Page 40 of Gemini Hunted (Dark Witch Academy #5)

Draco

The kick of my sniper rifle bucks into my shoulder on the discharge like a punch. Feels like a kiss, when you’re a guy like me, raised on a daily regimen of death and violence.

My silencer muffles the shot, because I don’t need to give away any more intel about where I’m hiding than necessary.

But that hyena shifter I’ve been tracking through the scope?

Bitch is the pack alpha, I’m pretty sure, and she takes my silver-coated anti-shifter bullet (contraband ammo that’s illegal as shit in the witching world) right through the meaty hump of her shoulder.

Her mangy carcass flies backward with a yelp and tumbles over the edge of the sea cliff that tucks up against our domus .

Oopsie.

She’s fallen, and she can’t get up.

I snicker under my breath. But even while I’m having my jollies, I know she’s still in play.

Shifters don’t make easy kills. Believe me, I know. I’m as trained and lethal as any professional wet boy in the AIB kill squad.

Once upon a time, I did my own wet work for the Mars clan mafia.

But that was before.

Lying on my belly on a big mossy rock behind the domus , guarding the basement door like my girl asked me, I got drizzle going pitter-patter against my biker jacket and dripping down the back of my neck. But that’s nothing for an íslendingur like me.

I’d lie naked in an ice storm to keep Mallory safe.

While rain trickles down my scalp and soaks my buzzcut hair, I scan the sea cliff with my scope. I’m waiting for that alpha bitch or her backup to show up for seconds. This isn’t my biathlon rifle and I’m not wearing my skis, but I’m in full competition mode.

Focused as fokk .

I always feel better when I’m packing heat. More centered. More grounded. More in control.

That’s what makes the voices in my head go quiet.

Not good for nothing, is you, Draco? My father’s gruff voice echoes in my ears. Why can’t you be more like you brudder, eh?

The memory of the staggering blow that typically went with that kinda Q, like a burger with fries, bunches my shoulders around my ears.

But the solid feel of the rifle, all that quiet power gripped in my hands, quiets the chorus of shouts and screams in my noggin.

Under the distant boom of the sea on the rocks way below, the rain-soaked cliff is quiet.

Too quiet.

Been a minute since I’ve heard the brassy tyrannosaur bellow of Maxim Rasputin’s big black dragon or the nails-on-chalkboard scream of that Dark Fae bastard’s green monster.

The gray skies are empty.

They’re Zara’s guys, so no surprise, they did what the Dark Fae King ordered. Right now they’re headed for our school on the wing, they’re flying decoys, and they drew off a shitload of those AIB wet boys in pursuit.

Me?

I don’t take orders from anyone. Except my shithead dad, Magnus Mars, a.k.a. the big boss. Head of the witching world mafia. I definitely don’t take orders from that royal Dark Fae prick who whacked Mallory’s brother.

Even when, it turns out, he didn’t. Big brother Ash still hasn’t kicked the oxygen habit.

But, hel, the Dark Fae King’s been giving Mal nightmares the whole time I’ve known her.

Anyway, my point is, some of those AIB hyenas stayed behind. That’s why I’m still here.

Hey, amou ? Jae’s telepathic whisper, drizzled with a honey of soft Cajun vowels, trickles through my brainbox. If you’re still out there, you, it’s time to be coming, oui?

I’m no telepath, not like he is, so I can’t answer shit.

Not unless he gives me a mating bite, which he’s dead set against doing, for all his bullshit reasons.

But my boy picks up emotions when they’re strong enough.

I shoot a strong pulse of I gotchu in his general direction, engage the safety on my rifle, and swing the piece over my rain-soaked shoulder.

Then I grab my gear bag, roll over, and drop from the boulder to the rough terrain behind our domus. I land in a crouch, letting my thick quads absorb the impact, shitkicker boots sinking deep in the mud with a squelch .

Between the rain and the mud, plus the blood that spattered my jacket when I had to use the hunting knife strapped to my thigh, I’m a mess. Definitely not in line with the dress code in the Academy Codex, you follow?

Mal’s gonna be unhappy with my mess, for real.

She tries to keep my sorry ass outta detention whenever she can. Especially lately, since she doesn’t trust our new headmaster in House Hadrian.

For reasons .

Let’s just say I’m not the only killer in our domus anymore .

I’m already jogging along the perimeter, senses humming on high alert, my piece back in my hands at the ready, the crooked turrets and sharp angles of Villa Caligula looming over me in all their haunted house glory.

With the Dean’s Challenge in full swing, the joint’s empty.

All the kiddos are out trying to win the prize, pass their fokking finals, or at least not get whacked.

Me?

I don’t waste my few brain cells worrying about my health. Sooner or later, I’ll be checking into the Wooden Waldorf myself. When you’re a made man, you don’t tend to die of old age.

Till my ticket gets punched, I’ve got my girl and my boy to protect.

I close in on the storm cellar hatch that leads down to the basement. It’s latched shut, just like I left it, so I flex a little telekinetic muscle to send the hatch flying up without breaking stride.

I’m already bringing my piece into play, trigger finger at the ready, as I hit the narrow chute of the steeply sloping stairs. Because anything could be lying in wait for me down there in the dark.

Shadows cluster thick at the base. Shadows thick enough to hide the body.

Now I guess you wanna know what body. Right?

I’m talking about the heat.

The fed.

Uncle Sugar.

Oh, come on. You know, head of the goddamn AIB?

The Dark Fae King’s nasty green dragon juiced Nikolai Romanov right at the top of our basement stairs.

Just sprayed the man down with a bellyful of flesh-eating acid.

I watched Romanov’s tall skinny frame, encased in top-of-the-line black exfiltration gear like the trained and sanctioned government killer he is, topple backward down those stairs, sizzling as the acid ate through his high-end gear.

Between the dragon and the fall?

Dude’s no longer eligible for the census, if you know what I mean.

Still, you never underestimate a Romanov. (That goes for Vasili and his piece of shit dad.)

Not if you wanna live.

So I creep down those steps like the killer I am, hugging the wall where the shadows are thickest, placing my big boots with care so I don’t make a sound. Going slow enough to let my eyes adjust.

By the time I reach the bottom, I can see fine.

Good enough to make out the faded Art Deco speakeasy decor down here, the cobwebby bar where we hold our keggers, the dark bulk of the oil drums we use for light and heat.

Underneath the musty smell of mildew and stale beer, my sharp Mogadon nose picks up the tang of old blood.

Used to be a dungeon down here in medieval times, where they’d punish unruly students.

Taking detention to a whole new level. Our new headmaster, same guy who just spruced up the forest around our perimeter with lethal mantraps, likes to joke that he wants to return us to our roots. That’s what he means.

Despite the clammy air down here, I’m starting to sweat.

“Helvitis,” I mutter, scowling at the spot.

The spot where I fully expected to find the acid-eaten body of Nikolai Romanov. Russian oligarch, master spy, all-powerful director of the Arcane Investigative Bureau. Maybe with a little rigor mortis setting in around the face.

Instead, he’s fokking gone.

Which means—somehow—that viper’s still on the slither. He’s down here somewhere, breathing and armed and deadly.

Somewhere very close to Mallory and Jae and the Gemini queen.