Chapter Three
RAZE
We find the second hunter three hundred yards east, or what’s left of him.
Maul’s werewolf form stands over the corpse, muzzle dark with blood, chest heaving from exertion.
The hunter is torn open from throat to groin, organs steaming in the frozen air, eyes wide and glassy with the kind of horror that lingers even after death.
Flux shifts from hunting cat to human form, amber eyes reflecting torchlight as he examines the carnage. “He had a satellite phone. Was trying to call for backup when Maul caught him.”
“Did he get through?” The question comes out sharp enough to draw blood.
“No. Thorn made sure of that.” The treasurer gestures toward where the nightbark stands among the trees, branches writhing around him like affectionate serpents. “Forest spirits are hell on electronic signals.”
Thorn’s bark-covered face might be smiling. Hard to tell when your features are more plant than flesh. “The wilderness is with us, they’ve got our back, Prez.”
Ruckus approaches from the north, gold charms clinking softly, that perpetual grin still in place despite the violence saturating the air. “Found something interesting. You’re gonna want to see this.”
I follow the leprechaun through the trees until we reach a small clearing where Scar, Wreck, and Coil stand over the third hunter.
This one is still alive, barely, held upright by Wreck’s skeletal grip.
The wendigo has one hand wrapped around the hunter’s throat, not choking him but holding him in place while feeding on the raw terror pouring off him in waves.
Scar looks up as I approach, red eyes gleaming with satisfaction. In his hands, he holds a leather messenger bag, contents already spilling out across the frozen ground.
Maps, photographs, documents…
Our clubhouse.
Our routes.
Our businesses.
Shipping manifests for the cursed artifacts moving through next week.
Surveillance photographs of every brother, some in human form, some mid-shift.
Evidence that could destroy everything we’ve built.
The rage that floods through me is arctic and absolute.
Ice explodes from my body in a wave that flash-freezes everything within five feet.
Trees crack and splinter, and the hunter’s scream dies as his lungs crystallize.
Even Scar takes a step back, supernatural speed is the only thing saving him from frostbite.
“Who else knows?” The words emerge as something between speech and a dragon’s roar, resonating with enough power to shake ice from overhead branches.
The hunter can’t answer. Wreck’s grip has shifted, fingers digging into pressure points designed to cause maximum agony.
The wendigo’s hollow eyes are alight with something beyond hunger, beyond satisfaction, feeding on suffering itself until the hunter’s fear becomes a tangible thing that seems to leach from his skin like sweat.
Scar steps in close, so smooth it barely disturbs the air, his shadow swallowing what little space the hunter has left. He leans toward the man’s ear, voice low, conversational, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for them.
“I’ve been alive for over five hundred years,” Scar murmurs.
“In that time, I’ve learned a great many things.
Languages, wars. How pain works on the body.
” A soft smile curves his mouth as his fangs slide down, lengthening until they gleam inches from skin.
“Most of all, I’ve perfected the art of extracting information from people who don’t want to give it. ”
The hunter shudders, a broken sound tearing out of his throat as Wreck tightens his grip just enough to remind him how fragile he is.
Scar’s breath brushes his ear. “So, here’s how this goes.
You can make it easy and tell us everything you know.
” His fangs lower another fraction, close enough to scrape bone if he so much as breathes wrong.
“You’ll die quickly.” His smile sharpens.
“Or you can make it interesting.” Scar’s eyes glow red as he pulls back just enough for the hunter to see what’s waiting for him.
“Personally, I’m hoping for interesting. It’s been a very boring decade.”
“No… no, no—” The hunter gasps, panic detonating as his composure finally shatters. “Okay, okay… I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything.” Words spill out in a ragged rush, tumbling over each other between shallow, desperate breaths.
“There are four of us. Four total,” he pants. “Small team. Independent. No government backing, I swear. No agency, no black ops, nothing official. Just… just guys who’ve seen things. Ex-military. We document, track, and eliminate when necessary.”
Scar tilts his head. “Necessary according to whom?”
“Us,” the hunter chokes. “We thought… Christ, we thought if we didn’t do it, someone else would. That it was only a matter of time before you all went public, before things got out of control.”
“How noble,” Scar drawls.
