Page 188 of Dance of Deception

I won’t die here. Not like this.

Arkadi’s fingers dig in to my neck. They squeeze. And squeeze.

My vision starts to go dark at the corners. Black spots swim in my vision as I flail and try to slap his arms away.

“When you see your mother,” he growls quietly, a sick glint in his eyes as he looms over me. “Tell her that she was one of my fav?—”

He frowns.

So do I. I can’t figure out why the fuck the air is suddenly so full of smoke that it burns my eyes.

The hands around my neck loosen just enough for me to twist my head to the side. My brain is still foggy. I can still barely breathe. But that doesn’t stop the question, drumming endlessly in my mind.

Why is the world on fire?

43

CARMINE

When I was fifteen,Pop took me to Canada, to hunt wolves.

He told me we were going becausehisfather had taken him a few times when he was younger. But I knew there was a more…pressingreason.

He brought me to the woods to allow me to give into my urges. To let me kill.

I appreciated the gesture. I was at the age when I was starting to realize that the black thoughts I had, together with my inability to latch onto certain situations—emotionally speaking—made me…different.

Except I didn’t have a need to murder people or anything, like some badDexterspinoff. It’s just that the idea of killing something or someone didn’t bother me. If it was necessary to protect one's family and loved ones, or oneself? What was the hesitation? In my mind, killing to protect my own was like reaching for a spoon to eat the soup in front of me.

It was just…obvious.

Pop and I ended up having a good talk about the whole “my brain is fucky and a little broken” situation. And instead of letting his psycho son run amok with his bloodlust urges, he taught me how to hunt. Properly.

With patience. Control. Holding back when necessary andnotacting on the first impulse that crosses your mind.

The wound in my side pulses with every movement, every breath, but I don’t really feel it. I will later, but not yet, not while Lyra is still out there.

I scan the ground, my eyes piercing the darkness.

Crushed leaves. A snapped twig. A drop of blood glistening on a branch.

…I should mention that Pop and I have gone back to Canada to hunt wolves almost every year since that first one. And I am very,veryfucking good at hunting.

That includes tracking.

My gaze follows the trail of blood through the trees, locking onto the details. The way the droplets are getting farther apart—he’s started to move faster.

Arkadi was blathering on earlier about being some sort of apex predator at the top of the food chain. A "wolf”.

A smile curls dangerously at the corners of my mouth.

Iknowhow to fucking hunt wolves.

You don’t chase them—you trap them. You cut off their exits.

I turn, heading back up the driveway toward the car, crashed against a tree. I ignore the blood loss and the sting of torn muscles and skin. I also ignore what I left in the passenger seat.

I pop the trunk, grabbing the spare gas can and a road flare.

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