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Chapter 138: The Hunt in the Woods
The late-afternoon sun bled across the forest canopy, threading its dying light through the leaning columns of pine and oak. Shafts of gold sliced through the undergrowth, igniting motes of dust and drawing long, slanted bars of shadow that made the woods seem both sacred and dangerous. Each movement came alive in that fractured light — a curl of leaves, the flick of a tail, the soft whisper of intent before motion.
Through that shifting glow, Malia and Isaac moved. To any outsider, they might have looked like predators in play — two wolves testing instinct and reaction. But there was no laughter, no shared amusement in their eyes. This was training done in survival's name, sharp and unrelenting.
Malia lunged, claws flashing in a brief golden shimmer. Isaac twisted sideways at the last second, breath ripping from his chest as he barely avoided her strike. Her claws raked through the space his throat had occupied a heartbeat earlier, slicing nothing but the wind.
"Better," she said, circling him, voice calm but edged with challenge. "But you still telegraph your retreats. You fall back like prey that's already surrendered. You have to move like a predator — deliberate, calculating. Never give ground without purpose."
Isaac wiped a streak of sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling fast. "Little difficult," he muttered, "when the so-called lesson plan involves you trying to shred my face off."
Malia's mouth curved. "Then stop making it so easy."
He couldn't help the grin that followed — tired, crooked, but genuine. The tension between them softened for the briefest instant. He lunged again, no hesitation now, and she caught his rhythm with familiar ease. The clearing filled with the soft percussion of footfalls, breath, and the low rustle of pine needles underfoot. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt normal — the usual rhythm of training, the unspoken trust built between teacher and student. The air smelled of sap and damp soil, of forest life continuing unseen.
Then the wind shifted.
Malia froze mid-motion, her muscles going rigid as instinct surged to the forefront. Her nostrils flared, eyes flicking toward the west. "Do you smell that?"
Isaac paused, catching it a moment later — something acrid, metallic beneath the natural scents of the woods. His brow furrowed. "Leather… and oil."
The first arrow hissed out of the shadows, grazing past his ear to lodge in an ancient tree trunk with a dull thunk. Both of them ducked low at once, instincts honed from too many encounters like this one. Malia's eyes blazed amber, her lips parting on a low growl. "Hunters."
The forest erupted around them.
The attack came from all directions — coordinated, precise, and merciless. Edward's hunters moved like ghost silhouettes among the trees, spreading with military efficiency. There were no warnings this time, no missed shots. Flashbangs cracked through the air, white light splintering vision, ringing painfully through sensitive hearing. Isaac's world tilted from the blast, and before he could recover, Malia had thrown herself against him, driving them both to the ground just as another arrow screamed through the space where his chest had been.
"Move!" she barked, her voice raw with urgency.
They ran — darting through a chaos of bark and leaves, each breath searing their lungs. Bolts and arrows tore after them, splintering branches and kicking up dirt. Isaac shifted mid-run, muscles flexing, claws extending, ears pricked wide to the rhythm of pursuit. But even enhanced strength and speed couldn't mask reality — there were too many of them.
The hunters had herded them with surgical precision, closing the net tighter until the treeline fell away into a narrow clearing littered with traps.
A wire caught Isaac's ankle, jerking him off balance. Before he could right himself, Malia spun and tore it apart with her claws — but a dart struck her shoulder before she finished the motion. A sharp sting, followed by heat. Wolfsbane. She ripped it free with a snarl, but already her limbs felt heavier, slower.
Branches shifted to reveal Edward, emerging from the darkness like the forest itself had conjured him. His crossbow was poised, his eyes cold and unflinching. "Malia Hale. Isaac Lahey," he said, his voice measured but dripping with contained malice. "Exactly who I was hoping to find."
Isaac crouched low, eyes glinting gold, every nerve ready to strike — and then three red laser dots appeared on his chest.
"Don't," Malia rasped, her breath shallow, the poison dragging her down.
The air went still but tense, as if the forest were holding its breath. Isaac's expression burned with defiance; for a second, it looked like he might ignore her and attack anyway. But he exhaled slowly and let the transformation fade, shoulders squaring as he met Edward's gaze. "You're making a mistake," he said quietly.
Edward's face didn't change. "Oh, I've made plenty," he replied. "Trusting the Hales was one of them. I won't repeat it."
A younger hunter, face pale beneath streaks of camouflage paint, hesitated. "Why not just kill him and be done with it?"
Edward's jaw clenched. He holstered the crossbow, stepping closer until he could look Isaac in the eye. "Isaac Lahey might be the one who actually killed our people," he said evenly, "but he's just a boy. I'm sure it was the Hales that ordered him to do it."
He turned to his people. "Once we get his confession, Chris won't be able to ignore this anymore. He'll have to choose. And when he does — we'll finally end the Hales for good."
Before Isaac could respond, Edward lifted his crossbow, the motion smooth and practiced, and sent a dart straight into Isaac's shoulder.
The wolfsbane spread fast, freezing his limbs before pain had even fully registered. Two hunters broke off to seize him, dragging his limp frame upright. Another reached for Malia, hauling her to her knees before forcing her arms back. Even drugged, she glared up at Edward with pure hatred burning through the haze.
Edward gave the clearing one last slow glance, his eyes sweeping the broken branches, the scattered arrows, the sinking gold light of day's end. Then, with a brief signal, the hunters moved out — merging once again with the trees, silent as ghosts, efficient as machines.
When they were gone, the forest fell into uneasy stillness. Nothing remained but the echo of retreating footsteps and the faint, bitter tang of wolfsbane, twisting through the dying light like the memory of violence itself.