Page 4 of Wolf Hunter

Anticipating his next step, I fling the dagger with a flick of my wrist, and it twirls through the air lightning fast. Then, it hits its mark, right in the center of his back. Right through his heart.

Piercing the undead thing won’t kill him, but it’ll keep him immobile long enough for me to scramble it to bits. That’ll do it.

He stumbles, hitting the wall before tumbling down the entire flight of steps. Wasting no time, I hurry after him, descending deeper into the dark coldness of the house’s cellar. The vamp is a crumpled mess at the bottom, my knife still embedded in his back, so I straddle him, grab the handle, and wrench it around, making sure to cause as much damage as possible. Blood seeps from the gaping wound, making my grip slippery, but I hold on tight, thinking of nothing else but this fucker’s fangs in my neck as he tried to drain me dry.

When he’s mangled up enough, I wrench out my blade, and his body begins to sink beneath me as the rapid death process takes hold. His limbs shrivel inward, his skin grays, and his hair dries out until he’s nothing more than a husk of a corpse.

Pushing to my feet, I wait for my favorite part when it comes to killing his kind, and a second later, he explodes into a quick eruption of dust. Like a little fucked-up firework.

It was rough at first, but that’s another successful job in the books.

Finally, I draw in a breath, and with it, every ache and pain pushes through the adrenaline. I’m definitely going to be bruised up tomorrow.

I touch the side of my neck, then look at my fingers to see them still shining with blood. It only reignites my anger all over again.

Shit. Two more scars to add to my collection.

I’ve got to get it together. Go home, eat something, drink a shit-ton of orange juice, and nurse my wounds. And maybe my pride. For now, I grab my throwaway cell and text the only number I’ve been given for this assignment:It’s done.

Then, I throw the thing on the floor, stomp on it, and kick it deeper into the shadows of the basement. Whatever happened tonight with my power, whatever went wrong, I refuse to let it happen again. Ican’tlet it happen again. My invisibility isn’t the only thing that sets me apart from other supernaturals in my line of work, but it’s what’s going to make infiltrating the Redcliff Pack and spearing my knife through their alpha possible.

Carmen’s life depends on it. If they haven’t already killed her, that is.

ChapterTwo

Tasha

Everything fucking hurts. The hot water stung all my bruised and battered places, but it also washed the last of the blood away. If I still practiced the witchcraft of my heritage, I’d have a spell to magically disappear those bruises and the marks the vampire left on my skin. But I’d walked away from a hell of a lot more than just that when I turned my back on this place, these people.

And I regret nothing.

Swiping a hand across the fogged mirror shows me a reflection I’d rather forget. Or maybe I should commit it to memory as a reminder of what can happen when I get cocky.

Black and purple bruises blossom out from my shoulder, and the two pinpricks at the side of my neck are red and inflamed. I probe one until pain has me hissing and reaching for the ointment on the bathroom vanity. It’s one of those must-have items for my chosen profession.

Bandages, ointments, creams out the wazoo.

Yet none of those things brings me closer to what I really want, the reason for coming back to this godforsaken area in the first place. Back to where it started and no closer to my answers than when I left.

It sucks.

So do vampire bites.

So do vampires in general, come to think of it.

I groan, sticking out my tongue for good measure.

The woman in the mirror has massive bags under her eyes and a sallow expression. If my magic wasn’t currently shitting the bed, I’d use it now and prevent myself from even looking at my hideous face. I look like I’ve been used as a human punching bag.

Which isn’t completely inaccurate.

I throw on my coziest pajamas and flop down in bed, the blankets enveloping me as one of their own and the comforting scent of lavender soothing the pieces of me the Epsom salt bath did not.

The motel I call home these days doesn’t ordinarily use such nice fabric softener, and they definitely don’t provide the luxurious bath salts.

I buy the latter, and the former has taken a bit of bribery with the housecleaning staff, until eventually, they decided to keep a special blend aside whenever they came in to collect my sheets. Which is only once a month.

I’ve been at the motel for three months, but it seems like an eternity after roaming from place to place for the last several years.

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