Chapter 19 A-Hunting We Will Go
A-Hunting We Will Go
My hands shook around my phone as I sent my crew a text message.
Me: Sad Over Something
If only our telepathic connection spanned a greater distance, I wouldn’t have to disguise the true nature of my message: SOS.
My friends would read my message and see it for the distress call it was, while hopefully our lie-rents wouldn’t once they reviewed the logs of our messages.
My phone informed me that it was 3:23 a.m., plenty of time for my friends to get here before my lie-rents woke, even my not-dad for his morning jog.
I wasn’t sure, however, that it would be enough time to deal with the … situation.
My friends arrived all together, all at once, at 3:33 a.m. Only ten minutes had elapsed. It felt like a thousand while I waited to see who would walk through my door.
I was mostly certain I was right, but only mostly. The small chance that I was wrong was … terrifying.
What happened when the person who’d supposedly gifted someone with immortality was the one to … kill him? What happened if I’d actually ended Griffin? And if I hadn’t, was Griffin all right?
Griffin was the first to barrel across my threshold, breathing heavy, his eyes roving around my now-dimly-lit room. They bulged when they skimmed across the bodies:
A very dead man who looked exactly like him.
And Bobo, unmoving but with a heartbeat—thank fuck—limp at the foot of my bed.
Brady, Hunt, and Layla, who gripped an open jackknife, piled up behind Griffin.
Layla asked while considering the corpse on my carpet, inching toward it with the open blade. She shook her head as if to clear it.
Hunt said before I could answer, shutting the door quietly behind him.
All four of my friends exhaled loudly in relief.
—I pointed at the dead man who looked so very much like the last man I’d ever want to hurt—
Layla asked again.
Hunt squatted beside the body.
Brady kicked the body in the leg. No movement, not even by reflex.
Griffin lowered himself onto the bed next to me, his thigh pressed against mine, and draped an arm around my shoulders.
I flinched.
He’d been leaning toward me. Now his body straightened like an arrow.
he accused silently, glaring at the body on the floor—a reflection of himself.
Hunt, Brady, and Layla yanked their stares toward me.
Brady stalked to the bed, sinking down on my other side, a snoring Bobo beside him. Anger radiated off him already, like heat waves.
I swallowed, forced myself to relax and lean into Griffin—the real Griffin.
Hunt crouched in front of me, tension corded along his neck while he, too, anticipated my answer.
Finally, I shook my head and looked down. My loose hair curtained my face to hide how close he’d come to really hurting me.
I asked.
Hunt said.
Layla said.
After I answered their questions.
Four sets of eyes darted between my strands of hair to blaze along my face.
I didn’t think my guys could tense any more. They did. Griffin and Brady actually vibrated beside me.
Layla begged.
I breathed in deeply. It wasn’t enough, so I inhaled again.
My friends—not one of them—breathed. Bobo’s soft deep-drugged-sleep snore was the only sound for several seconds.
Layla shot to her knees. Leaned over the corpse. And stabbed it through the heart. Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
With her knife still lodged in its chest, her hand wrapped around the hilt, her ribs heaved.
When she pulled out the blade, very little blood trickled from the wounds. His heart had already stopped pumping.
I’d left my blade buried to the hilt under his chin.
Layla sank onto her butt. Glanced from me to Griffin.
Griffin didn’t say a word.
Brady asked, each word crackling like a live wire.
I took a few moments. After another deep breath, I nodded slowly.
Griffin became so rigid he bounced on the bed.
I said.
Brady was shaking his head angrily. Hunt was staring hard at a blank patch of carpet. And Layla was glowering at the face of the dead man on my floor—likely Magnum, but who the fuck knew anymore?
Griffin … Griffin barely breathed, barely blinked.
I turned to face him. I said softly, still in our private chat. We didn’t need anyone else knowing about this.
His nostrils flared then unflared. Flared, unflared. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His nostrils flared anew.
Brady said.
Hunt said.
We all looked at Layla. She leaned forward, yanked out the hunting knife. A spurt of blood erupted from the wound, getting on her hand, on the body’s neck and chest.
She grinned evilly.
She wiped her blade on the body’s thigh, flicked the jackknife closed, shoved it in her pocket, and stood.
I asked.
She looked from the Griffin lookalike staining my carpet to me. Her evil grin spread.