Emotions scorched through me, terror, bewilderment, revulsion, and helplessness. Their deaths were not in self-defence. He’d brutally and callously hunted them. The hunter was the man I loved. Desperately.
I felt as if I was at that terrible moment in life where I’d reached the brink of a deep, black cavity. Teetering at a crumbling edge. A choice had to be made. I could let this ruin me, or I could turn and fight. It was helplessness that would ultimately decide for me. I would fight. Because fighting meant hope, and with all hope comes power. And I needed to take backthe power any way I could. This was not some random attack. They’d waited until I came out. It was nothing to do with the waters, whoever they were they had no idea I had any powers.
What other enemies did I have? Cole, maybe, I couldn’t rule him out. Who else would’ve come for me?
Devastation had swept me to my knees, but it was strength which brought me to my feet. The numbness leeched through my veins. I looked at the blood-strewn bodies of the men. The man whose fist had struck my face. I went to him first. He laid on his back, staring up to the stars. The look of agony was gone, replaced by nothingness.
His intestines misted into the night air. The smell of blood and acid surged against my nose. Feeling as if I floated in a place outside myself, I pressed against the liquid-soaked pockets of his jeans, searching for the tell-tale lump of a wallet or phone. Anything that might tell us who they were. The blood was warm and slippery, coating my hands like a red glove. I fought the urge to recoil. My need to know outweighed the horror. I tapped along his pocket seam. Forensics would have a field day, the evidence would lock me away for life.
“Amelia, listen to me,” Karson said, and I realized he’d been speaking to me. “I said, let me do that.”
“I can do it,” I answered, my voice it came out hoarse and harsh. There was nothing in the first pocket, I leaned across his body and checked the other. I avoided looking at his face. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, personalize him. I refused to think of him as a man with a family or people who loved him.
I will chop your fucking flaps off, bitch.
He was my hunter. I trained my eyes only on where I needed to place my hands, thought only about what I needed to find. I found no bumps in the front pockets. I lowered myself down to my knees. I put one hand on his hip, the other on his shoulder and pushed. He was a big man, over two hundred odd poundsof sweaty, ugly, evil. With soft, floppy limbs that seemed to gravitate to the earth, as if hell itself was already clawing for his soul.
I gritted my teeth against it and pushed on his side with all my strength. Pain bit through my chest and the pressure against my head made it boom with sickening intensity, I fought the urge to cry out. Dots raided my eyes. His body rocked but I wasn’t strong enough to roll him over.
Dead weight, I thought. I snorted laughter. A tear slid down my cheek.
“Amelia, let me do it.”
“I got it,” I snapped.
In my distraught mind I thought if, somehow, I could do it without the need of my powers, it would mean I could take care of myself. Strength of body equated to strength of mind. I wouldn’t be useless, nor helpless. It was illogical—stupid. But in that moment basic primal thought was all I was capable of processing.
I tensed and heaved again. A click in my ribs shot pain like a lightning bolt through my chest. I bit my lips so I wouldn’t cry out, fresh blood dribbled into my mouth. I almost let go, but determination and brutal will took precedence. His body lifted and I got traction. I held it and pushed again. He rolled to his side. His arm flopped forward. His guts slugged out onto the ground. I didn’t look at any of it, as if my eyes, or perhaps my consciousness, took on the horror with all the detachment of a psychopath and buried empathy so deep it risked being lost forever. I saw the tell-tale rectangular lump of his phone. With a final shove his whole body dropped to the ground with a sickening squelch like the sound of a tomato being squashed.
The world grayed and rolled dangerously. I clutched at the ground to steady myself and shut my eyes, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth, until I felt the dizziness subside. Iopened my eyes and with fumbling fingers I retrieved the phone from his back pocket. A black leather case had saved it from the fall. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I pressed the screen. Missed the swipe button. Swearing and crying I tried again. It was locked, it opened via fingerprint.
Karson moved off to the others to collect phones, wallets and any information he could get. I picked up the man’s lifeless finger and held it against the screen. The phone opened. I scanned through the messages. All had names assigned, bar one. I read that first.
It contained details of me, and a photo taken the day I sat at the café with Sarah and Georgie. Where I lived, who I lived with, what I drove. Images of both Ethan and Karson. The directions were to make sure that neither man was anywhere near when they came for me. To bring me alive, unharmed. They didn’t always abide by the rules, evidently, and it came at their peril. No mention of why or who. With effort, I rose.
Karson saw what I was about to do. He nodded, yes.
I pressed the number. Whoever it was probably already knew they’d failed, but it was worth a try. I put it on loudspeaker and the phone stopped ringing. Whoever was on the end of the line didn’t speak.
Impatient, Karson grabbed the phone from my hands.
“When I find you—and I will find you, make no mistake—I will kill you.”
A sharp breath. “You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve already lost . . . bastard.”
If her voice was poison, Karson would be dead. She hung up.
“Did you recognize the voice?” I asked.
His brow drew into deep lines. He shook his head.
I moved over to the discarded gun which lay on the ground. Karson had it in his hands before I could bend down and he threw it into a black bag he held in one hand, containing hisfindings from the van. I walked to the car in a zoned-out stupor. Karson opened the door and pulled out the wipes, offering them to me. On his chest, two coin-sized holes ringed with red tore through his gray t-shirt.
Horror arched my heart into my throat.
“Karson,” I rasped, “you’ve been shot.”
“They went straight through. My body has already healed,” he answered, as if he were talking about a small, insignificant scratch.
