Page 85 of Viper

“Fuck. Okay.” A faint hint of terror threads his voice. “I swear to god you better find him and come back.”

I grip the back of his neck and press my forehead to his, my heart hammering. We’ve been through hell. Our father is a madman. Cruel. Dangerous. We’ve only ever had one another, and we’ve all clung to each other over the years.

I’ll do anything for them.

My lips press to his forehead before I squeeze the back of his neck and let him go. “I’ll find you.”

He gives me one last nod, then turns and limps ahead. I wait until I see him crouching, doing exactly as I asked, cutting a notch in the trunk toward the roots.

With my heart in my throat, I backtrack, darting between the trees, running at full speed, sticks and leaves cracking under my feet. I skid to a stop, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and press my back against a tall pine. My head throbs, the lack of food and water taking a toll on my body. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and peer behind me through the skinny, tangled branches, scanning the shadows for any sign of Striker. The forest seems to swallow him whole, and a knot of worry tightens in my chest.

Did I make the right call in leaving him alone? Should I have had him stay in that spot?

No, I know in my gut we’re close to the cavern Breaker was talking about. Striker will find it, and I will find Breaker.

The image of that man tied to the tree flashes through my mind. I clench my jaw.

I’m going to find Breaker.

Alive.

And when I do, I’m going to fucking strangle him.

***

My tracking skills suck, so every broken limb lying on the ground makes my heart race, thinking Breaker may have gone this way.

Or whoever took him.

It has to be Maxy. But why? To kill him? Is Maxim the one out here gutting people? Does he plan to do that to us?

To Breaker?

Shaking my head to clear the thoughts, I grip my long spear-like stick tighter in my grasp. Carrying a stick won’t help me against a gun, but it makes me feel better being armed with something.

My gut twists with each step I take away from where I left Striker. I don’t have my knife, but I did my best to mark my path back to him, placing rocks at tree trunks or breaking the low-hanging limbs. Hopefully, it doesn’t lead whoever’s out here to me. Or him. My throat tightens when I picture him limping, alone in these woods, and I worry I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.

I’m a liar, a thief. Mean and impatient. God turned his back on me the second my mother was diagnosed with stage four cancer, and I’ve spent my life cursing Him for cursing me, but I’ve spent every single moment of this past hour praying we get out of here in one piece.

I glance up at the sky. It bleeds from black to purple, and with the slow rise of the sun, it’s easier to see. Easier to be seen too. So I slow down and keep my eyes open as I move throughthe woods, searching for signs of Breaker. Every snap of a twig, rustle of leaves, whisper of tree limbs rubbing together, sends sparks of fear through my limbs, making my fingers tingle. But I move on because if anyone is going to kill this kid, it’s going to be me.

I stop near a tree and drop onto my ass. Fatigue makes my eyelids heavy, and my head swims. I lean back, taking a second to breathe, and search the dirt for a rock or something I can use to mark my path.

That’s when I see it. Right around ankle height. Hope zings through my chest, and I scramble to my knees, running my fingers along the groove.

The mark is clean. Precise.

Fresh.

I trace the mark, remembering the winter he taught us all to carve the little makers in the trunks. Whenever we went out to hunt rabbits and small game near the school, Hunter would leave these little cuts to help us find our way back. He said it not only kept us from getting lost, but it helped us to find each other if one of us moved ahead. Hunter is great at tracking. Hunting. Snaring and basically anything to do with the outdoors and staying alive.

While Reaper brings death, Hunter brings life.

My fingertips come away sticky with pine resin. Somewhere nearby, a twig snaps. I freeze, listening. I dig my long stick into the ground, steadying myself before rising as I glance around, a little seed of hope taking root in my chest.

A light fog snakes through the woods, covering everything in a misty dew. In the grayish purple light, I catch a shadow dart between trees, and my pulse quickens. A crunch of leaves and a snap of a twig send my heart into the stratosphere. I spin, the long stick up and ready to stab, but his gloved hand grips it before it can make contact with his abdomen.

“Fuck all,” he says, ripping it from my grasp. “A stick against a gun?”