Survivors would report seeing a large figure stalking through the street.
Terror floods through me, choking up in my throat. Acting on a sudden surge of adrenaline, I race into the living room and, without really thinking, burst onto the back patio.
The night air is thick and humid and buzzing with insects. Everything, for a moment, feels still. Dark. All the lights are off at Oliver’s house, save for the back porch. And the same is true for my other neighbors. God, I don’t even remember their last name.
I slip on my outdoor shoes and stumble through the marshy grass to the lakeshore and duck to look under my pier. Theo’s boat isn't there, just the black water lapping against the posts.
And then, from the direction of Robert and Janet’s house, is the shattering sound of a shotgun blast.
For a second, my entire world tunnels toward that house. All the wind, all the hot night air, all the stars—they’re dragged into a black hole at its back door.
I bend over and vomit my dinner into the lake.
More screams. The sound of something shattering. And then silence.
I drag myself up to standing even though my legs feel weak and boneless. The world spins around in streaks of light andshadow, and all I can think of is Theo’s promise that he wouldn’t hurt me or Oliver. In my head, I see his big rough hands forming the shape of the words, and I hear the translated echo in my internal voice, and my stomach knots around, and I don’t know if he’s lying.
I should have listened to Penelope. I should have run far, far away from here.
But I don’t run away. Instead, I runtoward—toward Robert and Janet’s house, my heart hammering in my chest. Because maybe it wasn’t Theo. Why would he go there and not to Oliver’s house?
Why would he go there and not to me?
The back door is hanging open, the glass shattered and sparkling across their lovely stained patio, reflecting the starlight. The lights are off in the living room, but I still step inside, feet crunching on the glass. “Hello?” I call out, voice shaky. “Um, Janet? Is everything okay?”
A stupid question, and I know it.
I stop in the middle of the living room, which has the same layout as mine but looks completely different, with its out-of-date furniture and the thick throw rug in front of the fireplace. The house is quiet. “Hello?” I call out again.
This time, I’m answered with a soft, pained groan coming from the hallway. I follow it, creeping toward the square of yellow light spilling out of one of the downstairs bedrooms, wishing I had thought to grab a weapon. But what good is a weapon against a Hunter?
Especially a Hunter you’re fucking.
The thought snags in my chest, makes my stomach lurch around again. And then I smell a coppery, salty stink, and my stomach churns for another reason.
I step into the doorway and retch, but there’s nothing in my stomach for me to throw up.
Blood. Everything is covered in blood. There’s a mess on the bed that I can’t parse: so much thick blood it looks black, but with flashes of white and green.
“Help,” says a weak, feminine voice, and for a second I think it’s the nightmare on the bed until I realize Janet is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, head lolling, grey hair dripping blood. She has a shotgun across her knees.
“Oh my god.” I dart over to her, and she looks at me with a kind of blank confusion.
“I missed,” she says weakly. “I tried to shoot him, but I missed.”
Him. My thoughts buzz. “Where are you cut?” I ask, flailing my hands, not sure what to do next.
“Everywhere,” she says weakly. Then she shoves the gun at me, the movement clumsy. “Take it,” she says. “He’s going to come for you next.”
I stare down at the shotgun, the barrel streaked with blood.
“Is he here?” I ask, my voice tight with panic.
Janet shakes her head, the movement small and strained. “He goes door to door,” she rasps, slumping back against the wall. “He doesn’t want us here.”
I can’t breathe. “Who doesn’t?”
Even though I know the answer.
