Chapter 2 - Mara
The thing about hunting hunters is that they’re naturally suspicious.
But they never expect danger to look like me.
At least, not at first. I’m a ghost in their midst, another runner in the low ranks, a pretty face pouring shots in the back room while the real deals are brokered on the other side of the bulletproof glass.
My journey here started further north, not far from where my parents died, when I discovered hunters were still active in the area.
I worked for them for two years before gathering enough information to turn over to the shifters—anonymously, of course, as I wouldn’t risk dealing with monsters like that directly.
Then I stood back and watched as the pack tore them apart.
Once, I’d thought that would be enough, but the longer I spent with the hunters, the more I learned about them, their victims, and the extent of their network.
I also learned that the group wasn’t responsible for my parents' deaths. I watched from a safe distance as the shifters took down the hunters for me that night, knowing I wasn’t done yet.
I drifted south and headed straight for this new cell, which took weeks to trust me enough to let me in, and now I live in the city compound, scrubbing glasses while men twice my size make a show of talking tactics and shifter kills.
Sometimes it’s fun to nod along, pretending shock and awe when they brag about last winter’s massacre, or the time they wired a hideout to collapse with a family still inside.
Sometimes it makes me want to put my fist through the bar.
You’d think the Order would be all cold precision, but most of them are idiots. The kind who thinks a wolf pelt is a personality. The real brains, the ones who know how to bleed a pack and make it look like an accident, only show up occasionally, and I have to be ready when they do.
I never understood why they killed my parents.
They were human, with the kind of open, practical hearts that made them good at their jobs and well-liked.
Maybe it was because they owned a haulage company, and they’d do business with anyone who paid on time, including the mountain packs, who mostly kept to themselves and didn’t start shit unless you made them.
Maybe it was something else; the Order never offers explanations for anything, and I know better than to ask.
They are obsessed with rooting out traitors, so I keep my mouth shut about my parents.
The dynamic between hunters and shifters has shaped my whole life.
Now, I probably know too much for any normal human.
I know the difference between a beta and an alpha, between a city wolf and the mountain packs.
I know the names of every alpha in the area, and everything the hunters say about them.
I know why the hunters are afraid of them, and I know snippets of their plans.
I know how to keep the whiskey flowing and how to avoid their drunken advances.
More than anything, I know what it’s like to belong nowhere at all.
Tonight, the bar is slow, just the regulars and a few strays.
I sling drinks and keep my head down, but I’m always listening.
The men at the corner table, Mayer, Salt, and that new guy with the neck tattoo, are arguing about why the new sedatives don’t work on the biggest shifters.
It’s not the kind of talk you’d expect from a bunch of borderline alcoholics, but it’s all anyone talks about lately.
There’s vague talk of magic and how the wolves are getting harder to put down, but they annoyingly clam up when I get too close.
I pour whiskey for Mayer and try to keep him talking, knowing I’ll write it all down later.
I keep every scrap of conversation in my files, and it helps build the picture.
I want to take the Order down, but first, I want to know why they did it.
Why they killed my parents. I want them to answer for all the misery they have inflicted.
And humans need to know about the shifters living among them—I’ve seen the violence they’ve committed, too. One day, I’ll expose all of it.
Trish calls me back to help with a restock, her voice flatter than usual.
I pretend not to notice, but even Mayer glances up from his glass.
"Be right back," I say, and slip away, the door swinging shut behind me.
The hallway smells like bleach and something metallic, blood probably, or the antiseptic they use on the cages they keep for prisoners.
I keep my steps brisk, like I have somewhere better to be.
Trish stands by the walk-in fridge, arms crossed, face sharp as a cleaver. She’s in her forties, but her hair is unnaturally fiery, and her makeup never smudges. She watches me load the crates with the same look she gives the regulars, like she's cataloging flaws to call me out for later.
"You need to be careful with Salt," she says, not quite looking at me. "He’s got no filter. Last time he got handsy with a girl, they found her trying to hitchhike out of town with a broken wrist." She doesn’t say if there were any consequences for Salt, but I’m guessing not. I nod like I'm grateful for the tip.
"I can handle Salt," I say, keeping it light. "He’s too stupid to be really dangerous."
Trish snorts. "Stupid men have done plenty of damage in this world. Don’t underestimate them." She pauses, studying my face like she’s searching for something under the skin. "You ever think about leaving here?"
The question lands wrong, makes my throat tight. "Not really," I say. "I don’t have anywhere else to go."
She nods, accepting the lie, but I see something like disappointment flicker across her eyes. "Just watch yourself. It’s important to know when to leave," she says, and shoves the door open so hard the whole rack of mixers rattles. I follow her out, carrying the heavy supplies back up to the bar.
Trish keeps me running back and forth to the cellar all night, which is bullshit, because there’s nothing down there except drinks, and the bar is well stocked.
