Hunter

By A.M. Yates

A Hunter Always Finds His Scout...

A year ago, Dee traveled to another world--the Crescent--and left it in ruins.

She swore she'd never go back.

In the aftermath of their society's collapse, Hunter and Crystal have been forced into hiding. But when a new faction rises to seize control of the Crescent, the threat to Hunter and Crystal becomes dire. And there's only one person who can help them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Yates
• Release date: Aug 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943746088

A.M. Yates

a.m. yates collects pieces of souls. She meets with dead Russian writers in bamboo forests to discuss the color of the sunlight in the water. She seeks exceptions and similarities over generalities and differences. She feeds almost every stray the muse drops at her door and adopts out only the most demanding few. She suffers from two terrible addictions, both involving words. She has a life story, but it isn’t finished yet.

Book preview

Prologue: The End of Time

"Hello, lover."

He knew she was on his trail, but hearing her voice made his shoulders stiffen, like slug mucus hardening into rock-solid paveglass.

Gently, he laid the satchel down. At his back, a pitted wall, fifteen feet high. Two others loomed on either side, forming a narrow alley. To his right, a broad door, securely locked.

No escape.

A stupid place to be, it seemed.

And from the cocky grin tilting Wave’s lips, she thought so too.

Behind her, his old squad. They looked healthy and fit. Their Unpenetrate uniforms clean and well cared for.

Wave tossed a shaggy hank of blond hair off her forehead. Though her eyes were obscured by her mask, he knew the weight of her gaze—where it was, how it felt, how it moved. He’d spent his entire life learning it. She’d always been there, either nipping at his heels or trying to lick them. But of the things he missed about his old life—nearly everything—he didn’t miss her. Not even a little.

Nothing to say? she asked, pretending to pout.

The others shifted, restless.

Their anxiety scented of warm urine and cold sweat. All except Wave. As always, she was confident—a hot, metallic aroma, smelted gold.

You knew I would find you, sooner or later, she said.

He felt her attention slide away, like having a fallen tree limb lifted from his chest. Most likely, she was searching the alley’s dark corners, as if Chase or Tagger might be hiding there. But he was alone.

The weight of her gaze returned.

Haven’t gotten the scent of your stealer yet, she said, her tone slipping from breezy casual to hard biting. Did she run off? I guess you can’t count on a stealer, not even when you’re bonded.

Tension wound about his chest like Weaver’s Threads around his heart.

Oh… touchy. She bared a malicious smile. Don’t want to talk about your little stealer?

No. He didn’t.

He didn’t want to talk about her.

He didn’t want to think about her.

He wanted to erase her from his mind, from history, from every world ever woven.

He wanted to lie down without thirsting for her, sleep without seeing her, wake without aching for her.

She’d been gone for over a year, but the torment only intensified. The blood-bond exerted its power over him relentlessly.

A mocking smile played across Wave’s mouth. The others were glum. But not Wave. She liked to toy with pain, make it last.

His thumb tapped the tips of his fingers, counting the seconds.

His Unpenetrate suit was heavier than it should have been, dirty. It hadn’t been vac-dusted since Time had stopped. Normally, Unpenetrate was light and flexible, a second skin that couldn’t be punctured by any weapon of any known world. But it wouldn’t stop a blow from hurting or bruising or breaking.

That’s what Wave wanted—to hurt, to bruise, to break.

His eyes ticked up to the channel of sky visible between the lowering buildings.

Gouts of dawn’s light stained the undersides of the clouds crimson.

Atoll’s pack of hunters, the Prime, made regular use of scent-obscuring latents. If they were close, he wouldn’t be able to scent them. And aside from the scurrying of the flickers—tiny, purple-spotted lizards dwelling in the cracks and crevices of the city—the turbid morning air was silent.

Wave opened up her arms as if asking for a dance. Shall we?

Actually, he would’ve preferred to wait a few minutes, but that would’ve meant stalling Wave with conversation, and he’d never enjoyed talking to her. She was a hunter, through and through. Fight, mate, eat. She had the depth of a slug puddle.

He inclined his head, accepting.

She sprang.

Poor Wave, so quick to act, so slow to think.

He feinted, sinking to his knees, throwing his fist into her stomach.

The others would wait a little while. Let Wave play.

