The Hunted

By C.J. Hart

Just your average boy-meets-girl, boy-kills-people story.

The Native American Navajo tribe has stories of a monster so wicked, so blood-thirsty, that they are to be hunted down and slaughtered. But are they just legends? Or is something sinister lurking in the shadows? The Yee Naaldlooshi—skinwalkers—have the ability to transform themselves. And they can be anyone. Anything.

The Hunters—a group dedicated to tracking the creatures—are hot on their trail and they won’t stop until every last one is dead. But are they all as evil as foretold? Seb, alpha of the Taylor, Arizona reservation pack, begins to question the acts of their kind. But he’s broken a rule and must choose between killing the girl he loves or risking everything to save her. Cassie must fight for her survival. The pack is after her. And they’re no joke. Cass is about to find out how sadistic they can be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CTP Publishing
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634220262

C.J. Hart

C.J. Hart (Also known as RenÉe Swann and Renée Shearer.) Renée Shearer writes young adult fiction under the name of C.J. Hart. Renée is a full-time writer who lives in Sydney, Australia, with a crazy pooch named Abbey and a boisterous, somersaulting rescue budgie named Kaleb. Her days are spent living in her fictional worlds and consuming way too much caffeine. She has an (unhealthy?) obsession with all things cupcake- and coffee-related plus Kerouac and YA dystopia/fantasy books. Renée can often be found surrounded by books, marathoning crime shows and munching on vegan goodies, on Twitter, Pinterest, or dancing in a rainstorm. Renée hopes to one day visit Rio and is currently learning Brazilian Portuguese.

Book preview

Freaks. That’s what we are—creatures of little girls’ nightmares, free and uninhibited. Born into a world of torture and witchery. Controlled only by our deranged thirst for human blood and flesh. And by our one rule: Never, never mingle with the enemy.

But we are not always safe. Where there are the Yee Naaldlooshii—skinwalkers—there are the Hunters.

We are the forsaken.

The hunted.

I remember the day my mother died. It was cool, the middle of an Aeston, Arizona winter. Dad had soup heating on the stove. Our tabby cat, Lizzy, was curled on her stomach, purring softly. And I was by Mom’s bed—painfully aware of her last breaths, the rattle of her airways, the blue tint to her lips—as she beckoned me closer.

I climbed onto the mattress and clasped her cold, frail hand in mine. Mommy?

Cass, she said, barely a whisper. Promise me, you’ll look after your dad. Her chest heaved as she coughed. Crimson spluttered onto her lips.

I reached for a handkerchief from the side table.

Cassie. Her eyes slipped out of focus.

I promise, I said. Tears crashed down my six-year-old cheeks as I wiped her mouth.

The monitor’s beeping halted. As the daughter of a doctor, I knew too well what this meant.

I screamed, Mommy! Hoping she’d hear my desperate cries and come back to me. She didn’t. I squeezed her hand until my knuckles grew white. Mommy! Salt water dribbled over my cheeks.

Dad sprinted into the room. Someone dragged me away from her. Uncle Scott. I caved, let my hand drop from hers—how could I fight someone four times my size? He lifted me into his arms and carried me out. Lizzy scampered behind us.

I would’ve promised her anything, sold my soul even, if it meant she would drift off peacefully. She was my mother. And though she’d been sick for months, at six it was hard to grasp that she was gone and what this meant for my future.

Never again would the kitchen smell of her gingerbread cookies at Christmas or fresh bread on weekends. Never again could I hug her. Hold her. She wouldn’t see me grow up.

***

Eleven years later, I wrap my arms around myself, hoping she’s there in spirit. Is she watching over me? Is that one of the prestigious, theological questions no one can answer?

One of the many mysteries of life, I guess.

I hear the front door click shut, and then clomping down the hall. Dad’s home. Is it six-thirty already?

His head pokes into the living room, where my homework is migrating over the coffee table. Hey, kid. He bends to press his lips to my head.

How was work? I concentrate on a math problem.

He blows a sigh as he collapses onto the couch. I can see the weight of the world settle around him.

Big accident on the highway, he says. As usual, he spares me the details.

Trying to protect me, I figure. But I always push the boundaries. Any casualties?

His chocolate-brown eyes dart to me for a nanosecond, and then back to the mute TV. Four.

I gaze at my father, scruffy and beyond exhaustion, already slipping into slumber. Sometimes, I feel sorry for him. Losing his wife to cancer. A high-stress job. And only a boldly curious daughter and an elderly cat to come home to. Other times, I feel as if we’re just roomies. Cordial and distant. Opposites. Should I dial a pizza?

