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01. FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
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WILL HAD BLOOD ON HIS HANDS. He knew that it would be clear to anyone he crossed paths with—people journeying alone were either killers, newly infected or grieving, and it really wasn't a smart decision to stick around and find out which it was.
It was those fuckin' Hunters. Why did they care what he did with his spare time, anyway? Nothing wrong with finding God or a well-lit path or whatever the hell else that church wanted him to believe in. They'd promised him something, and in exchange he'd given them a gift—Martin's head on a stick. Wasn't that good enough? So why had he been thrown out of his home and left to die?
The Cambions never raised their hands at Will, never put up their fists. He'd come to them on a rainy night, enticed by the warm glow from the front window of what had used to be an old shop of some kind, and they welcomed him in. He remembered the stew and warm tea they fed him, how satisfied he'd felt. For once he hadn't hungered for more.
Joseph was a surprisingly young man, about the same age as Will himself, but spoke with such conviction and ease that he seemed much, much older. With mousey brown hair that curled over blue eyes and a smile that sprang forward with no malice, Will understood right away why the people in the house spoke of Joseph like he was some kind of God. The end times were coming, he promised, and he wanted Will to be apart of it.
