Page 11 of Vicious Kings
"What the fuck did you just?—"
Heat races through my veins, followed by a rush of adrenaline that makes my heart pound. The forest suddenly seems sharper, more vivid. Every sound, every scent intensified. Then, as quickly as it came, the sensation fades, leaving me dizzy and disoriented.
"What did you do?" I demand, steadying myself against a tree.
They're already climbing back into the vehicle. "Just making sure the hunters find their prey," the woman calls out.
Those sons of bitches.
The engine roars to life, and I watch them drive away, leaving me alone in the wilderness with nothing but a shit knife and whatever the fuck they just injected me with.
Perfect. Just fuckingperfect.
I turn toward the mountain, calculating the distance. At least fifteen miles through dense forest. In normal circumstances, I could make it in a few hours. But these aren't normal circumstances. I don't know half of what's in these woods. What I do know is deadly enough to send any sane hunter with a proper arsenal turning back.
The knife feels pathetically small in my hand as I start walking. Maybe that's the real plan. Maybe the Shepherd never intended for me to reach the Fae at all and this is just an elaborate execution, letting the forest do what their laws won't allow them to do to a fellow hunter who hasn't outright refused their orders.
There are no clauses for one of our carefully guarded bloodlines producing an omega.
A branch snaps somewhere to my left, and I freeze. Something's watching me. I feel that prickle of awareness that years of training has honed to a razor's edge.
I grip the knife tighter and keep walking.
If I'm going to die out here, at least I'll die on my feet, moving toward my goal. It's what my mother would have done.
The thought brings no comfort as the forest closes in around me, dark and hungry and full of things that would love nothing more than to tear me apart.
Maybe that would be the better fate than whatever awaits me at Valemyre.
Four
BILLIE
My feet are going to fucking murder me in my sleep. If I survive long enough to sleep again, that is.
I've been trudging through this godforsaken forest for what feels like days but is probably only hours. Time gets weird when you're lost, dehydrated, and possibly dying from whatever toxic shit they pumped into my neck. The sun's position tells me it's late afternoon, maybe early evening, but the thick canopy makes it hard to be sure.
The worst part? I'm walking in circles.
I know these woods. Not these specific woods, but woods in general. My training included extensive survival courses, navigation exercises, tracking lessons. I can find north with my eyes closed, follow game trails, read the subtle signs nature leaves for those who know how to look.
But this forest? This forest is fucking with me.
I've passed that same twisted oak tree five times now. The one with the trunk that splits into three parts like a pitchfork. First time, I thought maybe there were just multiple trees with similar deformities. Second time, I got suspicious. Third time, I carved a mark into the bark with my pathetic excuse for a knife. Fourth and fifth times, I confirmed what I already knew.
The forest is enchanted. Of course it is. Can't have random humans stumbling into Fae territory, can we? No, that would be too fucking convenient.
I lean against the traitorous oak, trying to catch my breath. The injection site on my neck throbs with each heartbeat, and when I touch it, my fingers come away sticky with clear fluid. The skin around it burns angry red, raised and hot. Infection? Allergic reaction? Some kind of delayed-release poison designed to make me suffer before I die?
Knowing the Shepherd, probably all three.
A wave of heat rolls through me, different from the fever heat of infection. This starts low in my belly and radiates outward, making my skin prickle and my clothes feel too tight, too rough against suddenly sensitive skin. It's like the initial rush from the injection but muted, simmering instead of explosive.
"Get your shit together, Moreau," I mutter, pushing off from the tree.
That's when I hear it. Water. Actual fucking water, not just the phantom sound my dehydrated brain has been conjuring for the last hour. The sound pulls me forward like a rope around my waist.
I stumble through undergrowth that seems to part before me now, as if the forest has decided to stop playing games. Or maybe it's just leading me into a different trap. Either way, I need water more than I need to be paranoid right now.
