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Ryder’s grin would have scared his mother. “Make sure you don’t accidentally kill him. I want him to be able to scream when the fun starts. Losers get the pieces that are still twitching after.”

I felt a dark, syrupy rush. “If anyone spooks him early and he bolts, the one who fucked it up cleans Jett’s basement alone for a month.”

Jett laughed because he knew his basement was gross. I preferred a much tidier killing room and it showed. “Deal. I’ll try not to come in my jeans when I win.”

I shot him a disgusted look.

Ryder’s eyes glittered. “Hope his teeth are straight,” he mused. “I need a couple good molars for the new set.”

I smirked. Ryder and his teeth. I’d seen the jars in his workshop: rows of perfect white incisors, canines, premolars floating in clear alcohol like pearls. And hanging above the bench, three long garlands of them, clicking together when the air moved.

He’d told me once, half drunk on whiskey, how his stepdad used to knock his mama’s teeth out with a wrench for burning supper. How she kept every single one in a Folgers can under the sink and never let him see her cry.

The night Ryder turned nineteen, he added thirty-two of his stepdad’s teeth to the collection, prying them out while the bastard still gurgled and ending it with the same tools the man had used for years.

Every monster since had donated a few more.

“He’d better be a good brusher,” he murmured now, rolling his shoulders. “I hate plaque.”

Jett barked a laugh and broke into a run. Ryder’s grin split wide and feral, and he launched after him. I was half a heartbeat behind, my boots striking the packed dirt as my blood started to sing for the brand.

Let the games begin.

A backpack lay gutted at the foot of a spruce, its contents scattered as if someone had shaken it out in a rage—shirts turned inside out, socks stiff with mud, a crushed bag of chips spilling orange dust, and an empty water bottle flattened repeatedly beneath a boot that hadn’t bothered to aim. A can of beans rested on its side with the lid peeled back, the inside scraped clean in a desperate sort of way.

Higher up the trunk, a wet handprint bloomed at shoulder height, the fingers dragged downward through the blood until the bark showed pale beneath. Below it, frantic gouges clawed the wood, moving up and down, side to side, overlapping until the tree looked flayed.

I brushed pine needles aside and found a rock. It was palm-sized, scarred white with the erratic lines, and deep enough that the stone had surrendered flakes of itself. The blood on the trunk was still tacky…he hadn’t been gone long.

I moved on.

The trail was easy to follow here. His right foot was dragging, the heel barely lifting, and each step carved a deep furrow through the dirt. There was a knee print just ahead where it looked like he’d fallen, and a red palm swipe on the ground like he’d had to push himself up.

The air changed, and the copper scent of blood began threading through the pine. I couldn’t help but inhale and lean into it. My pulse answered before my brain did, a low thrum started up behind my ribs.

Another tree ahead had taken punishment, its bark hanging in wet ribbons, and the pale cambium had been exposed in long, brutal strips. A body had hit it hard, shoulder first, and blood was streaked across it in a diagonal slash like a signature.

The prints veered downhill after that, heavy and weaving. Toward the caverns.

I paused, my nose wrinkling before my mind caught up to the scent curling through the trees. Something soured the air, heavy enough to settle at the back of my throat. Stepping forward, I pushed through the branches as they brushed past my shoulders, and the clearing eased open around me.

A deer lay split from stem to stern, its belly yawning wide, ribs gleaming white against wet red. No steam rose, but the torn edges still glistened as if they hadn’t been cooling long. Someone had dug into it with hands and teeth, pulling out the soft parts while they were still hot. Bite marks ringed the cavity, disturbingly human.

I huffed out a quiet breath through my nose. “Well,” I muttered. “All right then. Guess you like it raw.” Ryder would have had a joke about that.

I stepped around the lake of blood and crouched. The grass beside the carcass was smeared where he’d wiped his mouth and his hands. Footprints staggered away from the body.

He was close. Bleeding. And running out of places to hide.

I glanced around, frowning. I wondered where he’d stashed that body he’d been dragging. Straightening, I rolled my shoulders once and felt the tight coil of zip ties in my pocket shift against my hip, ready and waiting.

The hunt narrowed to a single bright point.

I followed the blood downhill, a small smile on my lips, already tasting the moment the light went dark in his eyes.

We regrouped at the vehicles just as the sun dipped behind the ridge, dragging the last of the daylight with it. Jett leaned against his truck, breathing hard through his nose like he still couldn’t shake the scent of blood. Ryder paced in a slow line, hands restless, his knife flipping open and shut in a rhythm that set my teeth on edge.

None of us spoke at first.