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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AMbrOSE

W hen the sun rises the next morning, flooding my bedroom with lemony light, Mercy’s asleep in my bed, and I know the name of Charlotte’s Hunter father.

I slept a little too, after I kissed Mercy’s sorrow away and she drifted off to her human dreams. Just for an hour or so. When I woke up, Max was curled up next to Mercy and Roxi was curled at my feet and it was nice, all four of us in one bed. So nice I just stayed there with her, petting her soft golden hair, my thoughts working through anagrams of Johnny Dobsals. And I don’t know if it was the sleep or it was the sound of Mercy’s soft, heavy breathing, but I figured it out.

Johnny Dobsals is an anagram—for a Hunter named Johnson Baldys.

I don’t know him well. I only met him once, years and years ago. Sometime in the late 40s, after the war was over. It’d been up north somewhere, Maine or Vermont, one of those leafy New England states.

And I don’t think I would have figured it out if Mercy hadn’t told me about inventing anagrams like it might be a way for her to escape Reverend Gunner.

“Muy bien, humanita,” I murmur into her ear. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake up. I’ll let her sleep. The dogs are scrabbling around in the hallway by this point anyway, ready for breakfast.

I slide out of bed, careful not to disturb Mercy, and grab my phone before padding out into the hallway, where Max and Roxi jump around me, tails wagging, tongues lolling. “You’re getting kibble,” I tell them. “But then we’ll do some training.”

They both know the word training , and they take off like shots toward the back door. It’s been about a week since we did it last, since I couldn’t very well do it at the Church of the Well. Still, I want to feed them first.

I dump some of the grocery store kibble in their bowls. Max immediately abandons the back door for breakfast, although Roxi takes her time, eyeing me as she strolls into the kitchen. I shrug. “Gotta finish up that kibble first,” I tell her. “Then you get your reward.”

She relents—begrudgingly.

I brew some coffee and send a text to Charlotte, letting her know the names of her parents. Not even a minute later, my phone rings.

“Are you serious?” she asks when I answer. “This is them?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I’ll let you track them down. You need the practice anyway.”

Charlotte scoffs, and I hear Jaxon shout something in the background.

“What’s he upset about?” I pour my coffee, watching the dogs. They’re almost done eating.

“He’s agreeing with you.” Charlotte takes a deep breath. It sounds like the phone filling with air. “So, uh, we saw your work at the Church of the Well, by the way.”

I freeze, fingers tightening around the phone .

“Yeah, thought you said you were keeping this one clean,” Jaxon shouts.

“Take me off speaker phone,” I snap. Jaxon cackles.

“I’m not judging,” Charlotte says. “I mean, that place fucked me up, so don’t get me wrong. I almost kind of admire it. Should have gone after Sterling Gunner, though, not some poor woman.”

The dogs have finished eating and are staring up at me, waiting to continue their training. And I debate what to tell Charlotte and her eavesdropping boyfriend.

“The woman’s not dead,” I finally say.

Charlotte goes quiet. Part of me hopes the line disconnected so I don’t have to keep having this conversation.

But then she asks, “Did you pull a Sawyer?”

“Absolutely not. I need to go.”

“He pulled a Sawyer!” Charlotte calls out, away from the phone.

“I fucking knew it!” Jaxon’s voice is tinny and distant. I hate both of them.

“I’ll scan the adoption files and email them to you,” I say. “But you need to be looking for Johnson Baldys, okay?”

“Is she at your house?”

“Goodbye.” I end the call before she can say anything else. Then, after a moment of consideration, I turn the phone off entirely.

Max and Roxi stare up at me expectantly.

“I don’t want to hear it from you two, either.” I take a deep breath. “Now, are you ready for training?”

Roxi barks in excitement, and they both tear off for the back door, their nails skittering against the tile. I pick up my coffee and follow behind them. When I push it open they burst out into the back pasture like two sleek bullets. I step into my yard shoes and amble after them, siping at my cooling coffee, heading toward the barn. It’s locked up tight—protection for while I was away. After all, it’s the place where the truly wicked things are kept.

Things I want to hide from Mercy.

Did you pull a Sawyer? Charlotte’s question ricochets around in my head while I spin the dial on the padlock. No, I did not. Sawyer fell in love with a human and got himself shot in the head for his trouble; it took fifteen years for him to revive and the first thing he did was seek her out again.

I just—brought Mercy back to my house because she knows what I am. I’m just keeping her here until I decide what to do.

At least, it feels good to tell myself that, anyway.

I crack open the barn door. The dogs know the sound, and Roxi bays as they come racing out of the pasture and over to where I stand waiting for them.

“Good job,” I tell them, giving them both a vigorous head rub for their trouble. This is good, actually. I need some normalcy back in my routine. I can focus on the dogs and not Mercy.

So I follow the dogs into the barn and drag the door shut. It’s stifling in here, but I kick on the big metal fan, and that stirs the air around. At least it’s still relatively early in the morning, and thus marginally cooler than it will be five hours from now.

I let out a sharp whistle and the dogs come trotting over and sit at my feet. Then I consider my options. I have an array of weapons in here: a wall full of knives and assorted saws and power tools, plus a locked cabinet with some of my more esoteric options—thumb screws, a medieval-style knee splitter, that kind of thing. I keep my rifles inside, out of the heat.

The freezer’s out here, too. That’s where I keep most of the meat, each victim in their specially labeled bags. I bring them into the house freezer piece by piece.

