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CHARLOTTE

THREE MONTHS LATER

I crouch in the thick underbrush and breathe in deep. The swamp is overwhelming at the best of times, but even with all the rot and life here, humans and Hunters stand out above everything else. A river of heady, adrenaline-laced fear sweeps through the dense tapestry of rotting vegetation and stagnant water, and my skin prickles with excitement.

Him . The prey. A tourist whose car broke down on the side of the Pellerin highway. Jaxon pretends to help him, calling for an emergency tow truck, grinning affably up at the prey from beneath the brim of that ugly-ass cowboy hat he insisted on wearing. I watch the exchange from the edge of the tree line, my heart racing furiously. I can hear the others’ hearts too. Not just Jaxon’s—he’s calm, collected, his body reflecting his slow, lazy drawl. But also Sawyer’s, pounding with excitement. And Ambrose’s. The mysterious Ambrose. This weekend was my first time meeting him.

I’m not thinking about that right now, though. I’ve got my eyes on Jaxon and the prey. This is a game the three of them used to play, years ago, before Sawyer died at Camp Head Start. We select a victim together. Send the victim into the woods. Hunt them for an hour. Once the hour’s up, the first one to make the kill wins.

That’s why the three of us are triangulated around Jaxon and the prey, waiting for the clock to start.

Jaxon ambles away from the truck, pretending to talk on his phone. He gives a signal into the trees, where Ambrose is waiting. A half second later, Ambrose bursts out swinging an ax, his face covered by a white mask. The prey stares numbly at him like he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. But when Ambrose slams the bat into the side of his car, the prey understands.

He shoots off from the highway, screaming, and I hit the timer on the cheap watch I put on for the occasion. There’s nowhere to go but the swamp, and Ambrose chases him directly between where Sawyer and I are hiding. As soon as he passes, I jump up, my breath quickening. I didn’t bother wearing a mask.

I shove forward through through the swamp, moving by scent and sound as much as sight. Sawyer and Jaxon are doing the same, just like we talked about, and the four of us draw around the prey like a noose, corralling him away from the highway, away from civilization, and into the swamp’s dark tangle.

The chase is exhilarating. Ever since I died, ever since I finally accepted what I am, the world has become heightened. It was so overwhelming at first, all those sounds and scents threatening to drown me. But Jaxon helped me through it. He taught me what his father taught him—how to ignore what I didn’t need, how to focus in on what I did.

“We’re Hunters,” he told me, the two of us stalking through this very same swamp. “This is how we Hunt.”

I’m Hunting now, following the scent of our prey’s terror. Time loses any real meaning; I only know how long it’s been when I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes. I circle through the swamp, slowly pushing the prey deeper into the wilderness, wearing him out. So do the others.

He is getting tired, too. I can sense it. He’s stopped screaming for help and has slowed his pace, thinking he’s lost us. He hasn’t. All four of us are stalking him through the damp shadows. I make a loop around through the trees until I find a thick nest of underbrush where I can crouch down to wait. My plan is to intercept the prey when the hour is up.

I settle down among the leaves. Jaxon is nearby. I can smell him, that earthy scent that drives me wild. Then I can hear him, a faint rustling of the leaves. He’s coming closer. So’s the prey, although he’s still a ways off, crashing through the underbrush in his panic. I slip sideways, my movements easier now. Everything’s easier.

“Careful.” A hand wraps around my throat; a mouth brushes against my ear. “It’s dangerous out here.”

“Jaxon,” I breathe. “I heard you coming.”

“Mmm. Good girl.” He pulls his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, his teeth nipping at the delicate skin of my neck. His arousal is more than evident, and I let him suck on my neck while we wait for the prey to come closer. For Ambrose and Sawyer to come closer, too. They’re trailing behind the prey, scaring him deeper into the swamp. Disorienting him.

But when Jaxon slides his hand down my shirt’s neckline, trying to get at my breasts, I slap it away. “Stop distracting me. I want to win.”

He chuckles. “You remember there’s no prize, right?”

I glare at him, which just makes his grin widen, his teeth flashing in the dim light. Jaxon’s wrong about there not being a prize; it’s true I won’t win anything, but in the last three months, I’ve learned what being a Hunter really means. I’ve learned how to do it properly. And this feels a bit like a final exam.

The prey’s fear bursts through the trees, and even Jaxon takes notice, sitting up a little straighter, his eyes gleaming. “Let’s win it together,” he whispers, peering through the underbrush. The prey’s getting closer. “You know how much I love seeing you covered in blood.”

I roll my eyes, even though I like hearing him say it. “I want the kill,” I whisper. “But you can help.”

“Fair enough.”

The prey’s approach is so loud even a human could hear it. He rips through the tangled vines and splashes in the stagnant water, his breath fast and panicky.

Jaxon looks over at me, eyebrow raised. I check the watch.

“Two more minutes,” I whisper.

“Corral him to the left,” Jaxon whispers back. “Get him away from Ambrose. He always wins these things.”

