The Hunter In Me

9 - Memory

"Nice muscle," Owen said, "but the release was late. You were holding it too tight."

"I almost stabbed myself in the foot!"

"You can't let the power behind the throw change your grip."

"I could've cut my foot off." I drew out the words deliberately, unappreciative of Owen's casual response.

"Yep. Bet you won't squeeze the handle anymore. Try again."

If he weren't inside me, I'd have punched him. I grumbled, but tried again, and this time, it stuck through the bark at eye level. I pumped my fist in the air. "Yes!"

"That's better, but still too high."

My mouth fell open. "I know that, but it stayed in the damn tree! Not the dirt or my foot. That's an improvement!"

"Good. Keep trying. Chest height is the target."

I sighed. "Not into celebrating the little things, huh?"

Owen didn't answer, so I kept practicing. In the next thirty minutes, I got the knife to stick more often than not, but only six of those hit at heart level.

Finally, Owen said, "That's enough; let's switch. I'll show you how to clean them. I've thought of a way we can train and work on blocking each other, too."

"Great." My sore shoulders sagged, and I hoped the next bit of training would be easier on my arms.

"Go to the house. We need stuff from the basement for the knives."

I carefully descended the steps and lowered myself to the sagging couch so we could switch places. Owen took over in under a minute.

"That was quick," I said in my head.

"Not fast enough. We'll keep working on it." Owen stood, strode to his weapons trunk, and rummaged through, pulling out rags and oil. While he sat at the desk preparing to clean the blades, he described his practice plan.

I exhaled. "So essentially, you're gonna think about stuff to scare me, and I'm supposed to block it out?"

"It'll get you used to the idea of fighting them. You need to understand what we're up against. I can't have you pulling a Nolan when you find out what they're capable of."

"Fine, but how will me blocking you help tonight? I don't want you hearing everything that pops in my brain when I'm with Emily."

"I bet you don't." He chuckled. "We'll try again when you're running things, but it seems like the same idea. If you can protect yourself from my thoughts, then maybe you can protect your thoughts from me."

I watched Owen clean his blades. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Alright, show me some mimics."

***

My foot splashed through a puddle as the fresh scent of recent rain filled the air. I was too tense to enjoy the smell the way I usually did—I hardly even noticed it or the sopping wet sock squishing inside my boot. The night was eerie, with only the occasional street lamp and the faint glow of nightlights in children's rooms lighting my path as I trudged alone on the empty sidewalk.

This wasn't their typical hunting ground, but none of this mimic's patterns were conventional. It was a ten-year feeding time. They always limited themselves to one heart each before moving on, but this mimic had already slain two women.

Killing them and disposing of their bodies in easy-to-find spots wasn't smart. Neither was parading around with the victims on the nights he murdered them. Hunters weren't the only ones searching for this guy. The police had a sketch of him they showed everyone they encountered, seeking him by name—Milo Phillips. If some unfortunate cop found him, there'd be another body added to his total.