Chapter 4 #2
Six ferals scrambled past her onto higher ground.
Scarface bled from the cracks she’d drilled into his armor earlier.
The cold had made them worse somehow, spider-webbing wider with each movement like the whole thing might shatter if he breathed wrong.
Tank shook water from his dark hair, scanning the treeline with that creepy predator focus they all had.
The Newcomer Leader stood with his pack mates, all of them breathing hard, red eyes catching what little light filtered through the storm clouds.
Nobody asked if she was okay.
Well, duh. They were ferals, not a rescue squad.
Scarface reached down and grabbed her upper arm, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises. He hauled her upright without ceremony. Message received loud and clear… flood or no flood, she still belonged to him.
Great. Just freaking great.
The sleet turned to thick snow that stuck to everything. Her breath came out in white puffs, and the cold bit straight through her soaked clothes, settling into her bones until her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
“Move.” The Newcomer Leader pointed uphill toward a ridge that disappeared into white nothing. “Higher ground.”
That was it. No discussion, no committee meeting to debate the best route. They weren’t human. They were predators, and right now, survival was the only thing on the menu.
The formation changed without anyone saying a word.
The Leader took point, his two pack mates spreading out to the flanks.
Tank dropped back to watch their six, scarred face turned toward the valley they’d just escaped.
Scarface kept his death grip on her arm, positioning her in the center where she couldn’t run.
Not that she could run anywhere with her leg like this.
They climbed through snow that went from wind-scoured ice over exposed rock to knee-deep drifts that grabbed at her legs.
Her makeshift splint held, just about, but each step was pure fire shooting up her calf.
The walking stick she’d been using was gone, lost somewhere in the scramble to escape the flood.
Now all she had was Scarface’s grip to keep from face-planting when the ground turned slippery.
The wind picked up, a howl that raised every hair on the back of her neck. Visibility dropped to ten yards. Everything beyond that was just... white.
And the snow found every gap in her clothing, melting against her skin before refreezing until she felt like she was wearing ice instead of fabric.
Something shifted in the ferals’ body language. Subtle at first—a head coming up, nostrils flaring. Then the loose formation tightened until she could smell their wet-dog stink mixing with blood and sweat.
Tank whirled around, eyes narrowing. The Leader’s hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into claws. Even Scarface’s grip changed, becoming less focused on her and more... distracted.
Oh shit.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She concentrated on placing each foot carefully on the slippery ground. The snow muffled everything, creating this weird silence that made every scrape of boot on rock sound too loud.
White exploded from the storm.
The feral on her right, lean and with pink scars across his neck, was there one second. Gone the next. Just... yanked sideways into the blizzard with nothing but a grunt.
The remaining ferals spun toward the sound, but whatever had taken him was already gone. For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
A scream cut through the wind. High. Terrified.
Then it cut off.
“Fan out,” the Leader snarled, but Tank was already pushing toward where their packmate had vanished.
They found him twenty yards away.
Holy fuck. She stood there, just blinking as she tried to work out what—
He was folded against a boulder like someone had tried to make origami out of his body. His head sat at an angle that made her stomach heave. Something had crushed his throat, and blood pooled on the rock.
The Leader’s lips pulled back from his teeth, a growl rumbling in his chest that she felt more than heard. His eyes swept the treeline, searching.
“Move.” The word came out sharp. “Now.”
They climbed faster. The pace was brutal, and her leg screamed with every step, but Scarface’s grip kept her upright when her strength gave out. Snow fell harder, fat flakes that stuck to her eyelashes and cut visibility to almost nothing.
Scarface stumbled next to her, and she glanced sideways.
Her eyes widened at the paleness of his skin.
He looked awful. The cracks in his black plating had spread into a web of fissures, leaking rust-colored blood, and his breath came in quick white puffs.
His fingers shook against her arm even as his grip stayed firm.
The Leader noticed too. His eyes narrowed.
“You can’t carry her.” Matter-of-fact. Cold. “Should let me have her.”
“Draanth you,” Scarface snarled, showing every razor-sharp tooth he had.
Tank shifted position, sliding between them. The message was clear: survival first, pissing contest later.
The next attack came from behind.
The feral behind them disappeared backward with just the scrape of boots on ice and a sharp intake of breath. Tank whirled, charging through the snow, but found only churned ground and drag marks leading downslope.
A scream filled the air. It was worse than the first. Raw terror filled the air for long seconds, before cutting off with a wet gurgle.
Ice surged through her veins.
Whatever was hunting them had just taken victim number two. And they still hadn’t seen it.
