“She’s gone,” he says, bending over and picking up my body as easily as the demon did.
“So are they,” I say through the tears and the wave of dizziness that assaults me, and he nods with sad eyes.
“The witching hour has begun,” he says, just before my vision fades and I lose consciousness.
Chapter Two
Two years later
I stop, drop and roll. It’s what every kid learns to do in school when the fireman comes in and talks to your class in second grade. Except that’s for fire.
And this isn’t exactly fire.
Blue lightning streaks over me, crackling into a moose head on the wall and jarring it loose. Singed and smoking, the giant, antlered hunter’s trophy swings back and forth and then falls.
I reach out to catch it, but another jagged arc of lightning blasts it out of the air. It erupts into flame, bouncing off the wall and catching a couch on fire. The couch I was sitting on not two minutes ago, trying to enjoy a rare chance to watch a DVD I pillaged months ago from a mostly-standing rental store.
My brain is already processing the information at hand, transferring the knowledge to my hands and feet, kicking them into gear before I can fully comprehend what I’m dealing with.
Keep moving. That’s a rule. To stop is to die.
I roll onto my back and snap my legs forward, regaining my feet in one swift motion. My hands are grabbing at the magicked up throwing stars in my belt, which are laced with some kind of potion that cost me about ten cases of instant noodles that I scavenged from a burned out minimart on a highway in Arizona. The seller, an odd character named Tillman Huckle, drives a hard bargain.
The witch is moving, too, her long, unnaturally red hair flashing as she runs with graceful strides that don’t seem to touch the floorboards of the hunter’s lodge that’s been the closest thing to a home I’ve had since I left San Francisco and began my trek to the east coast. Raising a pale-white hand, she shoots another jagged, blue lightning bolt in my direction. I duck hard to the left and flick my wrist, the throwing star spinning away like a Nolan Ryan fastball, right into the path of the—
She abruptly changes direction and the sharp, metal star misses her, imbedding itself in the log cabin wall.
I’m about to chuck another one when she stops. Her mouth curls into a red-lipped smile, her green eyes seeming to cut almost through me. Strangely, my heart begins to race. I’ve fought dozens of enemies since leaving the west coast and each time have managed to stay as cool as fresh lemonade on a hot summer’s day, but now…
I feel unnerved.
She’s wearing a red, lacey dress that’s more like lingerie. A gown that’s meant to attract attention, ultra sexy. An odd thing for a witch to wear. She winks at me and my heart skips a beat. It never does that.
Ultra sexy just doesn't do it for me. Maybe I'm going against nature or a freak or something, but whenever I'd catch a touchdown pass and turn to the crowd, my eyes always skipped right past the short-skirt-wearing cheerleaders to Blythe, who would usually look up from whatever book she was reading to smile at me, her finger keeping her place. And I was never angry that she didn't see me catch the ball or score or anything, because, you know what? If the roles were reversed I'd have my nose in a book too, or be writing, or something other than watching a meaningless game. It was enough to know that she came to be there for me. The book nerd kind of girl is more my type, not the diva in front of me—and yet…
I can’t take my eyes off her.
She frowns, raises her hand, and I dive behind a table, pulling it down to create a bunker of sorts. The drapes over the window catch on fire as thousands of volts of electricity slam into them.
Leaping up, I snap off another throwing star. At the last second, I have the urge not to throw it, even to chase after it once it leaves my grip, but I bite back the desire and watch as the witch, now wide-eyed with surprise, tries to duck out of the way. She’s too slow and the star slices into her stomach, opening up a ragged gash.
There’s one thing I learned early on in my training: Witches bleed just like the rest of us.
Thick, red blood bubbles from the wound. Her eyes narrow for a moment, as if daring me to throw another, and then she rushes across the large room and through the lodge entrance, which is now missing its door.
I’m left speechless and wondering why I’m squeezing the third throwing star so hard that it’s cutting into my flesh.
Chapter Three
My name is Rhett Carter and I’m not a witch. Nor a warlock, or a warl as those of us in the business like to call them either. Not even a wizard, or a wiz. I’m just a seventeen-year-old kid—or at least I was before the world ended and you either had to become a man or die. I chose to become a man.
No, more than a man—a witch hunter. The few, the proud—yeah, we stole that from the Marines, but they’re not exactly around to complain.
I should be taking SATs and applying for college, but I’m not. I’m fighting witches. Day in and day out. Master says it’s what I’m born to do, but I’m not sure I buy that, just like I never believed my coach when he said I was born to play football.
The blood is seeping through the bandage on my hand, so I wrap another one around my palm, tighter this time, still pondering my options.
My secret hideout is no longer secret. I’ve been living in the mountains of West Virginia for near on six months now, doing my best to establish some sort of routine in a world that is all chaos and havoc. I push my thick glasses higher on my nose.
There’s a bark and the scrape of claws on wood, and Hex charges in, stopping only to sniff around the base of the broken door, which is leaning against the wall. My German shepherd looks up, cocking his head as if to ask, “Is there a reason you’ve removed the door?”
“A witch decided to invite herself in,” I explain.
Hex trots over, sniffs at my wounded hand, whines. “Fat lot of help you were,” I say. “Where were you, chasing squirrels again?”
Instead of answering, he licks my face. “All right, you’re forgiven,” I say. “But only this one time.” As if. Blythe used to say my soft spot for animals was the size of my entire body.
I bite back a roiling swell of sorrow. Don’t think about the past, for it will destroy you. Master’s words, as poignant and sharp as if he were here, tumble through my head like they always do.
Think, think, think.
The fires set by the witch’s lightning bolts were anything but normal, burning themselves out on their own, rather than spreading across the wood lodge like they should have, leaving black scorch marks on the couch and drapes. She escaped, but not before I could wound her, and the potion baked into the throwing star could very well kill her. But these things aren’t predictable, and if she survives…
Surely she’ll return, and next time it won’t be just her.
Most witches, warls and wizzes run in gangs these days, preferring to stick with their own kind for both protection and companionship. They tend to join gangs based on magical specialty. There are the Brewers and the Conjurers and the Necromancers and dozens more, new gangs popping up like weeds after a week of rain. And, of course, the Electros, those witches who can summon and control electricity. The way the red-haired witch threw lightning bolts around the lodge, it’s a good guess she’s one of them.
But if she happens to die from the throwing star…
Could I be safe here again? Could I replace the door and go back to living the way I have been? The thought of going back on the run makes my abs clench in frustration. A year spent living in random motel rooms, abandoned homes and cars has left me yearning for stability. And this lodge has given me that.