She was their lead now. But since she hadn’t won it, they’d hold back long enough to see which of their leads was truly the stronger, the current or the former.

Wave absorbed his punch and then hooked her foot behind his ankle, trying to topple him—failing.

Her strength was in her legs, and she would use them as much as she could.

He didn’t think anything other than hit, duck, kick, dodge.

Internal clock spinning out of sync, time slowed and sped up again with each throb of his pulse, each strike that connected, each blow she dealt.

He was weak. They could smell it.

Hunger had a tinny scent, like old blood, only sour. And he stank—tinny and sour. Food wasn’t easy to come by in the Time After.

The Time After her.

Nor was he accustomed to the way his body worked now. How quickly he tired, how his head throbbed when he fought, how hits that once would’ve sent Wave flying, now only caused her to stumble.

But he had grown quicker, lighter on his feet, better able to evade.

Ducking her swing, he jammed his shoulder into Wave and drove her back into the wall.

Hearing her head smack against the stone fueled the starving, wounded animal inside of him.

All at once, his fury exploded.

His fists flew, pummeling soft flesh, cracking bone, missing altogether and slamming into the wall behind her, busting through the stucco and sending up clouds of white dust.

Under his suit’s protective layer, his skin split.

The Unpenetrate, sensing the injury, absorbed the blood and applied gentle pressure to stop the flow.

Wave’s strikes grew limp, losing precision, blocks failing.

A weakened opponent gave off an aroma of crab stew with big chunks of butter tubers and spicy peppers—his favorite dish. And he was starving.

He unleashed a volley that would’ve killed another person—an educer or a leader or a stealer, maybe even another, weaker, hunter.

But Wave was KETS. She’d been one of his. And they’d been Tip. The best of the best. Monochrome.

Blood spattered the wall behind her. Her eyes rolled and lost focus.

He’d tasted Wave’s blood before, when they’d sparred, when she’d challenged him—which she’d done more than once, even when they’d been on the same squad, the same pack, the same family. Before, her blood had tasted familiar, like home, but now it was rust and death.

He had no home.

At last, the others interceded.

They ripped him back, hitting him from every side, spinning him, jamming boots into his spine.

He bit his lip. Blood washed over his tongue, but it no longer tasted right either. Too thin.

He was slammed down onto the ground, face-first.

They kept kicking. Wiry Tephra. Broad-faced Strat. Tough little Delta. Hulking Ridge. His former squad, beating him into oblivion.

A cavernous howl filled his ears—the sound of his consciousness falling into the darkness. Obviously, they weren’t going to kill him. If they’d wanted to do that, they would have already.

No, he knew the way the leaders on the Upper Horn thought, especially now that they were struggling for control. They’d want to make a public example of him. For his treachery, his betrayal. Not let him die in a forgotten alley in the Scythe. There would be no advantage in that.

What’s this? a booming voice asked, interrupting the barrage of kicks assailing him.

Finally.

The alley wasn’t quite as forgotten as it might have first appeared, which, of course, was why he’d led Wave and the squad here.

Clear off, Strat commanded, this has nothing to do with you.

Oh, hasn’t it? the voice said.

I’ll say it one more time, gutter-mutt, Strat barked. Clear off!

The alley echoed with the dark roll of drunken laughter.

This is the Cut, chrome-licker, the deep voice boomed. Don’t walk the Blade ’less you got the blood to trade.

Pushing through the welter of pain, Hunter rolled onto his side.

Atoll’s Prime hunters filled up the end of the alley. The Prime were late from their carousing at the rumble houses. They were usually back before dawn. Maybe Atoll didn’t have as tight a leash on his packs as he should’ve.

Hunter dragged his body upright, grimacing as fierce, dizzying, pain-inspired protests screamed through him.

Atoll’s hunters came in every shape and size, from fat, calloused monsters to lizard-lean, bug-eyed scrappers.

Hunter had never respected the Lower Horn’s hunters—unable to scent, lacking all trace of the gifts, never properly trained to fight—but that was Before.

In the After, he’d learned respect. They’d made certain he did. They hadn’t bested him, but they’d given him pain. Upper Horn hunters fought because they were bred to; Lower Horn hunters fought to survive. In that was a kind of ferocity no amount of training could instill.

He glanced over at Wave. She was slumped against the door of the Prime’s bunkhouse. Her eyes fluttering, her head lolling.

