Page 111 of Hunted By Valentine

Now that there’s only one left, I turn my attention on him. “Anything else you want to tell me?” I coldly ask while walking backward.

“No!” The Steel Crew man is in hysterics. “You killed him, so you have to let me go. You said… you promised…”

“I lied.” I notch another arrow and draw, aiming for his eye. It flies true, piercing with a wet pop. He dies immediately.

Normally, I’d take my time with the killing, but not now. In fact, I’m already wasting time admiring my handiwork. As soon as I realize that, I spin on my heel and rush back to the car with my bow and quiver in hand. I toss both to the backseat and start the car.

My hands are shaking, my mind a maelstrom of thoughts and plans. I have what I need now. The auction is real, and I know where it is.

“Ruby,” I whisper. “Just hold on a little longer. I will come for you. I will save you. No one will touch you again. No one but me.”

The road winds down the mountain, a serpent of asphalt cutting through the forest. I push the car hard, tires skidding on the occasional patch of ice. The adrenaline from the night’s work still clings to me, making me take reckless turns and run red lights.

It’s not until I near the city that I realize just how late it is. Even with driving as recklessly as I did, it’s taken me longer than I like to get back from my cabin. Damnit, the auction has probably already started.

Though I’m not happy about it, I shoot Nicklas a text.

Me: Found her. Auction at the meatpacking district, and it might already have started.

Thephone buzzes a moment later.

Nicklas: I know. Meet us there as soon as you can.

Am I surprised to learn that Nicklas and Jack didn’t just sit back and wait? Not at all.

Nicklas: Don’t do anything stupid if you get there first. Wait for backup.

Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I have no intention of waiting for anyone.

This is me and Ruby. I will do whatever it takes. No one else can. No one else will.

The old meatpacking district has a ghostly quality at night. Abandoned warehouses loom like mausoleums, their broken windows staring vacantly into the streets below. I park a few blocks away and kill the engine, sitting in silence for a moment.

The city has a different character here, a gritty, unpolished core that reminds me of a rusted-out machine.

Reaching into the backseat, I grab the spare suit I threw in there. I don’t know why the hell I did it, maybe I already suspected the need for it. No matter the reason, I’m glad it’s there.

Opening the car door, I lean down enough to touch the snowmelt and slush on the ground, using it to clean my hands as much as possible. I even splatter some of my face, cleaning up the best I can. Then I change out of the ruined and blood-stained clothes I’m wearing and into the pristine suit.

I check my phone. No new messages. Nicklas will be pissed that I’m going in alone, but he’ll just have to get over it. This isn’t a Knight operation, and I don’t answer to him. Despite just thinking that, I still text him that I’m going in before throwing my phone onto the backseat.

Reaching for my bow and quiver, I get out of the car. After slinging both over my shoulder, I quietly make my way toward the building.

The auction is being held in a converted warehouse. Once, this area was the heart of the city’s meat industry. Now it’s a mix of trendy lofts and derelict buildings, a neighborhood in the throes of an identity crisis. I walk with purpose, but not too quickly. Running draws attention, and I need to stay invisible.

A small crowd mills around the entrance, dressed in furs and leathers, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. They look like a parody of old-world aristocrats, the kind of people who think money can buy them class. I recognize a few faces—minor players in the city’s underworld, a corrupt union boss, even a local politician. All here to bid on human flesh.

I slip into an alley and find a service door. It’s locked, but a quick jab from my knife dislodges the rusted bolt. The door creaks open, and I slide inside, closing it softly behind me. The interior is dimly lit, a warren of makeshift corridors and storage rooms. I hear muffled voices, the clink of glasses, a low hum of anticipation.

My movements are slow and deliberate, each step calculated. I’m in the heart of the beast now, and one wrong move could get me torn apart. I think of Ruby, of her defiant smile, and push that thought down deep. Nothing will keep me from her.

I reach a set of stairs and descend, the concrete walls weeping with decades of accumulated grime. The temperature drops, and I can see my breath. At the bottom, a heavy door with a small, grated window. I peer through, and my stomach knots.

The auction hall is a cavernous space, once used for cold storage. Rows of wooden chairs fill the center of the room, and a makeshift stage has been erected at one end. A crowd of fifty or sixty people mingles in the aisles, sipping drinks and chatting with the casual air of attendees at an art show.

On the stage, a line of women stands in various states of undress, their hands bound in front of them. A single, glaring spotlight washes over them, casting long shadows that dance on the walls. An older woman with a clipboard walks down the line, inspecting the merchandise.

I scan the women, my eyes moving quickly from one face to the next. A surge of relief hits me when I see her. Ruby. She’s at the far end of theline, wearing nothing but a torn slip. Her hair is a tangle of black vines.

---