghoul or other got the better of you boys.”
“The Appalachian Reapers?” The young hunter was slack-jawed. “Seriously?” He cast furtive glances between us, eyes flicking down searchingly.
I chuckled. “I’m guessing you heard the rumor that one of us cut off a hand to use as bait?”
The kid’s face flushed. “I-I mean—I didn’tbelieveit or anything.”
“You’ll learn soon enough, Brandon,” Cain said. “Most assholes in the business like mixing theirinformation with whiskey.” He gave Cliff and me a fond smirk. “But the truth’s nothing to sneeze at. Two men against a pack of feral whistlers out in the belly of the mountains, protecting a pregnant civilian while they were at it. Should’ve been torn to pieces by all accounts. Hunts like that are once in a lifetime, boys.”
Brandon continued to gape, starstruck. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he stammered.
If we had the time, I wouldn’t have minded sitting down with a beer so Cliff and I could regale Brandon with further detail—especially about how the woman hadn’t just been expecting. She’d been in the throes of labor pains, and I’d muffled her raw screams into my jacket to avoid being detected by the whistlers crawling in the forest around us.
“You just keep that weapon raised, kid,” Cliff said.
Brandon chuckled self-consciously. “Easy for you to say! Is it true you nailed twelve of those whistlers with headshots while it was practically pitch black out there?” His eyes flickered not-so-subtly to a tattoo that peeked out from under Cliff’s collar.
Cliff pulled at his shirt and angled his head to reveal the full design—skeletal antlers inked in a delicate circle on the right side of his neck to commemorate the hunt. Brandon inhaled a reverent gasp.
“Missed plenty of shots out there, too, but lucky we were stocked up,” Cliff said, then turned pointedly to Cain. “Speaking of—can you clue us in about what the hell happened to the supply cache? And the silver vendors?”
Cain waved a dismissive hand, perhaps to distract from the discomfort lining his face. “New systems got put in place, I’m sure you’ve heard. Not much I can do about it, seeing as I’m not the marshal anymore.”
“Can’t you just sell it to us?” I asked.
“Supplies like that aren’t sold anymore. They’re earned. Provide for the outpost, and the outpost provides for you.”
“Sounds like you handed the place off to a cult leader,” Cliff scoffed. “Seriously—Rhett Iverson? That crazy-eyed bastard shouldn’t be in charge of a McDonald’s, let alone an operation like this.”
A burly hunter approached—one of the Pit keepers. “You heading in there, or what?” he directed at Brandon. “Bets closed five minutes ago—they’re getting antsy.” Behind him, at least a dozen other outpost denizens surrounded the Pit in anticipation. The bookie leaned against a stack of crates, counting a wad of cash.
When Brandon paled, Cain clapped his shoulder. “Keep your wits about you. Understand, boy? Remember, you can call it off at any time, and one of the keepers’ll subdue the beast.”
Nodding shakily, Brandon tugged at a cord around his neck, rubbing a set of beads between his fingers. He froze when he noticed me watching.
“Good luck charm?” I questioned.
He cleared his throat. “My sister got it for me from some tourist trap in NOLA. I know it doesn’t do anything, but…”
“Hey, I get it,” I said, flashing the azabache bracelet on my wrist. “Some things just make us feel safer.”
Brandon straightened, bearing more confidence as he headed for the Pit door. It was strangely detached from the buzz of energy in the air—the understanding that hunters, cleaners, and archivists alike had bet money on how long he’d last before getting maimed or calling it quits. The kid looked so scrawny. I could hardly believe Cliff and I were just like him, once upon a time.
If we made it, so could he.
