Page 6 of Hunted

Some calls change the shape of a night. Some change everything that follows.

‘You’ve been summoned.’

There was a time when those three words would’ve turned my bones to water. Back when I still flinched at authority and before I grew into this skin I built for myself. Before I learned to wear my reputation like armour instead of a target.

I lean back in the chair and prop my boots on the edge of the desk, thick-soled Blackthorn Vectors, matte leather, reinforced toe, custom order, paid for in blood money and bad decisions.

I ignore the glare aimed my way and pick at a nail with the tip of my Widow’s Fang.

The blade hums faintly, the way it does when I’m bored or irritated or both. Long, curved, shadow-tempered steel, runic veining barely visible unless you know where to look. It doesn’t drink breath like the stories say.

It drinks intent.

Whatever wants me dead sharpens it. It’s balanced so perfectly it feels less like a weapon and more like an extension of my hand, and when everything else fails, it always comes back to me.

Some weapons are tools. This one chose me.

I roll it between my fingers, briefly considering the rest of my kit out of habit.

Bonebreaker knuckles for idiots who think fists are enough.

Arachne wire coiled tight at my wrist for when walls and wards get in the way. Revenant bolts tucked neatly in my thigh rig for anything that pretends it has a soul.

And the Mercy Pin threaded through my hair, slim and innocent, because nothing unsettles an enemy quite like realising too late what they missed.

‘Let me guess,’ I say lazily. ‘Some overeager billionaire misplaced a pet. Or a problem. Or a mistress who stopped being entertaining. Maybe a senator’s son grew fangs on spring break and someone wants it handled quietly before the press catches wind?’

Across the desk, Maribel Knox doesn’t smile.

She never does when she’s deciding whether to let me hang myself or step in first.

She’s third in line to the head of the New York office, late fifties, iron-grey hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her desk is aligned down to the millimetre, except for three pens currently out of order, and the only reason she hasn’t fixed them is because she’s focused on me.

‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘This isn’t frivolous.’

That gets my attention.

I flick my eyes to her face, still relaxed, still playing careless.

‘That’s disappointing. I was hoping for frivolous. Frivolous pays well and screams less.’

‘This is a serious request, Eira,’ she continues. ‘One you need to take seriously.’

I snort. ‘That’s adorable, Maribel. You know I don’t do “summoned” unless someone’s bleeding or a retrieval has torched the neutrality clauses. So which is it?’

Her mouth tightens. She exhales through her nose and finally realigns the pens, one by one.

When she looks back up, her gaze is steady. ‘You’ve been asked to meet Don Valentin Moretti.’

My fingers slip. The tip of the knife nicks my skin.

‘Shit,’ I mutter. Then, quieter, ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

It isn’t the pain I barely register.

It’s the blood.

The bead wells at my fingertip, bright and traitorous.