WARNING: This story contains strong language, depictions of violence, and depictions of domestic violence that may not be suitable for some readers.
"It's time to hunt."
Gunner is crouched in the window, his brown-orange eyes shining with anticipation of a good meal. It's been a while since someone's trekked through these parts of the woods. We're all starting to feel the effects of thirst but Gunner talks about it more than the rest of us. He drops into the room, his work boots thudding against the hollow wooden floor and leans over me. "Is there a problem?"
I stare back; refuse to break his gaze, refuse to be intimidated by his lumberjack build.
He digs his fingers into his beard and scratches until dandruff falls from the wiry brown hair like salt from a saltshaker. "You deaf, girl?" His lip pulls back over his stained teeth but before he can continue, Bri pipes up from the other side of the room.
"How many?" she asks, unfazed by Gunner's behavior. Candlelight dances across her delicate features as she swallows.
"One for each of us. Plus an extra." Gunner doesn't take his eyes off me, but I act like I don't notice. Instead, I flip through a cooking magazine from ten years ago.
Five. Five lives lost tonight.
"What are they doing out here?" Bri questions.
"Just a bunch of kids on spring break or something. Fuck, Bri! I don't know. Does it look like I went to get their life stories?" Gunner rips the magazine from my hands and throws it across the room in one quick motion.
My hands are still clenching the air where the magazine was sitting when he says, "You realize we can't eat that shit, don'tcha?"
I roll my eyes and let a frustrated breath leak from my lips. "Gunner, I swear to God. If you don't get out of my face—"
"Then what?" He's stooped over me again, a cocky smile glued to his face.
I jump to my feet and push him. "Back off, Gunner!" I wouldn't usually engage with him but my stomach's been twisted in a groaning knot for days and my fuse is short.
He digs his boots into the ground but crashes into the cabin wall anyway. "You bitch," he snarls and lunges forward, tangling his meaty fingers through my hair. He shoves me to the ground while I try to pry his hands off me.
"Get off her, Gunner!" Bri is shouting. She jumps onto his back and puts him in a chokehold. Heat pulses through my skull as Gunner tries to detach my scalp from the bone. Bri's shouting comes in through unintelligible waves until the front door slams shut. Relief is immediate. Gunner releases me. Bri drops from his back and clears her throat. My heart is still pounding in my ears as John lets out a long sigh.
"What on earth are you three doing?" His voice booms through the house.
"Gunner attacked Gwen," Bri answers, holding her head high despite Gunner's death glare. "So, I attacked him."
Gunner throws his hands out in exasperation. "She started it, Dad!"
"She started it, Dad," Bri mimics.
My lips pull into a grin. Sometimes I wonder how so much attitude can fit in such a small frame. Bri must be half a foot shorter than my 5'10 build, but it doesn't stop her from standing up for me whenever Gunner is in one of his moods.
John shakes his head. "Ya'll are acting like children." After lingering silence, he motions for us to follow him. "I'm thirsty. Let's keep this quick and clean." He glances at me. "It's your turn to get the extra. You up for it, kiddo?"
"I'll manage."
Gunner scoffs. "Doubt it." He crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look at me.
John sighs. "Knock it off, Gun. Or I'll make you stay here while we hunt."
"Dad!"
Even with Gunner's massive frame, his dad makes him look small. "I don't want any trouble tonight. Understood?"
With his eyes glued to the ground he says, "Yes, sir."
Bri pulls her curly hair into a bun and licks her teeth. She has the same glint in her eyes as Gunner now as they push through the front door.
I wait until they're out of the cabin to grab the cooking magazine from the dusty floor and shake the photo of me and my parents out of it. I tuck it in my back pocket and jog to catch up with the others.
It's unusually cold for a spring night but I like it. Keeps the bugs away. A layer of mist has already settled over the brush, leaving droplets in spiderwebs. I can hear the victims from the porch even though they're miles away. Faint laughter, the strumming of an untuned guitar, someone singing. My chest clenches. I don't remember the last time I fed. Thinking about sinking my teeth into a fresh meal makes my heart skip a beat. I'm almost hungry enough to ignore the guilt swelling in my chest. Almost.
