Chosen (Slayer 2)

I jump for the lowest branch and silently pull myself up. It’s not long before the clumsy footsteps of a man trying for stealth in brand-new combat boots announces the presence of one of the hunters. I watch as the beard steps right beneath me, then two steps past. I drop to the ground and tap him on the shoulder.

“What the—” He whirls around, his face finding my fist.

“How’s that for pain tolerance?” I step over his prone, unconscious body, then relieve him of his weapons. I pick him up by one arm and a leg, swing him a few times to get momentum, and then launch him straight up into the trees. He catches on several branches about fifteen feet up, suspended like a rag doll. “Sleep tight,” I sing, then hurry deeper into the trees. As I run, I check over his gear.

“Bloody cheaters!” I curse, looking at a small device with a green dot blipping regularly. They know exactly where the werewolf is. What kind of a hunt is that? I adjust my course and pick up speed. I have to beat the other two. Beard took a detour, more determined to get me than get the werewolf, but I can’t count on that for the other hunters.

I watch, nervous, as the green dot gets closer and closer. Well, as I get closer and closer to it. It’s not moving at all, and hasn’t since I started looking. Did they drug the werewolf, too? It wouldn’t surprise me. None of these creeps would actually risk their lives for this. They want the imitation of life-and-death struggle, the pretense of it.

I slow down. I’m almost on the dot. Another possibility occurs to me—the other two have already killed the werewolf, and I’m about to run into them and a dead body. Do werewolves turn back into humans if they die? Or does their body stay forever in that state? Rhys would know. I hope I don’t find out.

Holding my breath, I creep up to a small clearing bathed in the cold light of the full moon. Sitting cross-legged in the middle, eyes closed, hands on his knees, is … a rather petite white man. Spiky reddish hair, nice face, flowing baggy clothes that could either be skater chic or Eastern mystic in origin. I look around, confused, but there’s not a slavering, fanged werewolf in sight.

“Hey,” I whisper. I have Beard’s big knife in my hand. This guy could be a hunter? He doesn’t look like one, though. The other two were in full gear. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“Wow. Those are big questions.” He opens his eyes and stares at me, nodding slowly. “Is it harder or easier to answer them as a Slayer? Because on the one hand, chosen! On the other hand, didn’t choose. Wow. Wow. Oh, you were probably asking my name.” He glances upward where the moon shines over us. “I’m trying really hard to stay calm right now. So if you could not stab me, I’d appreciate it. But this is fun. They told me there’d be another Slayer who would probably kill me. I liked my odds, though. I have good luck with Slayers, generally.”

“Are you—the werewolf? Did Von Alston mix up his order forms or something?”

The man stands, stretching. “I’m of the wolfish persuasion on occasion. But I didn’t feel like it tonight. Are we gonna go? I think we should go.”

“Right. Yeah.” I’m so confused. “Actually, before we go, they put a tracker on you.”

He checks his pockets, then pulls out a tiny metal cylinder the size of a pill. “I just thought the butler had wandering hands.”

I take the tracker. “Go to the edge of the tree line. There’s a huge dead oak. Can’t miss it. The other Slayers are waiting there for my signal.”

“Cool.” He sticks his hands back in his pockets and meanders out of the clearing.

Tracker on me, I go the opposite direction. In the end, it’s too easy. I climb a tree, wait until I hear two hunters approaching from either side, and then snap a branch. They both shoot their tranquilizers at each other, and then two bodies go down with loud thuds.

I drop back to the ground, relieve them of their weapons, and then give them the same tree treatment as Beard. Too bad they’re human, I think. Then I cringe. Where did that come from?

Feeling a little dirty with the realization that I would have liked to hurt them a lot more than I did, I run toward the dead oak. I don’t want to leave Doug in that house any longer than I have to, and my work is almost done.

I pause at the base of the tree, looking up.

“Hey,” I call.

“What’s the signal?” Maricruz calls back down.

“Um. Me? Calling hey?”

“That’s a terrible signal. You didn’t even try.” She drops to the ground next to me, her rather glorious eyebrows writing disappointment all over her face.

“That’s not fair. I took out all three hunters and saved your werewolf … ish … guy.”

“Whatever.” She turns away from me, arms folded. Chao-Ahn lands in a crouch, and then Taylor, a tall, lanky blonde, slowly climbs down. The not-werewolf is last.

“I have questions for you,” I say.

“Math? I’m good at math. Oz, by the way.”

“Oz?”

“I’m. And I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Oh. Nina.”