Page 6 of Huntsman

I would say it’s a crime that she has to die when her only sin was being born to a queen. But that would be a lie. Eshe Diallo has committed plenty of sins in her short life. All anyone hasto do is look into those multicolored eyes and see that soul is as clean as a Boston gutter.

And for a man like me, that’s as beautiful as her face.

“H-Man,” Jamari murmurs, his leg and fingers suddenly stopping their twitching. My own shoulders twitch at that ridiculous nickname he insists on calling me. “Are you really going to…? I mean…”

“Don’t go there, kid,” I say, my growl rolling through the car’s interior in an ominous warning.

I don’t discuss business with anyone. Period.

And once I accept a job, I don’t fail. Ever.

Jamari falls silent, and his fidgeting resumes as he turns his head toward the passenger-side window.

That pinch pulses in my chest again, but this time I ignore it.

Eshe Diallo will be dead by the end of the week.

And there’s no room in this world for regret or second-guessing.

That, too, is part of the job.

I stare at the cottage nestled in the middle of a New Hampshire forest like it’s a dog that took a big shit on my boot.

What the fuck is this?

It took me the better part of three days to track down Eshe’s location, and a cottage straight out of a goddamn fairy tale didn’t even register on the list of places I’d find her. Built to almost disappear into its surroundings, the dark brown, pitched, and deeply sloped roof and dark green walls blend into the trees so well, the light seeping out from the wooden shutters almost appears like sunlight filtering through leaves. Whoever constructed this building either had a flair for the whimsical or was defensively strategic. Maybe both.

Still, this… bit of playful fancy doesn’t fit the cold, reserved olori I’ve come to kill. A sterile, spartan apartment with blackoutcurtains, well-planned exits, and maybe even some deadly booby traps, sure, but not this… thing that belongs to dwarves hi-hoing it to work in the mines.

What—and I repeat—the fuck?

For some reason, Eshe disappeared to this place, and as much as I resent the curiosity poking a dagger-sharp fingernail at me, squashing the questions, theinterestis undeniable. Why the hell is she out here in the middle of nowhere, in southern New Hampshire? Out of protected Mwuaji territory by herself? No backup, none of her family? Who does this property belong to? Why does it even fucking exist?

Just as the last inquiry parades across my mind, I deliberately shut the shit down.

Not my fucking business. And neither is Eshe Diallo.

Only how to infiltrate her current location without tipping her off before my knife meets her neck concerns me. Not the woman herself or her life choices.

My eyes narrow on the two shuttered windows bracketing the wide, green-painted wooden door as I slip on my “hood.” I never hunt without the black leather balaclava, and though it’s only me and the olori in these godforsaken woods, this time’s no different.

There’s been minimal movement in the cottage, a shadow breaking the golden light trickling from inside just three times since I’ve been standing here, hidden behind a huge tree trunk and its thick, heavy canopy of leaves. Either she’s getting ready to turn in for the night or—

The tingles stabbing at the nape of my neck are my only warning.

I whip around, my hand flying to the middle of my lower back and the knife tucked there.

But it’s too late.

A hot pain flares in my neck, followed quickly by a sensation of burning lava pouring through my veins.

Reflex has me slapping at my throat, and I snatch a needle out of my skin.

Rage explodes inside me, and a growl rolls out as I meet a pair of gleaming eyes surrounded by thick dark curls.

“You,” I snarl.

Then everything crashes to black.