Chapter Thirty-Seven
Breaker
I wake slowly, as if I’m clawing up through sucking mud.
My tongue is a dead thing in my mouth, greasy with copper; I inhale, taste dust, glass, and the ghost of cigarettes as the world swims into focus.
My hands are bound behind me, wrists throbbing and shoulders yanked so far back that my chest strains with every breath.
It takes a second to register the dull pressure at my temples, the hot, sticky trail of blood painting my hairline.
I’m sitting in the ruined back room of the old jeweler’s shop.
There’s not much left except decapitated mannequins, splintered glass cases, and the suffocating decay that seeps into your bones.
And me: tied to a wooden chair with rope thick as my wrist, knots cinched so tight I can already feel my pulse fighting to get past them.
This is bad.
But the man standing ten feet in front of me — polishing a hunting knife with casual delight — is worse. He smiles when he sees me awake.
“You’re tougher than you look,” he drawls. “Was surprised how hard he had to hit you to make you go down.”
I fight against the restraints, testing for give.
Getting nothing for my efforts except a chuckle from the man polishing the knife.
I take in his posture, the way his eyes never blink, the way his hands move with practiced precision.
He’s ex-military — I can tell from his posture, the way he moves, the look in his eye.
That much is obvious. The rest — what’s coming next — is a puzzle I don’t want to solve, but I have to. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s smile widens with theatrical pride. “Name’s Elden Killian. Used to go by a lot of other names, but Killian’s the one I keep going back to. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Killian, Pike, it doesn’t fucking matter — I’m going to kill you either way.”
He laughs, loud and genuine, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Oh, I am Randall Pike, too. Sometimes. One of my little masks. But Elden Killian’s the real me. Or at least, I think it is. Been so long, I may not even be right about that.”
“Why Ironwood Falls?” I ask. “Why now? What do you want with Riley?”
Killian shrugs. “I’m just here for the party. Parades. Crowds. Pretty girls. Everyone’s so busy and distracted, so vulnerable. Oh, I love it when the prey doesn’t see me coming.”
My fists clench, useless against the ropes.
“And Viper?” I say. It’s hard to even say his name; the word sticks to my tongue. How the fuck can I be so wrong about my best friend? How the fuck can he be such a fucking monster? “What the hell is he doing with you?”
Killian’s face lights up, as if this question is the one he’s been waiting for.
“Ah, Viper. Now, that’s a real story.” He pulls up a dusty folding chair and drops into it, casual as anything, the knife resting across his knees.
“You know where I met your old pal? Not in a bar, not in a prison cell. We met at a support group. ‘Veterans Reclaiming Ourselves.’ You know, the kind where they tell you to process your trauma, talk about your feelings.” He makes air quotes with the hand not holding the knife. “Honestly, I went for the free coffee.”
I stare at him, feeling the old, cold itch of memory at the base of my spine. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs. “Believe what you want. But Viper? He didn’t talk for the first few weeks. Just sat there, staring at the wall. Then one night, I found him at the bar next door. We started comparing notes. Turns out we missed the same thing.”
“Which is?”
He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “We missed the hunt.”
“Fucking monster.”
He keeps going, voice almost reverent, dripping with inhuman need. Wetness appears at the corners of his mouth, and he slathers it away with a quick flick of his tongue. “The hunt makes us feel alive. Gives us purpose. Makes the rest of the world… manageable.”
I glare daggers at him. “That’s why you’re here? Hunting?”
“I am,” Killian says brightly. “But Viper? Oh, he’s hunting something special.”
“Who?”
Killian grins like a man unwrapping a gift. “His ex. The one who ran from him. Little Riley.”
The name hits me like a bullet. My vision narrows. “No. No, you’re lying —”
“Oh, yes.” Killian sighs happily. “He’s been after her a long, long time. Lost her once. Little thing ran away from him. But he’s got a talent for finding his lost things. And now that you’ve led her right into his hands… well.”
My heart pounds like a sledgehammer. I strain against the rope so hard that the chair groans. I clench every muscle, willing the ropes to snap, the chair to break, to give me just an inch, but nothing, nothing, nothing.
Killian chuckles. “Once Viper’s done with Riley, he’ll come back, we’ll take care of you, and then?” He spreads his arms wide. “He and I will go hunting. A real party. An entire town full of pretty young girls. My payment for helping him out with his little problem.”
He throws his head back and laughs — loud, echoing, monstrous.
Every muscle in my body locks with terror, but not for me.
For Riley. Killian wipes tears of laughter from his eyes and strolls casually toward my cut, which lies thrown across the floor.
He digs into the pocket and pulls out my cellphone.
“What are you doing?” I snarl, jerking forward uselessly. “Killian, answer me: what the fuck are you doing?”
He swipes the screen awake, holds the phone in front of my face, and unlocks it.
Then, his fingers dance across my phone as a grin splits his face.
Not a grin of amusement, but a grin of triumph, of something sick set in motion.
With eyes that glint with perverse pleasure, he looks me up and down.
In those lifeless, shining eyes, I see Riley — trapped, tortured, helpless.
He holds up the phone so I can see. A text message to Riley. From me.
“Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”