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7

Hunter

We carryhim by the shoulders and ankles.

Armand’s heavier than I expected. All that swagger, boiled down to muscle, blood, and bones. In engineering, we call it dead load–the static weight a structure has to carry no matter what. Permanent. Inescapable. That’s what this feels like. Like I’m hauling something the world was never meant to support for long.

DK takes most of the weight without complaining, his jaw tight, brow furrowed like he's not here at all. Somewhere else. Maybe back earlier tonight. Back to the table. To her. I know I can’t get it out of my head, either.

Her.

Getherout of my mind.

I’m sweating despite the cool morning air, the chill settling in under the cloak now that we’re away from the ceremonial ring and its torches. I’d wanted a shower. Sleep. Instead, we got our first real job as Barons. A privilege, the King said.

“Ushering the fallen through the veil.”

We don’t speak as we follow the Shadow leading us down the path, winding through trees. It eventually gives way to one of the crypt entrances tucked against the side of the hill, half-buried under wisteria.

“Careful,” the one holding the iron door open says. “Watch your step.”

Inside, it smells of earth and old metal. Damp stone and rust and time. There’s a sense of history here, thick and quiet, like the walls remember every name ever laid to rest within them. This place has been hiding bodies for generations. And now, we’re part of it.

Servants of Forsyth. Of life and death.

That’s what the King said.

But no one tells you what it feels like to carry death in your hands.

We still have blood on our hands from the Claiming. It’s caked on my fingertips and I can still feel the warmth of her skin as we painted her, the ripple of goosebumps rising across her velvety brown flesh. Her dark, soulful eyes carried a trace of mania, but she knew we had leverage and that kept her from fighting back. DK took the fall for killing Armand, which means we own her beyond the ceremony. My fingers ache around the memory of the knife, the way it fit in my hand too well. I can still picture her–strapped to the table, body trembling. Was that fear? Or want? From the cuts? From DK’s playing with her pussy?

Pain or pleasure?

Maybe both.

Her eyes were wild when he removed his fingers. I know that look. I’ve seen it. Felt it. Desperate for just a little more. By the time we reach the second door, my arms are screaming, and it’s a relief to lower Armand down onto the stone slab. We let him rest flat on his back. It’s more definitive like that. More real.His throat is open, the slash deeper than I thought she could manage. Skin split clean, from one side to the other, across his throat. The muscle beneath is jagged and wet.

“Huh,” I mutter, shifting his foot so it doesn’t fall off the slab.

“What?” DK asks.

“Guess Royal blood looks like the rest of ours after all.”

“Seriously.” DK rubs his palms on his pants and leans in to study the wound. “Fuck. She got him in one swipe.”

I glance at him, then at the line across his throat. That scar of his–it’s gnarled and angry, different from the one we’re staring at now. But if he doesn’t bring it up, I won’t either.

“Are you surprised?” I ask. “That she did it?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Although, from what we know about her… she was strong enough to get away from whoever had her. Maybe this isn’t her first kill.”

I lean back against the wall and breathe through my mouth. The whole crypt hums with silence, like the dead are listening. Listening and waiting.

“She didn’t hesitate,” I say, nodding at the cut.

“Nope.” DK’s hand runs through his dark hair, then his teeth worry at the ring in his lip. “She’s not like other girls.”

“No.” I lick my dry lips. “She’s smart–hiding from us longer than I thought she would. Calculated. Armand was twice as big as her, and she still got the upper hand.” I replay the scene in my head. “She waited for the opening and took it.”