I settle into position, taking a small sip of water first to calm my throbbing blood. Then I wait, gripping the heel of my knife.
My god calls me his little curse. Tonight I’ll show these men exactly how cursed they truly are.
Minutes have passed since their lanterns went out, but I didn’t hear any of them come my way, and I realize I can’t remain here and risk an ambush. I have to keep moving.
My gaze sweeps the terrain, and I see a steep ridge fifty yards away. The ground falls away abruptly on the other side. Potentially the perfect place to lay a trap.
I move quickly and gather a few vines, along with the rope I took back from the dead guy. I’m gonna make a tripwire.
I set my trap at ankle height across a narrow game trail leading up to the ridge. The vine blends with the undergrowth, nearly invisible in the moonlight. Then I prepare the bait. Me. I snap a branch on purpose, creating a loud sound. Then another. Setting a trail that a child could follow.
Then I position myself beyond the ridge, hidden between large boulders. The wait isn’t long. I hear someone approaching, catching on the broken branches I’ve left behind. The hunter comes closer. It’s the guy with a scar on his face. He's cautious, but still overly confident. They all are. There’s a knife in onehand and what looks like a machete in the other. His footsteps are careful but not silent, telling me he hasn’t learned true fear yet.
He will.
The trip wire catches him mid-stride. There’s a moment of confusion. A grunt escapes him before he leans forward, the momentum and his heavy weight carrying him over the ridge's edge. He was too focused on me to realize the real danger. His scream cuts through the night as he tumbles down the rocky slope, his body bouncing against stone before finally coming to rest thirty feet below.
I look down to check on him. The fucker isn’t dead. I can see him moving, trying to pull himself back together. There’s no coming back from this, for him.
I descend the slope, using trees to break my momentum.My leg still protests, but I shut the pain out. I can’t allow myself to feel it now.
He sees me approaching and tries to grab the machete that landed a few feet away. But he’s too slow, and I reach him before his fingers find the weapon's blade. Blood streams from a gash on his forehead, dripping onto the ground.
“Please,” he gasps, trying to say another word, but he doesn’t get a chance.
I drive my knife into his throat, the blade sliding through his flesh easier than I would have wanted. I wanted to see him suffer more. Scream.. cry… beg.
Now his words dissolve into a wet gargle as blood bubbles from where I cut him. And I feel nothing as I watch the light fade from his eyes. I just remember Elias. I remember what this man does for sport.
Two down, four to go.
I retrieve the machete, then push forward using the ridge as cover. The forest is quiet again. They’ve stopped shouting toscare me. They’re the ones who are scared now. The confidence of predators is giving way to the awareness of men who realize they have become prey themselves.
A mile further, the ground dips into a natural depression. At the center, a fallen oak has torn up its roots, creating a pit eight feet deep. Nature's trap, waiting to be exploited. I know the remaining hunters will be more careful now, less likely to fall for obvious bait. I need subtlety.
I create a false path leading away from the pit, to suggest I went through there. Then I double back, crawling on my belly through the dense ferns to avoid leaving prints as I position myself on the far side of the pit.
I wait, controlling my breathing, becoming part of the forest floor as bugs and other small creatures crawl around me, some of them even on me. I refuse to acknowledge them. Refuse to let my body react to the sinister feeling.
Around twenty minutes pass before footsteps approach. The third hunter is smarter than his companions. He’s moving carefully, his flashlight is off, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
I catch glimpses of him between the trees. He has a knife in his hand as he follows my false trail to its end, then pauses, scanning the ground for signs of where I’ve gone.
When he begins to go back, I make a move. A small stone tossed to the land just to serve as bait. The soft thud draws his attention, and he moves toward it, cautious but also curious.
I emerge from my hiding place, letting him see me for just an instant before ducking behind a tree. He gives chase, exactly as I hoped, taking the direct route that leads straight to the pit’s edge. Just as he thinks he's found me, I run through the trees toward him, grab a branch, and slam my body into him, strong enough to send him over the brink. His arms form a windmill as he tries to catch himself, and even though the fall isn’t enoughto kill, the jagged branch at the bottom is. I hang from my branch, watching the damn thing punching through his chest as he lands, his body convulsing one last time before going still.
Three down, but my own body is beginning to betray me. My leg still gives me trouble because of the cold water and the constant strain. The injury from Kharon was bone deep, and the tissue feels like it’s threatening to tear back open.
Sweat pours down my face despite the night’s chill, and my hands are starting to shake with exhaustion. It’s not only this chase, but I played a little too much with Ares in the woods just a few hours ago. Plus, it’s all those sleepless nights, when adrenaline kept me on the edge, rushing in my veins for this moment.
I move forward toward the cabin. But I’m so focused on my movement that I miss the too-perfect silence. The subtle shift in the air.
Without warning, the fourth hunter steps out from behind a massive oak, blocking my path as his knife gleams in the moonlight. “Such a pretty prey,” he says, amused. “McAllister will give me an award for bringing you back breathing. Not necessarily intact, though. I’ll play with you first.”
Just before I can respond, his blade slashes toward my chest. I jerk backward, the knife missing me by inches. But then my injured leg buckles beneath me as I try to sidestep, sending me stumbling against a tree.
He takes the advantage, throwing his weight against mine, pinning me to the bark. His free hand finds my leg, his fingers digging into the wound so cruelly that the pain explodes inside my head, blinding me. Those bastards made sure they knew my weakness.
