Page 99 of Haunting the Hunter
“I’m not a baby,” I grumble as he wipes away the blood with soft, even strokes.
“Shut up,” he replies sweetly—brushing me off like I didn’t just almost die.
My thoughts spiral—images I can’t unsee clawing their way to the surface as he cares for me.
Genni.
She’s a witch… andtheyhave her.
She was the closest thing I ever had to a real friend… The realization that she’s trapped—suffering in a place far worse than this—splits something open in me. Then Cade flashes behind my eyes. His pain. The sound of him.
The way his voice cracked. The look in his eyes.
The smell.
Gods—thesmell of his burning flesh.
It punches me in the gut so hard I double over, knocking Alabaster’s hand away from my face. Karma scurries out of the room.
Crack.
The memory of bones breaking echoes in my skull and my body convulses. I lurch forward, heaving onto the carpet.
“We have to get them out,” I gasp as bile and drool slides from my lips, hanging off my chin like strings of guilt, tears welling in my eyes.
Panic flares in my chest like fire—wild and out of control.
I can’t sit still. I can’t wait.
I shove out of Alabaster’s arms, shaking and unsteady but driven by something feral.
“I need Jack.”
I stumble toward the doorway—my legs aren’t ready, but I make them work. Weakness be damned. If Cade can be strong, so can I.
I don’t stop until I’m downstairs, clinging to the railing, knees trembling. The door creaks open under my hand as I spill out onto the porch—barefoot, breathless, and still bloody—to find Jack with his back to me, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around him like fog.
“Not now, Calli,” he mutters, voice low and worn, defeat clinging to his body.
“I know where Cade is,” I tell him, my voice barely holding together. My chest is rising too fast, and I force my breaths to slow.
He spins around, shock wide in his eyes as the cigarette slips from his hand and dies on the wood.
Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just ushers me into the living room, steady hands guiding me to the couch. I sink down, still trembling, and he drops beside me with his laptop in his lap, already in motion.
Tabs spring open, one after another—maps, traffic cams, databases I don’t recognize.
“I tracked him on the freeway,” he tells me absently, eyes scanning fast. “Caught a few glimpses near the 101—but I lost him just outside L.A. I know the general direction, but nothing concrete.”
“He’s in Topanga Canyon,” I say, my voice firm, surprising even myself. “Rosa’s main house. That’s where they’re holding him.”
He freezes, fingers hovering over the keyboard before I can see him mentally shrugging. He begins hammering down on the keys again, faster this time. More tabs. More frantic clicks. His mouth parts slightly when he pulls up an old photo, then cross-references another—his pupils flicking back and forth.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes, shock in his voice. “You’re right. If I match Rosa’s tagged location history with this address… It’s the same house. It’s right there, hiding in plain sight.” He laughs, looking over at me. “How the hell do you know this?”
I hesitate, my fingers twisting in my lap.
“I saw him,” I say softly.