He slipped back into the shadows.

Growls issued from his former squad—deep, heart-trembling. He knew they sent chills through the hunters of the Prime. Not that they showed it, but their fear curdled the air, ranker than week-old fried and vinegared fish. When the Prime were afraid, they became senselessly violent.

He scooped up his satchel, slinging it over his head and across his chest. Pain shot through his shoulder, up into his skull.

Lodging his toe into one of the wall’s many crevices, he climbed up to a weedy patch of terrace still wet from the earlier rains. Mud squelched under him.

Below, the two groups crashed into each other—four against twelve.

From his vantage, they were nothing but writhing shadows, growling and screaming and howling, blood spilling, bones crunching, flesh crying out. Scents of hot iron, of burning salt, a necrotic pungent sweetness, the stench of living and dying at once.

He pushed through the tangle of vegetation, clambering uphill. It would take hours to climb the mountain; longer, now that he was injured.

Once he was on pavement he’d use one of the scent-obscuring consumables. As soon as he could be certain he wasn’t leaving any other trail behind. And he wouldn’t.

In the past year, he’d learned how to survive.

scene break

Crystal rose from the rough-hewn trestle table. Her worry stank like pickled onions.

But it was a relief to see her. To see she was safe.

What happened to you? she asked.

Tagger was at his back, trailing him into the little cabin. More slowly, Chase stood from where he’d been sitting with Crystal. He, too, smelled worried, but it was a drier scent, a more resigned one. Tagger and Chase were the only members of Hunter’s former squad who had remained loyal to him.

He plunked the satchel onto the table.

Moss, Crystal’s father, rose from his workbench and hurried to the stone hearth, pushing a big black pot of water over the flames, throwing green wood on the fire. It hissed and screamed as the fire worked needy fingers into its tender flesh.

The front room of the cabin was large enough for the five of them. He, Tagger, and Chase shared a room in the back. Moss and Crystal each had their own. They’d built it together, gathered and hewn the wood, followed Moss’s instructions on how to construct the walls, the roof, everything. They were hunters, not builders, but they’d done it. And they’d kept it secret and safe, even with Wave and every other former KETS hunting them.

Crystal rushed away, into the back hall.

Chase was watching him. It felt like a cool hand on his throbbing shoulder.

I’ll take post, Chase said and strode out.

Tagger dug into the satchel, sorting the provisions Hunter had received in exchange for the meager extracteds they’d had to barter with.

Pulling out a large, green, shell-like fruit, Tagger held it up.

Yum, clamfruit. He grinned, ripping apart the fruit and slurping the pinkish flesh with relish.

Hunter eased onto the bench, hiding a grimace.

Crystal reappeared and knelt in front of him, setting down her jar of patch-slugs.

Moss hurried over with a bowl of water and rags.

Thanks, she said to her father.

She frowned up at Hunter. Her silver-hued eyes glinted keen and sharp. Over the last year, the softness of youth and comfort had melted from her cheeks.

Without comment, she cleaned the blood from his face, applying tiny patch-slugs to the cuts. His suit was healing many, many others.

Finished with his clamfruit, Tagger laid out the rest of the provisions. He dug into the bag, then turned it upside down.

That’s it? he asked.

Crystal scowled up at him. It’s a bounty.

We’ll stretch it, Moss said, gathering up the roots, veg, and salted meats. He hurried them over to his workbench, shoving aside the clutter. There, he chopped the veg.

Tagger began to rip a round of bread into five equal portions.

Crystal dropped the bloody rag into the bowl of water, leaving it on the floor. Thin dress gathered in hand, she slid onto the bench next to him.

Exhaustion plying him, he leaned heavily on the table.

She placed a metal cup before him. Drink it.

He did, in slow sips.

Two portions of bread and a wedge of crumbly green-and-white cheese were plunked down in front of him.

Eat, she said.

On the other side of the table, Tagger gnawed on his bread.

Hunter peeled off his mask. His fingers ached, stiff as an ancient sage’s. He slapped the mask onto his shoulder, where it stuck, and turned his gaze to Crystal.

She held it.

A year ago, he would’ve thought her no more significant than the tiny moon moths that swarmed summertime Starburners. But now… Now, there was no one but her and Tagger and Chase.

