Page 2 of Hunting Her
A nearby guard has a long, curved dagger at their waist, the bare blade catching the light. The candlesticks on the walls can be pulled up and out of their holders, and they look to be made of solid metal. A bludgeoning weapon, or something I can toss through one of the windows to create an improvised exit.
I don’t know what’s outside them. We may be a thousand feet up, leaving me looking at a steep drop to my death.
But I won’t get farther than that hallway, if I even get that far. None of my captors are human. Demons are faster and stronger than us, which is why no one has ever escaped before. The brute force approach is a recipe for disaster—that’s why I was crafting a plan before trying to flee.
If it’s a choice between being a sacrificial lamb and dying in an escape attempt, I’ll choose the latter.
Only if I must, though.
We still haven’t been told why we’re here, not even as we’re lined up in front of the first row of chapel benches. It’s possible—though not probable—that we’ve been gathered here for something completely benign.
When the sound of moving chains fades and silence descends, I can hear my panicked breathing. At least I’m not the only one. The woman next to me is hyperventilating too.
I try to centre myself and calm down. I can’t afford to be scared; not now.
“Look up.” The firm command is issued by a nearby guard.
My head rises in unison with the others, and my attention is immediately drawn by the four men on the raised dais.
They’re all ethereally attractive and strikingly inhuman. With their sharp jawlines and toned bodies, I might have thought them to be angels, but the rest of their features say otherwise.
All four have horns upon their heads in different shapes and sizes. Their skin tones range from a deep burgundy to a midnight blue, with markings like tattoos on their flesh. Each of them has a set of folded wings, varying in size.
When the one closest to me smiles, it flashes his sharp canines while light glints off his devilishly slitted eyes.
I’m used to seeing demons, but I’ve never seen any this handsome.
“This is the best selection you could put together?” one man asks our captors.
He’s the bulkiest of the group and dressed in the most clothing. While the rest are shirtless, he wears a flowing linen shirt with a V cut and long sleeves. His skin is a burgundy red, his hair a dark brown, and the markings on his body are drawn in charcoal grey, the shade almost black.
His wings are the only ones that are feathered instead of leathery, and even folded they’re wider than the width of his shoulders and taller than the high back of the chair he sits in.
I stare at him as he lounges in his seat on the dais, the others standing behind and sitting beside him. He’s a central focus; a feature of this meeting, and I want to know why.
“The finest souls we have to offer, Your Grace,” our guard responds.
There’s a soft gasp from further down the line, followed by the thump of the shocked prisoner being hit.
I clench my jaw, scanning to find out if the guard with the curved dagger is still nearby. Our hands aren’t bound, only our feet, so it should be easy enough to jerk forward and grab the weapon. It’s everything after that would be a deadly challenge.
Especially if that man is who I think he is. They’re calling him ‘Your Grace’—does that make him the king they worship so dutifully? Are the other men his protectors or advisors?
“What do you do to make them so… passive?” he asks.
The guard puffs up in pride. “Baron Donovan’s methods are ground-breaking. It’s a long process, like any training, but I can assure you they’ll serve you well.”
We must not be sacrifices, but slaves. Pretty slaves for the king. Is he taking all of us, or picking his favourites?
“How much soul essence has been removed to get them to this point?”
“It varies, Your Grace. Some are much harder to break than others.”
“Which prisoner has the most remaining?” His gaze scans down the line. I meet his eyes for a split second before realizing it’s safer to avoid looking.
The speaking guard gestures to another. There are heavy footfalls behind us, and then a hand lands between my shoulder blades, shoving me forward. I stumble but catch myself before falling to the floor.
“That one. She’s the most obedient we’ve had. Fell in line quickly after arriving.”
