Page 98 of Hunted By Fae

Shaky hands tremble the rifle, but the human boy keeps it aimed at Dare. His finger tenses around the trigger, ready to pull again.

Dare just tilts his head, a curious frown on his brow—and a daring glint in his eyes.

The boy pulls the trigger.

It’s the last thing he ever does.

The rifle blasts again, but before the second bullet can hit Dare, he’s swivelled, a shadow caught in a gust of wind. The bullet strikes the wall, burrows deep, and when it does, Dare is behind the boy.

Dare snatches his head and yanks it back, hard. The snap is the sound of crinkled parchment—before the boy collapses to the floor, a limp pile of limbs.

Dare stands over him, a trail of blood leaking down his shoulder.

With a roll of his jaw, he turns on the younger human boy, the one tucked in the corner of the landing, whose face is glossed with sickness.

Daxeel jumps the last lot of stairs to the landing.

The other two lean over the railing and watch as Dare lifts his dagger, then swipes out at the resting boy. His blade cuts through the flesh of his neck like butter and takes his throat with it. Glops of blood strike the wall, but not before Dare has made for the stairs again.

There are no more interruptions to pause them, and so it is mere moments before they have reached the bottom level, where a door leads to a small alleyway.

The four of them stalk out into the stink of lane, the scent they hunt almost entirely drowned out by the stench of rotting carcasses and fruits and scraps.

Dare drops to one knee at the foot of a large bin. He reaches out a bloodied hand for the lump on the ground. Then, looping his finger through a strap, lifts the material and lets it unravel.

He frowns at it.

Some type of brassiere. A plain white one, sturdier than fae females wear, if they wear one at all.

“This is the end of our bounds.” Daxeel takes a step forward. “We go no further.”

“I must.” Dare pushes up from the ground and shoves the brasserie into the pocket of his leather trousers. “I asked if the scent is familiar to you, brother, because you should remember it. It is Bee.”

Daxeel’s brow furrows.

Disbelief hushes his barbed, husky voice—a voice harshened by the thick scar slashed across his throat. “The kinta?”

A tension hardens the muscles up Dare’s back. He’s still for a beat before he turns his chin to his shoulder, and in the darkness of the alleyway, the clench of his jaw is a shadow slashed over marble.

“Yes,” he answers, and his upper lip curls over the hissed word.

“Whoever she is, she is a problem for another unit.” Iiro approaches from the door. The thickness of his insulated leathers pads his already stocky frame. “To chase one human out of our bounds is to risk too much. I will not aban—”

“Abandon?” Daxeel turns on the warrior, a darkness spilling into the deep blue hues of his eyes. “Take better care of your words, Iiro.”

Dare’s whisper is so softly spoken that it almost passes unnoticed, “I must chase.”

Daxeel turns his dark look on his old friend. “Your revenge on the kinta can come to be another time, another way. General Agnar will not permit your absence.”

“I must chase her,” he echoes, firmer.

Daxeel advances on him. “So she stole from you,” Iiro’s brow furrows, “she drugged you,” Cadwyn blinks a stunned look, “and then discarded you,” behind Daxeel,both Iiro and Cadwyn share a blank look. “Revenge for these slights is justified,” Daxeel goes on, “but it doesn’t warrant this—to leave your post.”

“I will return.”

“And face the whipping post when you do,” Daxeel hisses. “One lash for each day absent—and to relinquish your steed. You know as well as I do, this is no light consequence.”

A growl hums softly in Dare’s chest and he turns to stare at the wall that ends the alley, as though he can see through the bricks and ice to the very one he itches to hunt.