I can sense Ambrose now, drawing closer with careful, calculating steps. When he arrived yesterday morning, I reacted almost like my old sort-of human self: with a surprising bout of terror. He came into Jaxon’s house, fixed his eyes on me, and I was pinned into place—by his age, his knowledge, his strength.

The first thing he said to me was, “I’m going to find your parents.” I knew he meant by birth parents. The Hunters I came from. When I asked why, he said, “So you know more of us.”

Jaxon swats me on my ass, a habit from our joint hunts. It’s his way of telling me to focus.

“Move,” he rasps.

And I do. I launch out of the undergrowth just as the prey runs past. He does a double-take when he sees me, then shouts, “You have to get out of here! Run! He’s fucking crazy!”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about Ambrose or Jaxon. My answer’s the same regardless.

“He’s not crazy,” I say sweetly.

The prey’s eyes widen, and he looks at me with a prey’s wariness.

“But you should definitely run.”

That’s when Jaxon jumps up, grinning manically, clutching his hooked cleaver. The prey screams and stumbles backward—to the left, just like we planned, sliding into the underbrush.

Ambrose is close. I can sense his dark, imitating scent.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Ambrose?—”

My watch beeps.

“Time’s up,” Jaxon says. “Run him down, cher.”

I take off as fast as I can through the swamp, weaving through its thicket the way Jaxon taught me. I’m still not as good as he is, but I’m getting better. My knife bounces against my hip, and I pull it out as I run, following the prey by scent instead of sight. His fear and confusion are like the cocktails I used to drink in back in California, lush and burning all at once.

I need his blood on my hands.

But then I hear footsteps off to my right. They’re not Jaxon’s, which are heavier. These are light. Experienced.

Ambrose.

Suddenly, he’s running along my side. “Thought you could fool me, eh?” he says in a gravelly voice. “Let me guess. Jaxon’s idea?”

“No,” I say, even though it was. I won’t let him intimidate me.

Ambrose glances at me. Grins. “Then it’s all down to speed, isn’t it?”

I narrow my eyes—and then push forward with every ounce of my legs’ strength. Up ahead, there’s a tumbling crash. The crack of broken wood. A cry of pain.

The salty tang of blood.

That urges me forward more than anything. More than wanting to prove myself to Jaxon’s friends, the only other Hunters I’ve ever met. More than wanting to prove to myself all that I’m capable of.

Blood. The sweet, salty, coppery-caramel scent of blood. Heat pulses between my legs.

I pull ahead of Ambrose just as I come across the prey, sprawled on his back, foot twisted at an impossible angle. When he sees me, his terror spikes. I can practically taste his blood on the air.

“No!” he screams, and I fling myself at him, sinking my blade into his chest.

Ambrose follows three seconds later, hoisting up his ax. I jerk my knife upward and plunge into the prey’s throat, driving the blade up into his mouth. Hot, thick blood splatters across my face, and I groan in pleasure before I can stop myself.

More footsteps. Jaxon. Sawyer.

“Did she win?” Jaxon shouts.

“I think she did.” Ambrose settles his ax beside him, leaning on it like a cane. I slide back off the prey, who twitches and gurgles, blood spurting out of the hole in his throat.

“No,” I say. “Not yet.”

And then I finish it, sliding my blade between his rib cage until I feel the resistance of his heart—a resistance I push through until blood pours over my hands.

“How long?” Sawyer says.

“Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” Jaxon says. “Respectable.”

“My fastest time was fifty-eight seconds,” Ambrose says, to which Jaxon, my sweet defender, immediately responds,

“Shut the hell up, Ambrose. She’s been a Hunter for three damn months.”

I hear all this, but it’s like listening to voices on the radio. All I can really do is breathe deeply while blood washes over my hands like a fountain. It’s weird doing this with others. I’m used to it just being me and Jaxon. I’m used to all the things we do afterward .

Jaxon knees beside me and kisses my cheek. Only then do I turn away from the prey. From my prey. “Proud of you,” Jaxon whispers, and then he kisses me like the others aren’t here.

“What do you want to do with the body?” Sawyer asks me.

“What we always do,” I say. Jaxon helps me to my feet, and I slip my blood-covered hand in his. “Take it back to the house. Turn it into art supplies.”

Jaxon beams at me. Ambrose makes an irritated, old-man noise in the back of his throat. Sawyer says, “As long as Edie doesn’t see.”

“She won’t.” I’m still admiring my handiwork. Edie’s back at our house—which is how I think of it now, our house , me and Jaxon’s—reading on the porch swing while we have our fun. She told me she’s used to it, with Sawyer.

Personally, I think there’s a darkness in her, too. I think that’s why we found each other back in California. I’m not sure she’d be as bothered by the body as Sawyer thinks. But he likes being protective of her, and I get it, because so do I.

Jaxon pulls the knife out for me, and I clean it on the edge of my shirt as he heaves the body up over his shoulder. I smile at him through my sweat and blood. My heart’s still racing from the exertion. From the excitement.

From knowing what I am?—

And truly embracing it, with Jaxon at my side.

The End