Page 2 of Hunted Ink

I was only too happy to oblige, bringing the lighter up to the bowl and taking another deep toke, before I passed the pipe to Oliver. My limbs grew heavy, vision blurred, and the way my fingertips tingled, I could almost ignore the emptiness that haunted me.

In truth, as much as I craved love, even a fated mate couldn’t guarantee a happy-ever-after. My parents were fated, but that didn’t save them in the end. The four of us, we were all that remained of what had once been the Red River Wolf Pack, after a band of hunters did their best to wipe us off the face of the earth. Sierra, the oldest of us, had only been ten at the time, but she’d managed to grab us three boys and dragged us to safety, hidden in the hollow of a half-rotted tree. She remembered the horrors better than the rest of us did. The fire, tears, blood… She’d always done the best she could to take care of us, to lead us, but she was no Alpha, with a capital A. It simply wasn’t in her blood.

Maybe that was what itched beneath my skin, the disconnect I felt without a pack Alpha. It wasn’t natural for a wolf shifter to live without a leader. The strength of our bonds was all that kept us from going rogue, but some days… it felt like a near thing.

“Merrin Ridge on Thursday?” Sierra asked, her voice raspy and her pupils blown wide. “Or Cedar Lake?” On full moons, we shifted together and ran as a pack through the woods, letting our wolves loose. Living in the city, it was especially important to vent our beasts’ energy in constructive ways, to avoid awkward interactions with unsuspecting humans.

I rolled my tongue piercing back and forth across my teeth. My wolf turned his nose up at both of those options. For some reason, he was feeling particularly melancholy. I tried to tell myself it was just the wolfsbane, but all he wanted was to go solo this full moon. I just hoped this wasn’t the first step to going rogue. “We’ll see,” I told Sierra.

A key scraped in the lock, and Norman came in, laptop bag over his shoulder. He spent most days either in class at the university or in the library, studying for his master’s degree in history. He barely glanced at us, freckled nose twitching at the stench of wolfsbane.

“Hey, roomie. Help yourself to some pizza,” I said over the back of the couch, before I really thought it through. Shit, I was just trying to be nice, but all the pizza had meat on it, and Norman was a vegetarian. I winced, wondering if it would be rude to take the offer back.

Norman didn’t even hesitate as he walked past the kitchen, shoulders tense. “No. Thank you,” he said tightly, before disappearing into his room, lips pinched in disapproval, his usual expression when it came to me. The two of us couldn’t be any more different. Norman was studious, quiet, and somber enough for any funeral. “Normal Norman” we called him. He’d never asked me not to toke in the apartment, but it was hard not to catch the judgy looks. Or maybe it was because my wolf liked the taste of rabbit.

I felt guilty for being such a shitty roommate, I really did, but the feeling quickly passed as Ricky passed me the pipe. Soon, every emotion, the good and the bad, was washed away in a haze of purple smoke.

Chapter 2

Apollo

Most people thought the full moon only lasted one night, but in fact, it was three. Three nights where the gravitational pull was strong enough to move the ocean, powerful enough to drag monsters from their skin.

My breathing was slow and even, the black mask covering my mouth and nose helping to dissipate the silvery vapor of my breath in the chill night air. I hadn’t moved in almost an hour, and my muscles were cramping, so I rose slowly from my crouch, stifling a groan as blood rushed to my tingling extremities.

It had been a long night. There was never a guarantee that I would find prey on any given night, but the tracks in the mud showed this spot was used frequently to drink. Besides, I had learned to be patient. In a secluded wood this close to the city, the chances of stumbling on something on the first night of the full moon were high. And if not tonight, there was always tomorrow. Either way, blood would be spilled.

Don’t, a voice whispered.

I whipped my head around, searching through the shadows for the source of the voice, though I already knew I would find no one there. I knew because this wasn’t the first time I’d heard the voice. Listen, it had said more than once. My conscience perhaps, though that had abandoned me long ago; you couldn’t be an efficient hunter if you let yourself doubt the cause. No, it was more likely that I was going mad. I’d heard of it happening before, hunters going insane and needing to be put down. All the more reason to keep this recent development to myself.

My ears pricked with the faint sound of rustling leaves, and I refocused on my task. I turned my gaze upward and tracked the lack of wind through the overstory. No, this sound had been caused by movement through the woods. The question was… animal or monster?

Taking slow steps, rolling my foot to stay silent on the damp underbrush, I moved into a better position to stay downwind. I pulled my hood low to reduce the full moon’s glare, then slowly reached over my shoulder, the action practiced and smooth as I fingered the fletching of an arrow, withdrew it from the quiver on my back, and silently set it to the bowstring. I stood utterly still and silent, partially hidden behind a wide oak, my dark clothing keeping me camouflaged against the rough bark.

My keen eyesight picked up a blur of movement through a thicket, tan fur and a flicking white tail. A deer, but as I drew in a deep, slow breath, I picked up a hint of city scents that had no business being here. Car exhaust, cotton fibers, human body odor. Not a deer after all, then.

Monsters had no place on this earth, and it was my duty to protect humans from this scourge.

Stop! The voice was an annoying gnat in my ear that I couldn’t swat away, but I did my best to ignore it, to focus on my target. Even as it darted out of range, still I did not move. Barely breathed as it bounded gracefully over a fallen log. I let it get closer. Closer still…

When it approached the small creek 50 feet ahead and lowered its head to drink, I was able to count four points on its antlers. It was a young buck. His ears flicking, hooves sinking into the soft mud of the creek bed, I finally raised my bow. Muscles straining, I drew back to the anchor point, the string brushing my jaw, and sighted down the arrow’s shaft. An inch to the left or right and I might bury the head in a tree instead of my target.

But I never missed.

Releasing a slow breath, I loosed the arrow. With a soft twang, the arrow flew straight, broadhead sinking deep into the deer’s hindquarters before it even had time to flinch. It let out a pained bellow as it reared back, but when it tried to bolt into the trees, its leg buckled under its weight, collapsing into a heap of thrashing limbs.

By the time I’d hopped over the narrow creek, the animal’s bleating had shifting into a human’s high-pitched wails of, “Oh gods! Fuck! Somebody help me!” His hands hovered uselessly over the shaft protruding from his thigh, gushing blood, seemingly unsure whether to yank it out or not.

His eyes immediately locked on me, and at first, he looked relieved, probably thinking I was going to save him. It was just an accident, after all, a hunter had mistaken him for a deer. But then I pulled out my ten-inch Damascus blade from its sheath on my thigh, and I saw realization sink it. I wasn’t his savior—I was his demise.

As I came to stand over the naked man, his entire body trembled, mud and tears staining his cheeks. “P-Please,” he whispered, holding his hands up in defense. “What do you want with me?”

I crouched beside him and pulled down my mask. “Where’s the rest of your herd?”

He shook his head frantically, sweaty hair falling into his eyes. “No herd. It’s just me.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said ominously, gripping his hair to yank his head back and holding my knife to his throat, a trickle of blood dripping over his Adam’s apple. He was barely old enough to grow facial hair, I noted, judging by the sparse scruff on his jawline. Not yet a man. Doubtful that he’d be out here by himself.