He nods once, eyes half closed. I stand.

Grab me a cold one while you’re up, will ya, Cass?

Sure thing, Dad. I slip into the kitchen, grab the cordless, and yank open the fridge.

When I return, he’s asleep. I smile, bend to kiss his temple, and throw a blanket over him. Sweet dreams, Dad.

I hitch a black-and-blue backpack onto my shoulders.

Going hunting? Ash’s red eyes burn bright with ridicule.

Uh-huh, I say.

Jo, Tas, and Shi mumble, incoherent, as they devour a plateful of Mom’s oversized blueberry muffins.

Yeah, and bring us back a human or two. Jo chuckles maniacally, bits of fruit and muffin falling from his mouth.

He’s like a rabid dog—sometimes I wonder if he should be put down.

Ash claps me on the back. I second that.

In your dreams. I smirk and turn to go.

Aw, don’t be like that, Ash says, a vicious smile on his thin lips.

Screw you.

Kat pads over to me. I’ll walk you out.

I traipse into the kitchen. Mom’s mixing up another batch.

Hungry boys, aren’t they? she says, smiling.

They’re just jealous. I return her grin.

She pretends to shoo me. Go on. Both of you. I’ve got work to do. She returns to her mixing bowl.

Bending, I press my lips to her cheek. Love you.

Her hands cup my face. Me, also.

Kat drags me out of the door. Want me to come with?

I roll my eyes. You mean ‘can I come’?

He shuffles his feet. Yuh—okay—whatever.

No.

Aw, why not?

’Cuz I said so, I joke.

Kat straightens; smiling, mocking. Yessir, Alpha Seb. He salutes me.

I allow myself a chuckle. We’re not in the army.

He shrugs.

You can come next time, I promise. Okay?

He punches my shoulder. Okay.

And watch out for Mom. Make sure Ash doesn’t harass her.

He is a bit of a doucheface. Kat snaps to attention. Beta Kat accepts challenge.

Kat’s like the prankster brother I never had. Or wanted. ’Kay, I’ll be back in an hour or so.

The night has begun to creep in. Spooky shadows and hooting owls. A chill shimmers up my spine. Humans have long locked themselves away in their houses. The rez isn’t a place you want to be out in after dark.

Good thing I’m not human.

I sprint into the forest, deep enough so no one can see me strip. When I reach the third fallen log, I stop. Kicking off my shoes, I crumple my shirt and jeans, stuffing them into the backpack and tugging the zipper closed. I cram it in a log.

The prickling of my skin intensifies as my hunger for flesh and blood grows, twisting and churning my stomach. Tugging at my muscles. I leap into the air. Hands and feet turn to paws, fingers and toes to claws. Fur spreads over my whole body, gray with circles of black on my back.

I raise my muzzle into the air and suck in a deep breath. Rust, salt, and sinew fill my nostrils. East. The lake. I pad towards it, silent and starving. Then it hits me. Like a brick wall shooting up, keeping me in my place. Staggering back as the scent of roses and coffee floods my airways, I shake my head to rid myself of the stench. Where’s it coming from? I must find out. I need to. It’s too mouthwatering to resist. I spin, sampling the air around me. West. I charge through the forest, paws crashing against leaves and bracken. I’m making too much noise. I’ve forgotten to care. Lost all rational thoughts.

I pass the invisible border dividing Aeston and Taylor.

A house appears at the edge of the trees, its exterior brown and gray. A blonde girl sits on the porch, candlelight sparking across her face. I freeze, claws digging into soil. She’s reading. The light breeze brings her scent to me. Coffee and roses. Such a sweet, decadent aroma. My mouth waters. She can’t be more than seventeen. I creep as close as I dare, curious. Her hazel eyes dart across the page. What’s she reading?

She doesn’t see me. I slink closer, leaning out of the trees.

A male voice cuts through the air. Dinner’s ready.

Her head snaps up. Coming, Dad! She marks her page, snuffs the candle flame, and then disappears inside.

I wait. Minutes or hours pass. A light in an upstairs room illuminates. The curtains close. Moments later, the curtains open and the light is extinguished.

I must see more.

Cassie

When I wake, my room is still dark. My skin is peppered with tiny bumps, though it’s hot enough in here to cauterize my organs and dry out my lips. I lay frozen, ears pricked up, listening for the sound that stripped me of sleep.