“The fourth guy, he’s dead,” the hunter rushes on. “The kitsune killed him. He got the drop on us before, before—” He sucks in a breath that turns wet and painful. “Before he took the iron rounds. That’s it. That’s everyone. I swear.”
Silence settles over the clearing as the truth lands.
Four hunters.
Two already dead.
No handlers.
No support.
No backup.
Everything dangerous enough to expose us fits into one messenger bag and four corpses.
Wreck shifts behind him, and something inside the hunter gives way with a sickening crunch. Blood spills from his mouth as he coughs, eyes glassy, focus slipping.
“Please,” he wheezes, the word barely holding together as it bubbles past his lips. His voice drops to a rasp. “Please… just make it quick.”
Scar looks to me, fangs still bared, expression almost hopeful.
I meet Scar’s eyes across the clearing. His face is carefully composed, centuries of discipline holding his features still, but beneath it I see the hunger coil and tighten, sharp and expectant.
This is my call.
My territory.
My vengeance.
“Make it slow,” I say quietly. “Let him understand what happens when you come after the Kings.”
Scar’s restraint fractures. His lips peel back from his fangs, a smile cutting across his face that holds no charm, no civility, only predator and promise. “With great. Fucking. Pleasure.”
Wreck tightens his grip, claws digging in as he drags the hunter upright, forcing him to stand on legs already shaking too hard to hold his weight. Panic surges back into the man, thick and sour, rolling off him in waves so heavy I can almost taste it.
Scar steps in close, close enough that the hunter can surely feel the cold rolling off him, can hear the slow, measured sound of his breathing.
Scar tilts his head back slightly, throat exposed as he inhales, fangs descending fully with a wet, inevitable sound.
The hiss that leaves him is soft but sharp, a sound of anticipation that slices through the night.
“What the fu—”
Scar’s fangs sink into the hunter’s flesh before he can finish his sentence with brutal precision, piercing deep enough to draw a scream that tears free from the hunter’s throat, raw and unrestrained.
Blood spills like a river down his throat, dark and steaming against the cold, as Scar lets out a low, broken moan when it hits his tongue.
He throws his head back as he feeds, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, his throat working as he drinks, savoring every delicious drop.
I hear it all, the wet pull as he draws blood, the sharp gasp when he shifts his bite, the hitch in the hunter’s scream as strength starts to bleed out of him along with the life in his veins.
The man thrashes weakly, boots scraping uselessly against frozen ground, but Wreck doesn’t restrain him tighter.
He doesn’t need to.
The wendigo leans in instead.
Wreck’s presence changes the air. The forest seems to pull inward, shadows stretching as his elongated form looms closer.
His skull-like features angle toward the hunter, his empty eyes locking onto the terror spiraling out of control.
Wreck inhales slowly, deeply, and the effect is immediate—the hunter’s fear rips free.
I watch it drain from him as surely as Scar drains his blood, his panic siphoned away in choking waves, his screams faltering as dread is peeled from his mind piece by piece.
His eyes go wide, then unfocused, pupils blown as Wreck feeds, absorbing the terror until the man’s thoughts collapse in on themselves.
The hunter tries to scream again.
But nothing comes out.
Wreck exhales, a sound like wind through dead branches, and the man sags further, his muscles trembling while the instinct to fight, to flee, to beg, is stripped down to nothing.
When Wreck finally draws the last of his fear, it isn’t violent, it’s final, claiming what little heat and will remain after fear has been consumed.
Scar pulls back slowly, blood slicking his mouth and chin, eyes glowing bright with satisfaction as he licks a crimson trail from his lip. The hunter lets out one last broken sound, more reflex than plea, before his body gives out entirely.
Wreck releases his grip, and what remains slumps forward, empty and ruined, a shell with nothing left inside worth taking. When it’s finally over, when the clearing holds only frozen meat and scattered evidence, I stand among the trees and survey the aftermath.
And finally… the mountains are silent again.
The message is unmistakable.
Nobody fucks with the Kings.
Three corpses.
Four, counting the one Calder killed.
All the evidence of their surveillance operation.
Every threat to our territory is neutralized.
Almost.
“Movement,” Bennett calls from above, his enhanced vision catching what the rest of us miss. “Southwest, moving fast. Human… running.”
My blood turns to ice, the metaphorical kind this time.
“How many?” I demand.
“One, but he’s already a quarter mile out and gaining distance.”