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Grey flailed as a tongue clicked in displeasure, but his body trembled too hard to resist the press into the grass. A knee dug into the small of his back as rough leather struggled to push his wrists together.
“Now, now, if you’d just cooperate, we wouldn’t have to tie you u?—”
A howl of a scream rang out eerily close by, his enthusiastic captor pausing while the other shifted just out of Grey’s view. The spinning of rubber wheels trying to find traction on grass caught, and the skipping hum of a motor grew louder. Grey bucked, his captor cursed, and a single headlight spanned the small pathway before illuminating the forest to his right, painting the foliage in buttery yellow.
The click of a gun cocking sounded before his captor’s guard sprawled out on the ground, his weapon misfiring as it collided with the dirt. His captor growled, seizing Grey’s wrists in one hand and ripping something from his belt with the other, jostling him with the motion before it was accompanied by a blood-curdling scream.
Grey felt his grip loosen and shoved him off, stumbling to his feet and lurching forward toward the bike—toward the macharomancer from the clearing. His whole body recoiled, but he forced out, “Th-there’s an electric barrier?—”
The macharomancer’s green eyes widened for a fraction of a second before hardening again, his hand going for a blade sticking out of his boot. “There are more coming. Get on.”
Every fiber of his being screamed that this was a mistake—that he was better off slumping over in the grass until the wardens came to collect him than escaping with this guy on his motorcycle. The sharp, phantom pain returned to his left eye, subconsciously recounting the moment a twelve-year-old Grey screamed and sobbed into the cellar floor pooled with his blood and knew he’d be blind in a matter of days.
His pulse thundered in his ears as rallying calls echoed through the clearing beyond the woods, and Grey threw his leg over the back of the bike, wrapping his arms around his enemy and sole ally. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and prayed to whatever might have mercy on his soul before the motorcycle shot forward. A tingle of electricity raised the hair on Grey’s arms for a breath, and then it was gone, along with the hungry cries for sacrifices.
4
NOEL
“Stop the bike.”
Noel almost didn’t hear the muffled plea against his denim jacket over the roar of the engine. It’d been the vibration of his passenger’s chest pulsing along his back that made his ears perk with the delayed message clicking in his mind to slow down. Before he knew it, the guy was bent over a bush, heaving until he collapsed against a tree.
He shut off the bike, the keys jingling in his grip as he kicked the stand into place and crept toward his new companion—his fellow Hunt prey, he supposed. “You okay?”
“Fuck no,” he breathed, dragging his sleeve across his mouth.
Noel ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, glancing back down the trail of bent grass left from his motorcycle. “Hey, I know you’re stressed, but we should probably keep moving since they’ve probably realized they’re down at least two prey and there’s a gaping hole in their fence.”
“Why?” he croaked. “Why did you save me?”
“Well…” Noel forced out a breath. “For starters, we’re all pretty much dead, right? I’m pretty sure none of us want that?—”
He scoffed, muttering, “At least you have a fighting chance.”
Noel frowned. “I don’t think a win is really a win in this case if we’re being honest, and I saved you because I figure two of us escaping has a better chance than one since they’ll have to split their efforts at some point. If we’re lucky, maybe someone else escaped too.”
His arms wrapped around himself, continuing to stare down at his boots. Noel turned his keys over in his palm, waiting for him to say something—anything—until the guy’s throat bobbed.
He held his hand. “I’m Noel, a macharomancer.”
The guy’s one dark, visible eye snapped to the tattoo on Noel’s arm, sticking out from the edge of his rolled denim jacket sleeves. His fingertips dug further into the folds of his ratty sweatshirt.
“And you are…?” Noel prodded, hesitant to pull his hand back.
“Grey,” he finally mumbled. “You don’t want to shake my hand.”
Noel’s fingers slowly curled in question as Grey nudged up his own sleeve, still refusing to make eye contact with him.
Oh.
It felt rude to rip his hand away at the sight of a hemomancer mark, his blood curdling at the thought that he’d played roulette and ended up with the bullet. Any of the other people he could’ve grabbed would’ve been far less dangerous than the one who could weaken and drain him with a single touch. But he supposed Grey hadn’t killed him to take his bike and bolt when he had the chance to try to find another way out.
Noel tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and fished out his gloves, holding them out in offering. Grey’s nose wrinkled, and he jerked his chin up. “That’s great and all, but what’s going to protect me from you?”
He opened his mouth in shock. “Seriously? What could I possibly?—”
Grey pushed away the hair obscuring his other eye, and Noel’s heart dropped. That short curtain of black waves fell back into place.