One of them is wearing heavy cologne. The scent of fresh laundry and vanilla mixes with the pine in the air and the smoke from their campfire. I hope I don't get that one. Cologne always leaves a chemical taste on my tongue but knowing Bri and Gunner, they'll probably push their way to the others before I get a chance.
We cover the distance in silence, not quite jogging but still walking faster than humans do. The moisture in the twigs mutes everything, turning the snap of a twig into a squish. The humans don't notice us standing between the trees, mere feet away. They're still giggling and clinking red solo cups full of alcohol together when John steps forward, into the glow of their campfire.
One of the girls gasps. The rest of them go silent. They don't move, only stare at John with a knowing look in their eyes.
Gunner is so close to me, I can feel his breath on my shoulder as he whispers, "Goddamnit, Dad. Say it."
I push him away from me but he's too focused on our prey to retaliate.
This is our routine. John checks for any signs of hunters before we're allowed to feed. I've never been face to face with one, but I've heard stories of blood suckers being staked through the back while they're feeding because they weren't careful enough to check prior.
John grins. Even no-nonsense John can't contain his smile before a good meal. "You guys shouldn't have come here."
On cue.
Bri and Gunner leap from the trees and tackle their prey to the ground at the same time John pulls the man with the guitar into a chokehold. That leaves two for me.
The snobby-looking guy who's fumbling the keys of his BMW and the girl sleeping in the tent. I tackle the boy first and, without thinking, drive my teeth into his neck. His cologne coats my tongue, but it doesn't matter. I'm too hungry. My stomach cramps, begging for more but I can only drain him so fast. He's too weak to fight back by the time realization melts into his expression and regardless, I'm nearly immortal at night.
His green eyes lock with mine and I wonder what he's thinking as I drain the blood from his body. Is he surprised that a twenty-year-old woman is murdering him? Is he thinking anything at all? Is it painful or is he in too much shock to feel? Part of me hopes it's the latter but I push the thought down.
Gunner drops a woman next to me. Her pulse is faint.
I look at him curiously. He's walking away, a hand clamped over a bloody wound on his wrist.
"Don't drain her," he orders. "I'm turning that one." He starts walking toward the cabin. Once he's a good distance from us, he lets out a mix of a growl and a shout. The sound bounces off the trees, somehow louder in the night.
I don't need to ask what's bothering him. It's hard to leave blood in a victim. Especially after how long we've waited between meals. I watch him, expecting him to change his mind and come back to finish his human but instead, he breaks into a sprint, trying to put distance between himself and the girl.
"What's his deal?" Bri is standing over my shoulder. "Is he...," Her eyes land on the bloody woman on the ground, still gulping shallow breaths.
"Yeah." I nod and push the boy out of my lap.
"He's going to bond with her?" she presses.
I nod, wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yeah."
"Why?"
I ignore her question. I can't keep my eyes off the woman on the ground. She's too weak to move but her eyes are pleading. A shiver runs down my spine as the image of waking up in John's basement flashes through my head. I can still feel it. The fever, the body aches, my stomach turning until I'd puke. Nothing helped, not the wet washcloth John would drape over my forehead, not the painkillers I demanded, or the blood he tried to make me drink once my eyes shifted in color. I drop to my knees and lift the woman so her body is resting against mine.
"Gwen," Bri warns. "What are you—"
I sink my teeth into her neck and drain what's left of the blood from her body until her pulse stops thudding against my lips. By the time I look up, a red glow covers the campsite, bouncing off the tent, the ground, Bri's face. The BMW's brake lights are on.
"Fuck, fuck!" I push to my feet, try to get to the vehicle before my second victim can escape, but before I can cover the distance, the driver locks eyes with me in the rearview mirror and the tires peel out.
When the dust settles, it's only me and Bri. I'm going to throw up.
"Hey," she soothes. "Maybe—"
"She saw us, Bri." I shake my head. "She saw us draining her friends."
"Maybe not." She nudges my shoulder. "It's dark and..." She doesn't finish the sentence. "Look. John already left." She points a thumb over her shoulder. "Saw him chase after Gunner. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Let's go home and get some rest. Maybe it'll all blow over by morning."
I nod, but it's deflated. Even with the fresh blood, I can hardly get my legs to work. Bri is an optimist, but I saw the victim. I saw those green eyes watching us in the rearview mirror before she ran. She's going to tell everyone there are vampires living in the Bolton County Forest.