Raul’s out here.

I put the thought aside. I didn’t even know Mercy when I killed him, and killing is what I do. It’s my entire reason for existing. And I didn’t even torture him.

The dogs are waiting for me, tails thumping against the concrete. I force myself to focus.

“Roxi.”

Her ears perk up.

“Meat cleaver.”

She leaps to her feet and runs over to the wall of knives, grabs the cleaver by its handle from the bottom row, and runs back to me. I take the knife out of her mouth.

“Good girl.” I hate that I think of Mercy when I say it.

Roxi barks.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get your treat.” I go over to the freezer, unlock it, peel back the lid. The cold billows up, a relief in the barn’s balmy heat.

Fucking Raul is right on top. I didn’t know his name when I killed him, so I wrote Church of the Well Driver in big black letters across the bag instead. I don’t pull him out, though. I go for George Lakowski, a poacher I had some fun with a few months back. Followed him all over the western half of the state, stalking him the way he was stalking the bobcats and mountain lions he prized so much.

I take out his arm and toss it down on the metal table. The dogs’ tails wag even faster.

“Roxi,” I say, slamming the cleaver down on Lakowski’s thumb. She rises up to her hind legs and when I toss the thumb she catches it and gulps it down.

“Yeah, it’s nice having it be frozen, huh?” I hack off Lakowski’s ring finger and hold it up to Max. “Your turn, buddy.” Then I whistle a sharp, prickly melody.

The transformation is immediate—from sweet, cuddly Max to a vicious, growling monster. I wonder what Mercy would say if she saw this.

Nothing good, probably. Especially with the finger-cicles .

I point to the stack of old boxing dummies I keep in the corner and whistle again. This time, with the code for attack.

Max does as ordered, launching himself on the dummy and grabbing the biggest one, just like I trained him. He snarls and bites and drags the thing over to me. Roxi can’t help herself and joins in on the attack. But when I whistle sharply, they both stop on command.

“Very good.” I toss Max his finger and cut off another piece for Roxi. They both gulp them down in one bite and then sit at attention, waiting for my next command.

“You two want to run in the pasture, don’t you?” I grin down at them, and both of them start wagging their tails ferociously at the word pasture . I don’t blame them; they were cooped up at the cabin at the Church of the Well.

“All right, corpse training it is, then.” I whistle sharply in four short blasts, and the dogs rise up to standing. I grab what remains of Lakowksi’s arm and a shovel from the hook on the wall and push the barn door open. They tear off again, running in wild circles out in the pasture.

I duck behind the barn, out of the view of the house’s windows—I don’t know when Mercy’s going to wake up, and I don’t feel like explaining why I’m carrying around an arm.

Then I hike to the opposite end of the pasture, near the big mesquite tree that marks the edge of my property. The dogs are still closer to the house, running in circles, not paying me any mind.

I start digging, just a shallow little grave for old Lakowski. Or at least his arm. Then I drop the arm in, cover it back up with dirt, and head toward the barn. Once I’m there, I whistle again.

The dogs immediately circle around to me, excited. We’ve been through this exercise dozens of times—a dog that can clear a crime scene is a useful friend to have, even if Hunters have other advantages that keep us from being found out .

I whistle again, low and fluttery—the order for scavenge. The dogs immediately start sniffing around the ground. I check the time on my watch. The last time we did this, it took them nearly twenty minutes to sniff out the meat, but I suspect it might not take as long today, given the heat will start to thaw out that arm a lot faster, even buried.

I follow the dogs as they get to work, snuffling through the dying grass. They haven’t caught the scent yet. Or they’re lallygagging, hoping to get more time outside.

The sun beats down on me, and I wipe the sweat away from my forehead. The dogs are slowly but surely making their way to the far end of the pasture, but it’s a hike in this heat, even for a creature like me. I should have brought out a glass of water instead of my coffee, which I left abandoned back in the barn.

We’re about halfway to the mesquite tree when I feel it—a disturbance shimmering through the air like a heat slick. Mercy’s fearful about something.

I glance over at the house, frowning. I don’t see her, but I can smell the sweet, rich scent of her fear. I wonder if she opened up my laptop and went searching for more information about how Gunner’s handling her disappearance. This is what her fear smelled like yesterday when she saw that news report.

Max lets out a volley of excited barks, pulling my attention away from the human in my house. He’s caught Lakowski’s scent.

“Good boy,” I shout, glancing down at my watch. Fifteen minutes. They’re probably going to beat last time.

Both of them gallop toward the mesquite tree, but I take my time, weaving through the grass. The wind shifts and Mercy’s scent isn’t as strong, but it is there, faintly, in the background.

The dogs attack the ground at the mesquite tree, growling and digging. I check my watch Sixteen minutes and forty-five seconds .

“Good job,” I tell them. “Enjoy that arm.”

And that’s when Mercy’s fear erupts.

I don’t just smell it now; I feel it, like the air’s charging up for an electrical storm. And I know, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that she’s not reading the fucking news.

Because this is what her fear felt like when she saw me kill Price back at the church.

“Stay!” I shout at the dogs. They look up at me for a second, their muzzles bloody, and then turn back to the arm. I whirl around, racing back toward the house. At least I know that there aren’t any other humans here. I would know if someone pulled up to the house?—

And like that, I realize why Mercy’s fear spiked. She’s not in the house at all.

And when she starts screaming, it’s coming from the barn.