They found the body at the bottom of a ravine, skull caved in by a single blow.
It was surgical. Precise. Not the wild savagery of a blood-mad feral, but controlled violence from something that knew exactly how to kill.
Blood sprayed across the ice in an arc that would’ve been artistic if it wasn’t, you know, blood.
The Leader’s jaw went tight. Tank looked rattled, his usual stone face cracking around the edges.
She didn’t blame them, drawing closer to Scarface. They were being hunted by something that could take down ferals without making a sound. Something that struck from the white and vanished. Something that had done this before.
A lot.
She forced herself to keep breathing. To keep moving when Scarface pulled her forward. Her hands were numb, her feet like blocks of ice in her boots. The storm was getting worse, the wind strong enough to make even the ferals lean into it.
The terrain funneled them into a channel between towering rocks. Wind howled through the gap, and there was snow piled in drifts up to her waist, forcing Scarface to half-carry, half-drag her through.
Then a rock skittered across their path. A rock… it was more like a boulder.
It tumbled and rolled over the ice with a sound like breaking glass, stopping directly in front of the Leader.
The ferals around her froze. The Leader’s head snapped up, and Tank spread his arms, claws extending. Scarface’s grip tightened on her arm until she thought her bones might snap.
A shadow moved on their downwind side. Too fast. Too fluid. Tank spun toward it, but whatever it was had already gone. There was nothing but swirling white and his own harsh breathing.
Then the feral behind them was taken.
No sound. No struggle. One moment there, the next being dragged downslope so fast only a line scored in the snow and blood spray marked where he’d been. By the time they reached the spot, fresh snow was already filling the tracks.
No body. Nothing.
The silence that followed was worse than screaming. It pressed down on them, broken only by their ragged breathing. Three ferals left: Scarface, the Leader, and Tank. And all of them were looking at the white around them with something she’d never thought she’d see in those red eyes.
Fear.
Real, bone-deep fear.
Scarface’s fingers dug bruises into her arm as they hurried forward, the four of them huddled together like that would somehow help.
Terror sat in her chest like a block of ice. Her leg throbbed with each heartbeat. The cold had stolen all feeling from her extremities so she focused on one foot in front of the other.
It was all she could do. She’d had extreme weather survival training so she knew that stopping meant dying.
The wind shifted. For a moment, the white cleared, and a dark figure waited ahead. Silent. Still. Eyes reflected the dim light—not red like the ferals’, but yellow. Bright and predatory and locked on target.
Recognition slammed through her.
Zeke.
But not like she’d ever see him before. He stepped out of the white like something from her worst nightmare. Snow clung to his massive frame, steam rising from his skin. Those yellow eyes fixed on the ferals with the intensity of a predator who’d been playing with his food.
Tank charged first, roaring as he launched himself forward.
Zeke sidestepped like Tank was moving in slow motion. His fist connected with the big feral’s knee from the side. The crack of bone breaking was loud even over the wind. Tank went down hard, and before he could do more than gasp, Zeke’s hand closed around his throat.
One squeeze and it was done. Tank slumped to the ground, just another rapidly cooling corpse.
The Leader tried to grab Michelle, as leverage or as a shield, she didn’t know, but Zeke was already moving. A shoulder check sent the Leader flying into the rocks hard enough to crack stone. The feral scrambled up, but Zeke was already there, spinning him around with a hand hooked under his jaw.
Then he twisted, and the crunch of bone snapping filled the air. The newcomer leader dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Scarface yanked Michelle backward, trying to use her as a shield while edging uphill.
His cracked plating leaked freely now, blood steaming in the cold.
Zeke moved faster than she’d ever seen anyone move before, shoving his big body between her and Scarface.
She stumbled back and went down hard on her ass, eyes wide as she watched Zeke’s claws find the fissures in Scarface’s armour, tearing them wide.
Scarface fought with pure desperation, but Zeke pinned his arm and punched talons straight through the weakened armor.
The sound Scarface made... Yeah, that was going to haunt her dreams.
Then there was nothing but silence. And the sound of her ragged breathing.
Zeke straightened slowly, chest heaving. Blood dripped from his claws, dark against the snow. Those yellow eyes found her where she knelt, shivering so hard her teeth hurt.
Neither of them moved. Wind screamed around them, and the snow kept falling. But she couldn’t look away.
She’d seen Zeke angry. Seen him protective and fierce.
This was something else.
This was pure, unleashed fury wrapped in muscle and claws. A monster made of rage who’d torn through blood-mad feral like they were paper.
And he’d come for her.