Aria POV
Along with the sharp sting of Seattle's never-ending rain and the metallic flavor of ancient blood, the smell of terror and desperation clung to the abandoned warehouse like a second skin. I followed the renegade werewolf through the tangle of industrial waste while crouching behind a pile of decaying crates and breathing in controlled gasps.
Three weeks. Marcus Chen had been chasing this specific monster for that long before he called me in. Pioneer Square saw three weeks' worth of mangled bodies, each one ripped apart with the brutal accuracy that only a wolf who had lost all humanity could possess.
I clenched my fingers over my customized Glock's silver-core rounds. The conventional silver weapons, such as blessed swords, ancient artifacts, and ceremonial nonsense that were impressive but took too long to deploy, were preferred by the majority of hunters. I discovered the hard way that you need something that functions faster than pretty when you're up against a two-hundred-pound killing machine with superhuman power and speed.
The only sound in the warehouse was the constant trickle of water coming from the damaged skylights. Too quiet. Beneath my flesh, my wolf shifted nervously, amber eyes searching the darkness with my human gaze. I had an almost mystical intuition of where the rogues were going. After three years of chasing them, the attack came from above.
As the rogue fell from the rafters, his claws digging deep holes in the concrete where I had been crouched, I rolled to the left. His wolf partially transformed, elongating his face into something halfway between human and beast, and he was larger than I had anticipated, easily six and a half feet of muscle and fury. His eyes had the vacuous, predatory glare of a mind utterly possessed by bloodlust, and his muzzle was speckled with foam.
"Another hunter," he said, the partial shift distorting his voice. "You all have the same scent: Death, silver, and fear.
I circled away from the wall and murmured, "Funny," keeping my gun pointed at his center mass. "You smell like wet dog and poor life choices."
He made a lunge.
Before he had traveled half the distance between us, I shot him three times in the chest. He staggered but did not fall as the silver-core rounds made moist, meaty noises as they slammed through his partially altered hide. Rogues were dangerous in part because they were tough. They had given up their humanity in favor of a predatory instinct that encompassed an almost superhuman capacity for suffering.
However, I had three years of experience in this field. I was well aware of the damage required to permanently drop a rogue.
As he stumbled forward, the fourth bullet landed in his throat, and the fifth pierced his head right above his left eye. His body trembled as it attempted to decide whether to finish the transformation into wolf form or return to human form, and he fell like a stone. The decision was made for him by the silver poisoning; he froze in that hideous transitional state that would likely give the cleanup team nightmares.
I fought the typical mix of gratification and disgust that accompanied each slaughter as I stood over his body for a long time, breathing heavily. I excelled at this task. I had turned myself into this after all.
That specific line of thinking was interrupted before it could take root as my phone chimed. I took it out of my jacket pocket while absently observing that, even with the excitement still pumping through my veins, my hands were stable. I had learned that much, at least, from three years of practice.
"Blackwood."
"This is Marcus, Aria. Tell me you got him."
I looked down at the distorted figure of the renegade. "I got him. He will no longer be frightening college students.
"Thank God." Even through the little speaker on the phone, Marcus's relief could be heard. Regarding this, the mayor has been putting a lot of pressure on me. The wrong kind of attention was beginning to be drawn to rogues operating in the heart of downtown.
I said, "Always happy to help keep the supernatural community's secrets," as I started to make my way to the main entrance of the warehouse. Within an hour, the cleanup team would arrive to remove the body and disinfect the area. There wouldn't be any indication that a monster had ever used this building as a hunting field by tomorrow morning; it would simply be another deserted structure in Seattle's industrial area.
"That's actually the reason I'm calling. I have another task for you, but it's a little more complicated."
I stopped and placed my hand on the entrance of the warehouse. For nearly ten years, Marcus Chen has been organizing supernatural law enforcement for the Pacific Northwest. I had never heard him call anything "complicated" back then, unless it had to do with politics, old curses, or....
"Pack business," I uttered without having to pose a query.
"Yes. Actually, many packs. Alpha-level werewolves have been the target of someone along the coast. There have been four fatalities in the past two weeks, and the trend indicates that whoever is responsible won't be stopping anytime soon."
A chilly sensation settled in my abdomen. "How alpha-level are we talking?"
"They were all either candidates for leadership roles or the present pack leaders. Aria, the murderer, is aware of pack politics. He doesn't choose targets at random.
