The hunt is getting serious now.
And so is everything else.
CHAPTER 6
KURSK
This world stinks of rot and asphalt. I hate it. It does not bleed when cut. It does not cry out when you walk upon it. It is dead stone and rusted metal and black smoke. It issilent,but not in the way forests are—this is the silence of thingsburied alive.
But even in death, this land holds secrets.
I crouch beside the train tracks beyond the edge of town, where weeds fight through gravel and twisted metal rails stretch like the bones of giants. A place long forgotten by the living. Perfect for a monster.
The spoor is clear.
Black ichor crusted on the rail ties. Scrapes, deep and frantic. Not the calculated strikes of a predator, but the wild thrashings of somethingfeeding.I run my fingers along a half-crushed soda can embedded in the dirt. Still cold.
It was here.
Very recently.
And it left more than just filth behind.
We find the firsthusknear a rusted-out boxcar, slumped against a wall of graffiti and grime. Olivia chokes back a gasp. I do not.
The man—what’s left of him—still breathes. Barely. His eyes are wide open, white as fishbellies. His skin is drawn tight, like it’s trying to leave his bones behind. His mouth twitches, but no sound escapes.
“God,” Olivia whispers. “He’s… he’s alive.”
“Not for long,” I say, my voice a low growl.
I touch his chest. Cold. Not normal cold.Dead aircold. As if something hollowed him out and forgot to fill the space.
“The Vorfaluka did this,” I mutter.
“But why? He’s not dead.”
“Because death would be a mercy.”
Her jaw clenches. She steps back, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Her eyes brim, but she doesn’t let the tears fall.Strength,I think again. Not the kind that swings swords. The kind that keeps going.
That’s rarer.
That’s harder.
Later, we head into town again—this time tracking signs, not scents. Olivia leads us toward a neighborhood packed with tired houses and squealing bikes and mailboxes shaped like various cartoon characters.
There’s a garage door open at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Noise blasts out like a war horn.
I freeze.
“What in the burning pits of Urgoth’s Maw isthat?”
Olivia smirks. “That’s Booger and Burnout’s band.”
I gape at the noise. It’s not rhythm. It’s not melody. It’s like someone gave a clan of mountain trolls electric guitars and a fog machine and said, “go nuts.”