Rustle, rustle, snuff. Rustle, rustle, snuff, snuff.

Curious and petrified, I open one eye and squint into the night. Is someone in my room? Something? Tree shadows dance across the darkened green walls. It’s quiet again. For a moment, I’m convinced it’s all in my head. Then a movement by the window jolts me. I drag my eyes to the glass.

No way. No. I cannot believe it.

At first, I notice its gray fur, matted in places around its muzzle and ears. Then its spearmint-green, glowing irises lock with mine.

Heat pinballs up my spine, firing signals into my brain. Run! Run!

Kelley—who I’ve known my entire life, Dad’s oldest and dearest friend—warned me of these creatures. Bloodthirsty monsters who can appear to be anyone, anything. They taunt us, track us, and feed on us. The survival rate is nil. And though I’ve never seen a skinwalker up close before, I am not afraid. Something in his eyes tells me not to be. They’re calm, curious. Friendly. Kind. There’s pain in them too, and I can’t help wondering why a sadistic creature would feel anything other than menace.

When I dare for a closer look, a leg tangles in the sheets and I stumble out of bed. I fall on my face. Ow. My nose presses into the oak. I swivel my head towards the window. The wolf is gone, a ghost in the night. Just your imagination, Cass. The moonlight playing tricks.

I try to convince myself that is the answer, but it doesn’t work. Throwing open the window, I lean out. Rain drops splash onto my face. The wind is like icicles on my flesh. My eyes scrape across the yard. Is my wolf out there, cloaked in the shadows? I guess I’ll never know.

I shut the window and tiptoe back into bed, where I wait for sleep to find me. But after twenty minutes of lying there, I’m wide awake. I roll over and clench my eyelids shut. In the distance, howling ensues. My wolf? It brings a comfort to me that I’ve sorely missed.

I drift off, listening to his broken cries.

I can’t stop my thoughts from turning to her, to how utterly stupid I’ve been. Ash would never be caught dead lusting after a human girl. It’s breaking our most important rule. I should stop thinking. Distract myself with a hunt.

But I can’t.

I need to see her again…

My wolf’s howls haunt me throughout the day, ringing in my ears, distracting me in classes. I drop my eyes to my English notebook. Blank. Is someone taking notes? Did I hear Mrs. Browne mention an essay?

An elbow slams into my ribs. Hey, are you listening to me? says my best friend, Eve.

I mumble, Something about …? I search my brain for the answer. Wolves?

What? Her face crinkles in disgust. No. I asked if you wanted to go to the movies on Friday?

Sure. Dad’s working a double shift at the hospital that night anyway.

Should we find us some dates? She grins and wiggles her eyebrows.

Too distracted to form a proper answer, I repeat, Sure.

She giggles. I know someone who has the hots for you.

My head spins in her direction. Who?

She leans across her desk and whispers, Marcus.

I snort. Marcus Wyatt, the quarterback of the school’s football team? No way. I shake my head. A jock? So not my type. Isn’t he unavailable?

I can persuade him to ask you out, she says.

Gee, um—

Her smile falters. Or Liam.

I follow her line of sight. He is gorgeous, all right. But I am more interested in solving the gray wolf mystery. "Thought you liked him."

Heat creeps into her cheeks.

I turn to Eve again. Know anything about wolves with green eyes?

She lifts an eyebrow. Okay, we definitely need to find you a date. I think English has made you nuts.

I roll my eyes, knowing she would say that. The only thing I can count on her for is finding me a freakin’ date when I don’t even want one.

Her ice-blue irises skip over my features. Okay, spill. What’s with this new wolf obsession of yours? She flicks a finger at my notebook.

It’s now covered in wolf sketches. I flip it over. It’s nothing.

Come on, she says. Spill.

I shake my head. Eve will just interrogate me, and then she’ll blab to the whole school. I’ll be known as The Wolf Girl in no time. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Mrs. Browne clears her throat. You girls done gossiping?

Sorry, I say, burying my face in my notebook.

We’ll be talking about this later, Eve whispers.

I’m sure we will, at length.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of English, Marcus is waiting outside for me.

Can I walk you to history? He takes my books.

Sure. As if I have another option. Don’t you, you know, have a girlfriend to walk to classes? Tori will be pissed if she finds out.

He leads me towards building six. She’s sick.

Oh. Yay me.

Eve catches my eye as she passes and winks. I stare her down. Backstabber.

He notices my still-open notebook of wolf sketches. What’s this?

