And then she stopped him cold in the middle of a promising rut.
“Hadim,please!”
Chapter 22
A shadow moved through the forest. Silent, yet watched by the small woodland creatures who knew to be wary of an apex predator. Who knew that to stalk the hunter was to grow fat on the easy bounty of discarded scraps.
Without breaking so much as a twig, the hunter oozed from the shadows that clung and begged for his return. A shaft of sunlight brightened hair matted with mud and filth, highlighting a mane that hung in clumps from bare shoulders. Dusty skin coated in a protective layer of grime—camouflage from hungry, opportunistic lurkers.
And through the gloom, eyes that gleamed with a rich amber hue. Unnatural.
The most obvious sign of one plagued with the Trax virus.
Infected.
Thick shoulders bunched as the hunter paused, braced against a tree. Gaze fixed to a small herd of four-legged grazers.
Deadly, razor sharp antlers curved back from a muscular torso—proficient in disemboweling a predator without much effort, the antlers also served to shield the back of the neck. The creature’s only true vulnerability, evolved to be inaccessible from vicious predators more lethal than even he.
There were no weapons clutched in those massive, calloused hands. Nothing to throw, no traps to set. There was only him and the weapon his body had become.
The hunter lifted one heavy foot, paused, then placed it between leaf litter and exposed stone. Pressing ever closer to the herd. Senses keyed to the slightest change in their mood. In the environment around him, and most of all, in the way his bulk moved through the wood. Taking care to remain hidden until the herd forgot to be wary, when they relaxed into the beautiful warm day and ignored the impulse to run from ravenous shadows.
Opportunity came when the herd’s bull dipped his heavy head to graze. His guard down, swiveling ears and deadly horns relaxed as he munched on sweet summer grass. Surveying his females with a lazy flick of a short, bushy tail.
The hunter edged closer, mane rising up where it could, where the clumps of dirt and matting allowed for such a display that would go unseen by any who could comprehend the warning.
And there he would wait, muscles locked. Lurking in the shadows for the perfect moment to strike.
It came when the bull bounded off in chase of a female displaying the signs of fertility. She dropped to the detritus, her slender twisting horns leaving deep gouges in the forest floor where she dragged them through the dirt. The ridge of fur along her back tightened and stood stiff, musk glands exposed to the humid afternoon air. Signaling her readiness.
Abandoning his herd in the heat of the moment, the bull went wild. Snorting and puffing, a pink cock slid from furry sheath. Twisted and thrashed against the female’s rump.
When the bull mounted up, the hunter struck.
In an explosion of pent-up energy, he lunged from his perch. Claws fully extended, a bellowing roar was expelled from the bottom of his gut—one that made the herd flinch as one being, a hive-mind of terrified flesh moving in the same instinctive direction.
Away.
But the hunter already had his prize by the throat.
A sickly yearling with hardly enough bulk to last through the winter. Horns not yet fully grown and not the deadly weapon the bull would use to defend his herd. This young buck had a bent foreleg, where it may have broken and healed. Knit back together wrong.
It was a swift death, if bloody. A simple flex of deadly claws that burrowed through fur and skin, tore through arteries, and cut off blood supply to the brain before the spinal column was severed. Efficient. Neat. Easy.
Chest rumbling with a contented purr, the hunter slung the young beast over his shoulder. Making a sling of forelegs and belly, careful of the horns just beginning to poke through their yearling felt. The razor-sharp edges encased in fuzz.
And with his burden secured, he began the trek through dense brush. Retracing his original path with full, confident strides. No longer stalking on the edge of shadows, but stealthy all the same. At ease in the wood, where few could challenge his dominance.
The hunter stopped at a small creek, dumped the grazer in a heap of stiffening limbs, then stretched his back until it popped. Hands on hips, crimson stains streaking across the contours of his back. Pooled in the dips and tracing the valleys, the blood had already drained away.
Fertilizer for the wild things that followed in his wake.
He made quick work of the carcass—in minutes, the abdomen was unzipped, choice organs separated from scrap, skin hauled from meat in three experienced tugs, scraped clean of the remaining pulp, and set to dry in the heat of the afternoon sun. Finally, when everything else had been done, a hook was run through the ankle tendons. An anchor set downstream, he tossed the meat into the narrow creek to wash away the last of the fluids.
He’d be long gone before any carrion eaters found their way to the scent of a fresh kill.
Stomach rumbling, the hunter claimed a jiggly slab of liver. Balanced on his haunches, he mashed the tender offal between his back molars. And no matter the acidic tingle of raw organ meat, it was creamy and rich. The earthy flavor of wild game still clinging to the memory of iron and the purpose it once served.