Pack politics. Even after three years apart, those two words have the power to make my chest tighten and my wolf pace nervously beneath my skin. I had scrupulously avoided all things related to pack business, pack territories, and pack hierarchies throughout those years. That was safer. cleaner.
I said, "I don't do pack jobs," without thinking.
"I understand. However, this is not the same. The best hunter available is what the Supernatural Council wants when they get involved. Whether you like it or not, that is who you are.
The finest hunter on the market. I had been a helpless, terrified girl three years prior, unable to even defend myself from a verbal or physical assault. Currently, when other hunters were in over their heads, they phoned me. The change ought to have been gratifying. Rather, it simply felt... essential.
"What makes you think this is connected to pack politics specifically?" I knew I would regret my response when I asked.
"A calling card was placed at the final scene by the murderer. The victim had ancient werewolf emblems engraved on their chest. Items that are centuries older than the current pack system. The person behind this is not only aware of werewolf society, but is well ingrained in it.
I felt the icy metal seeping through my jacket as I leaned against the warehouse wall and closed my eyes. ancient symbolism of werewolves. Pack politics. Many alphas have died. I had been avoiding issues for the past three years, and this job was screaming them out.
"Where's the meeting?"
"Tonight, tomorrow. The Northgate Community Center is a neutral location. Representatives from the impacted packs are coming, and the Supernatural Council requests a thorough update on our current understanding.
"And you want me there because?"
"Because you are the only hunter I truly trust who has a thorough understanding of pack dynamics. The majority of my people are human, whereas the others are not. Marcus hesitated, picking his words wisely. "Let's just say they don't have your particular insight into werewolf politics."
My perspective. It was a tactful way of emphasizing that I was the only hunter on his roster who had experienced public rejection from a pack and knew how nasty werewolf politics could get.
Pushing off from the wall, I said, "Fine," and made my way to my motorcycle. But this isn't a favor I'm doing. If this turns out to be as messy as it sounds, I'll charge my normal fees plus hazard compensation.
"Finished. Aria? Marcus's voice grew a little softer. "I understand that you find this difficult. If anyone else was around..."
"There isn't," I interrupted him. "And we are both aware of it. I'll meet you at night tomorrow."
After hanging up and putting the phone back in my pocket, I kicked my bike to start it up by swinging my leg over it. The sound of the Ducati's engine roaring to life sounded like barely contained violence, which felt fitting for my current state of mind.
Pack politics. There are four deceased alphas; ancient symbolism of werewolves.
And I would be entering a room full of people tomorrow night who had spent the last three years thinking that my rejection had either killed me or left me permanently damaged. Those who had witnessed Kieran Steele stand before the whole Crescent Moon Pack and say that I wasn't good enough to stand at his side, wasn't strong enough to be his Luna, and wasn't worthy enough to have his mark side.
I revved the engine and drove away from the warehouse neighborhood, returning to my Capitol Hill apartment. As I made my way through the late-night traffic, the city lights merged into neon and gold streaks, and the rain had intensified while I was inside.
Three years. It took me three years to completely rebuild myself and learn how to be strong enough that no one would ever again think I was something frail and disposable. I avoided anything that would make me think of the girl who had trusted in fairy tales and happy endings for three years.
Marcus was now requesting that I return to that planet and confront those who had witnessed my degradation and had done nothing to stop it.
Refusing him would be the wise move. to keep chasing rogues and let others handle pack politics. Marcus was correct, though; no one else possessed my unique set of abilities and wisdom. And there was an alpha killer out there who knew enough about werewolf culture to take it personally.
This implied that a name I knew might eventually appear on the killer's list.
I had already decided by the time I pulled into the parking garage of my building. I would confront whoever the packs had sent when I entered that community center tomorrow evening. After completing my work and getting paid, I would return to my well-planned existence of ignoring the past and chasing monsters.
However, I couldn't get rid of the notion that this work would be different as I made my way up the stairs to my third-floor apartment. The cautious barriers I had erected around the aspects of myself that still hurt from earlier wounds were going to be broken if I returned, even for a short time, to the realm of pack politics.
Running would be the wise course of action. to relocate to a distant place, away from the ghosts that lurk in the shadows, and pack up my apartment.
However, I had previously attempted running, but it had not been successful. I was going to take on whatever came my way this time.
Even if I were dead.