Page 4 of Hunt Me

“Good thing I don’t use weapons.”

“Your… blend—it’s natural?”

“Every time.”

She hesitates again before saying, “I’m told you don’t kill innocents.”

“Your mark is hardly that.”

“No,” she agrees. “He’s a monster who uses power to harm the powerless.”

“Then we have no problem.” When she still looks skeptical, my eyes narrow in impatience, and I add, “Just because I only target the ones who deserve it doesn’t mean I’m soft. Trust me, I’ll get results, and I won’t lose sleep over it either.”

She nods, apparently satisfied.

I do my best not to tap my foot. I might have a rule about harming innocents, but I don’t exactly need to stand here and bond with her about it. “And my payment?”

She hands me a small vial, which I snag quickly and tuck into my boot. It makes my hands tingle with its potency, and I scent the contents instantly thanks to my dark fae gifts. Demon tears are hard as fuck to come by, especially around here. But I know better than to ask questions about its origins. And I damn sure don’t want to have to explain my intentions for it.

My father spent a lifetime researching the most potent fertilizers for the deadly plants that filled his greenhouse. Turns out few compare to the power of demon tears. Not only do they infuse the poisons with more potency, but they make healing—even for a supernatural—impossible.

A death dealt by one of my poisons is absolute.

It’s part of what makes me the best.

“This is only half,” I point out.

“The other half will be delivered to you after,” she says.

“Good enough.”

With a final glance back at her shadowy figure, I disappear into the night, the weight of my mission resting heavily on my shoulders. It’s not that I’m worried I’ll fail—I never have, and I don’t plan to start tonight—but I can’t help wondering if it’ll even be enough to succeed. Or if it’s only a matter of time before the Crossroads becomes a battle zone in a war for power that no one can stop from swallowing us all.

It’s a sobering thought and one I’ve contemplated many times since that damn portal opened three months ago. The Crossroads has had its share of problems over the years, but it’s my home. And more importantly, it’s Houseless, which means I don’t have to swear my allegiance to some asshole who wants to control me.

Portals have been open in this world for thousands of years, but it wasn’t until the one near Portland opened in the middle of a highway nearly seventy years ago that humans realized the supernatural world existed. When that happened, chaos exploded, and the world kind of fell apart.

When the dust settled, the rulers that emerged took control of their own territory, now called Houses, which is just the post-modern world’s name for kingdoms and countries. Each House has a king or ruler. And the citizens are subject to their law. The only areas of the world not run by monarchy are No Man’s Land—which is, thankfully, exactly what the Crossroads is.

It’s every creature for itself out here, which serves me just fine. If that changed, I already know my particular brand of capitalism would be targeted first. Sure, there are peacekeepers and vigilante justice-seekers here, but none of them bother with me, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I only ever accept jobs where the mark has it coming.

I know, I know; an assassin with a conscience is weird, but none of that will matter if some hotshot politician takes over our city and tries enacting their own laws. I don’t want to think about what would happen to Kendall if I became the hunted instead of the hunter.

All I can do is focus on my part and let that be enough.

While I walk, I reach back and free my hair from the ponytail that’s held it up all day. Shaking out my locks, I note the green dye is beginning to fade, letting my brunette roots show through. The sight of it makes me think of my friend Stella and her love of a magical makeover. She left town three months ago after being cheated on one too many times, and while I know she’s happy, life has been pretty lonely for me ever since.

I’m not exactly the party girl type. Hell, since my parents died, I haven’t even dated, much less made time for friendships. But Stella and Niamh, pronounced Nee-iv, as she’s always correcting for the ones who mangle it, managed to draw me out of my shell. I miss Stella. She was apparently our glue because I’ve barely seen Niamh since our trio became a duo.

As if I’ve conjured her from thought alone, my phone dings with a text from Niamh.

Hey, stranger. Want to get drinks?

I frown as I type back. Can’t. Working.

She responds with a sad face that has me shaking my head.

Aren’t you? I add.

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