Hunter

16. How to Escape From Prison

I knew the feeling well.

The boy's gaze jerked toward me as I screamed, and he frowned, looking thoughtful, a small crease appearing between his brows. As I stared at him in horror, my own hand clapped over my mouth to stifle the sound of terror, I realized I had been right in my guess of his age - definitely around eighteen. He had that same look of arrogant righteousness Cedric got.

I wasn't one to scream at every random boy I crossed paths with. But, then again, most boys didn't have dagger-sharp claws protruding from their hands - wait, no, paws, I realized, looking closer.

His eyes widened as he continued staring, and I met his eyes, wondering what the hell he found so fascinating about me. I didn't look very interesting. I had next to no breasts and hadn't even grown into my own limbs yet. I was tall, lanky, and had barely hit puberty - at fifteen, I was somewhat of a late bloomer. And his eyes were oddly compelling, the most beautiful shade of green...

I also didn't know why I was thinking about his eyes at that moment.

Dad took advantage of the boy's distraction, grabbing my arm and breaking into a run, pulling me along behind him. Behind me, I heard footsteps pounding along the grass - Cedric, following after us.

Danger, came the mental voice again. Stay on your guard.

I found myself focusing on the item held in Dad's other hand - the silver dagger he'd pulled out earlier, just before the boy had stepped out of the shadows. Why did he have that? Why did that boy have paws? And why did he call dad a Hunter?

My first thought was that this was all just some silly prank, but that thought was halted when Dad suddenly stopped. I stumbled, the only thing keeping me from face-planting into the grass was Cedric lunging forward and grabbing my arm.

I looked up to see why we had stopped - and bit my lip hard, drawing blood, to stop myself from screaming again.

There was another man - yes, he was definitely a man, and a middle-aged one at that. He looked very similar to the boy; they both had the same dark, wavy hair, though the man's eyes were pale blue. And, like the boy, his hands were also twisted into horrendous paws, complete with an even more menacing set of long, curling claws.

The blood on my lips tasted of salt and rust.

"Arthur Hearne," the man said, a grin spreading across his face. "You're a difficult man to find."

Immediately, Cedric grabbed my arm, dragging me back.

"Michael Randon." Dad's voice was tight, carefully controlled. "I had a feeling it was you behind this."

Behind what?

"You hunt us down like animals," the man - Michael Randon, I think Dad had called him - snarled. "You force us to hide in the shadows like dogs."