Ripping the book from his grasp, I shove it in my backpack. Nothing. I was bored.

You’re good. I didn’t know you could draw, he says. Tori would be happy to have another artist in the group.

I doubt it. Tori doesn’t like anyone very much.

A horde of students sprint past, shoving each other. One guy falls face-first onto the brick pavement. I stop to help him, but Marcus tugs on my arm. We continue to history.

You comin’ to the party on Fri? he says, hopeful.

Nah. Eve and I are going to the movies.

Too bad. I hear it’s gonna be epic. Cops might even show up.

As long as it’s not my uncle, I tease.

He chuckles. Yeah. He can be a bit, uh… His eyes cut to mine.

Harsh?

He nods, smirking.

The bell chimes.

That’s our cue, I say and dash into the classroom.

Marcus takes the empty table for two and smiles, pulling out the chair next to him.

There’s no way I’m putting myself in Tori’s warpath. I take a seat next to Miley. Hey.

Hi. She flicks a furtive glance towards my escort.

Marcus is leaning forwards to chat with Liam.

He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I take out my notebook and history textbook. I’ll retrieve the others from him after. How was your weekend?

Exhausting. Dad made me help him clean out the garage.

Why?

He says he wants to keep his car in there.

But you’ve always used the garage as storage.

I know. That’s what I told him.

And?

"He watches Hoarders too much. Thinks one day we’re gonna drown in our junk. How was yours?"

I open my mouth to answer—

Mr. Lucas clears his throat. Class, settle down.

We quieten.

The day passes quickly. Faces, words, school—all a blur in my mind. My brain is haunted by images of the previous night, distracted by those glowing eyes. As I tap my car’s key fob, I see Marcus leaning against my crimson Elantra. His Jeep is nestled next to mine. Fantastic.

Hey. He pushes away from the side panel.

Hi, I mumble, eager to get in my car.

How was math?

"Awesome."

His brow puckers.

I blow a sigh. Sorry, it’s just I… I really want some ice cream, and I need you to go home to your girlfriend, Marcus. It’s my turn to cook tonight. Gotta get to the market.

Sure, okay. He manages a smile. See you tomorrow.

Uh-huh. I yank open the door and slip in.

I skip the supermarket—we have everything I need to make butter chicken at home—and head for Rocky Roads.

Eve greets me with her usual saccharine smile. Cass! Come to continue our conversation? Tell me everything Marcus said!

Actually, I came for the ice cream. I slide onto a barstool.

Her eyes assess my face. You look like you need a triple scoop. Chocolate fudge?

Hit me.

While she scoops ice cream into a bucket, I tell her about my day.

That’s fab! She adds sprinkles and caramel sauce.

I feel my face scrunch. No, it’s not. He has Tori. It’s creepy.

I guess. Handing me her creation, she rests her forearms on the counter. But a hot guy talking to you is something, you have to admit.

I’d rather it be a single hot guy.

Soda? she says.

I nod.

What do you know about Kerouac?

Why? I say, scooping ice cream onto a spoon and bringing it to my mouth.

Didn’t you see the essay question on the board in English?

So, I was right—there is an essay.

I shake my head. You know Mrs. Browne—she leaves things up for ten seconds and then wipes it off.

True. She passes me a pink-and-white striped paper cup. I’ll let you copy it out of my book if we can research it together… She flashes me a hopeful grin.

I already know his life back to front, as I read his biography last summer. Sure. I sip my drink. Cola.

He was a writer, right?

Yes, from the fifties, I say around a mouthful of dessert.

Grandad says all they did was drink, party, and smoke weed back then.

Among other things.

A young couple enters the shop.

What can I get you? Eve says to them.

A scoop of mocha, says the man, another of tiramisu, and two hot chocolates.

Sure thing. Eve busies herself with their order as the couple moves to the table in the corner.

My cell phone chirrups. Retrieving it from my pocket, I swipe the screen.

Dad: Emergency at the hospital. Be home late. Take money from the tin for dinner.

Dinner for one again. A sigh escapes my lips. Nothing unusual. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

Eve delivers the ice cream and beverages to the customers. Have a great night! she says to them before swiveling to me. Why the sour face?

What’re you doing tonight? I say.

She thinks for a beat. Nothing much.

Wanna work on that essay? Includes dinner of your choice.

Sure!

What time do you finish?

She peeks at the clock. At four-thirty. I’m not closing tonight.

Cool. Is five okay?

Five sounds great.

Standing, I hand her five one-dollar notes. "Keep the change. I better go.