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It’s dark. Still fucking dark. I blink a few times, and the grey walls of my room come into view.
Heavy breaths leave my lips. Beads of sweat cover my forehead, trickling down my neck and shoulders.
Dammit.
Why am I dreaming about my childhood these days?
My phone beeps. The clock reads five in the morning.
Dylan— Care for a hunt?
Does he even sleep?
He must be plagued by shadows of the past like me. The three of us could never forget the day of the massacre – when we lost everything. Though Tristan and Dylan are taking it a lot more seriously with the revenge scheme.
Lucky for Dylan, I need a distraction from the poisonous memories.
I type him back a response.
Me— Unleash the hounds. I’ll meet you in the stables.
When I remove my T-shirt, the material rubs against my bandaged head wound. A burn erupts. I hiss.
The thought that a little girl took me by surprise irritates the hell out of me.
‘Go back and kill her, then,’ Aunt says in a nonchalant tone. I can almost picture her examining her nails as she speaks. ‘It would be a marvellous feast this morning.’
Apparently, the only reason I should visit Mae is to draw her blood.
Is this why I had the darkness memory? I was once afraid of the dark, too, but not enough to become a weakness. Not enough to kill me.
I fit into the horse riding clothes and secure the hat over the wound. After stacking hunting knives in my jacket, I leave my wing to the stables.
The first lights of the day try to beam through the clouds, but thick grey denies them access. What a great day to hunt.
Our horses are held by two stable boys. The hounds, however, surround Dylan in a tight circle as he throws them meat. He’s wearing similar clothes to mine, except his jacket is night blue, mine is black. He has a rifle over his shoulder.
I stop a short distance away. “We’re going to hunt, why are you feeding them?”
He shrugs.
“Get the Dobermans,” I say to one of the stable boys.
“The bloodhounds and the foxhounds are better trackers,” Dylan says as the boy disappears at the back of the barn.
“I trained most the Dobermans myself. They’re more fun.”
My Thoroughbred nickers in greeting when I take his reign from the stable boy. His shiny black neck reaches for my chest, and he nuzzles his muzzle into my shoulder. “Ready for a hunting round, Jet?”
His hoofs stomp the grass, and he takes a quick inhalation through his nose in an excited ‘yes’.
With a pat, I mount him and clutch the reigns. His hoofs stomp once more.
“Easy, Jet,” I whisper, caressing his poll.
As if on cue, Wind, Dylan’s Arabian brown horse, stomps his hoof and snorts.
I laugh. “It looks like Wind learnt to be a sadist too.”