She’s doing it on purpose; I can feel her eyes on me every time I come back up the stairs, arms full of bottles, sweating.
Maybe she’s watching for mistakes, an excuse to get rid of me, or maybe she just doesn’t want me on the floor tonight.
I line up the bottles perfectly behind the bar, label out, like Trish taught me.
She’s been more distant with me recently, a bit strange.
There’s no more joking around in the back room, no more secret cigarettes by the loading dock.
I used to think she liked me, the way some folk like to take on a stray, but now she just keeps her distance and watches.
I don’t blame her. I wasn’t expecting friendship, but it still feels strange to have her behavior change when nothing’s really happened.
The regulars have stopped trying to get a rise out of me as much, too.
Instead, they just stare, their eyes hungry as ever, but they don’t make a move.
Even Salt, who used to get handsy, just scowls and keeps his distance.
I'm not sure if that's Trish's doing or if they got bored after realizing I wouldn't play along, but it's easier this way. I can focus on what matters.
I’m not here to make friends.
Tonight is different, though. There’s a tension in the room, the sort that means something big is happening, but no one wants to say it out loud.
Rumor has it that the state bosses are in town to audit the new operation.
I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it has everyone on edge.
Trish is jumpier than usual. She keeps her hands busy, never stopping to talk, but I catch her watching the door a lot.
I’m cleaning the bar top for the third time in ten minutes when Trish appears at my elbow, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a line as thin as a scalpel blade.
“Take your break,” she says, and the way she says it leaves no room for argument.
I glance at the clock and note it’s early for a break, but she stares me down like I’m about to make a scene.
“I can cover the floor if you want,” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral. “You’ll need the help with this crowd.”
Trish shakes her head, red hair falling forward from the force, and nudges me toward the back. “Go. I’ll call you when I need you.”
I want to argue, but I know better than to push.
Instead, I grab my jacket from the office and slip outside, the heavy steel door banging shut behind me.
I head up the metal staircase to the roof, where everyone takes their smoking breaks.
I don’t actually smoke, but I pretend well enough because it gets people talking.
At least I don’t actually have to pretend tonight and can just sit here in peace, even if it means I’m missing out on hearing what they’re talking about downstairs.
I watch the compound below and try to temper my frustration.
Sometimes it feels like I’m just treading water, especially the last couple of weeks.
Below, the parking lot is filling up. Three black trucks idle by the loading dock, the kind with tinted windows and reinforced bumpers.
Not delivery trucks, or the usual junk these thugs drive.
I watch as men in matching jackets unload metal cases and haul them through the side entrance, moving with the efficiency of people who know exactly what they’re doing.
Three men linger for a moment and then head into the bar; they’re wearing suits, which makes them immediately stand out—not many smartly dressed men in the compound.
The city bosses, then. Something big, maybe.
I watch as the trucks head back out after unloading, and most of the men drift inside the bar.
I know can’t go back inside until Trish calls for me, not unless I want to look suspicious or catch her wrath.
She’s always been clear about the rules: you do as she says or you’re gone.
And I know she means it. Normally, I’d find a way to slip back in, but lately even the stairwell cameras feel like they’re watching me extra closely.
I know something has shifted in the way they are with me. People talk less around me now, about anything important anyway. If it were just that, I could write it off as nerves about the bosses coming in. But it’s been going on for weeks, ever since the big blood draw.
They called me in at the end of the shift—not just me; they’d been testing everyone in the compound. Said it was just routine, a health check. Seemed true because it took them a couple of days to test everyone on the different shifts.
They took four vials and then called me the next day, making a big deal about how rare my blood type was.
‘Universal donor,’ one of them said, like I’d won a prize, and gave me some vitamins for my iron that I have to take every day because they want more blood to help after shifter attacks.
They made it sound like I was really doing my part to help—not that I care, but I have to look like I do.
Trish must have heard, because she started watching me more closely after that and making sure I took the pills, reminding me about hydration, and asking if I felt dizzy.
For someone who doesn’t mind working me hard and isn’t exactly being friendly anymore, she seems strangely interested in my health.
I’ve started wondering if there’s something they’re not telling me. Maybe I’m sick, and they don’t want to say.
I’m not sick. I don’t feel weak, even with the extra shifts and the supplements that leave an aftertaste in my mouth.
I haven’t had time to worry about it. It’s not like this job comes with healthcare, so maybe I should be grateful for the vitamins if they give me some extra strength to keep going, working all hours, and trying to figure out their next move.
All for the price of a few extra blood donations.
I try to shake off the lingering concerns about how things have shifted and scan the compound below again.
I see movement along the far gate just before the alarm sounds.
Now that the trucks have left and the patrols are out, it’s just the city bosses, the bar regulars, and the security detail, but they still all run out at exactly the same moment, all armed as a huge truck crashes through the main gate.
Maybe I should be afraid, but all I feel is relief, because something is finally happening.