Have you eaten? he asked.

Straightening her spine, she interlaced her fingers on the table. I’m not hungry.

He picked up one of the bread portions she’d given him and put it in front of her.

Her fine brow arched, challenging. It almost made him laugh. Who would’ve thought an educer could have such spunk? No wonder Chase was scenting more like a breeder these days. Crystal had a nerve, and it was as tough as Weaver’s Thread.

You need it more than I do, she said.

Tagger rolled his last bite of bread in his hand. His bottomless stomach grumbled loudly.

We don’t eat, Hunter said to her, until you eat.

She crossed her arms.

He didn’t move. And because he didn’t, neither did Tagger.

He didn’t know how long they sat there. He was barely hanging on to consciousness. If there was anyone who could out-stubborn him, it was Crystal.

Fine. She snatched up the bread and took a vicious bite.

Tagger grinned and finished his share.

Gingerly, Hunter picked up his portion and forced himself to eat. He needed to, but everything tasted of sand and salt water. It only made his hunger deeper, his thirst more.

Can I help you with that? Tagger offered Moss, who was trying to scoop up the veg he’d diced to carry over to the pot.

Thank you, Moss said in his meek shadow of a voice.

Tagger gathered up all the veg in his hands and dumped it into the boiling water. Smells wonderful, he said with a grin.

After a momentary silence, broken only by the fire’s hissing and the stew’s burbling, Crystal said, I did it.

A questioning sound escaped Hunter’s throat as he choked down the cheese.

This, she said and set a clear disc of stone on the table.

He eyed it, but said nothing.

This is it, she said.

Water touched his lips, it passed over his tongue, it slid down his throat, but he was still thirsty, he was still parched, he was still aching.

What? he asked when it was apparent she wasn’t going to explain until he gave her some kind of response.

She held on to the silence a bit longer. It’s the compass.

He gave the rock another, more considering, look. It was small; it would’ve fit in Crystal’s palm easily. Cut and faceted, it cast faint rainbows across the table. A fancy hunk of rock, but a hunk of rock all the same.

He swallowed back his skepticism, only because he didn’t have the energy to argue with her tonight. In the old tales, never once was any friction within a plexus mentioned. But now that he was a part of one, he was learning all about it. It had a scent all its own—an infuriating one.

Static built in the air. Tagger suddenly decided to go to bed. Moss opted for a breath of air and, in a blink, Hunter and Crystal were alone.

It’s time, she said.

Time for what?

Was he pretending not to know what she meant?

Yes.

He was.

I saw Verge— she started.

He went so abruptly rigid that ringing black blotches burst over his vision.

She continued, He’ll take you—

No.

Yes.

His hands numbed from clenching so tightly. I won’t—

Yes, you will, she said, her voice diamond hard. You heard, the same as I did, about the other plexus—

We don’t know—

She slammed her hands down on the table. What do we need to know? Even if it’s not true, look at us. Look at you. She gestured at him, up and down, as if that were all the evidence she needed. She leaned in. It is time.

She wasn’t asking. She was ordering.

He wanted to argue, but couldn’t.

She was right.

The revelation sent a pulse of agony shuddering through him. His head swam and then it fell toward the table. As he slipped into unconsciousness, the want flooded him again, drowning his trepidation and fear.

Yes, Scout was dangerous. Deadly. But if they were going to survive in this new age, they needed her.

He needed her.

It was time.

Chapter 1

"What do you want?" Dee asked through her teeth.

Verge leaned against the workbench, grinning in that way he did. What? No kiss?

She squared off with him.

Once, his wicked grin would have enticed her to kiss him, but she was done giving in to him. Really done.

Really.

If only he’d stop looking at her like that—his onyx eyes sliding over her with familiarity, making her warm wherever they touched, promising to help her forget, to make her feel something, anything, even if only momentarily.

But she didn’t need that anymore.

She would resist. With all her might.

His gaze moved away, over the various tools. She knew what he was looking for: a latent.

Not that her grandpa’s tools possessed any attributes. If they had, she would have noticed a long time ago. She didn’t blame Verge for looking. It was in a stealer’s nature to look—to always be looking.

Been shifting? he asked casually.

None of your business, she said, spinning open one of her grandpa’s Mason jars full of penny nails. Is that all?

He picked up the frame she’d laid on the bench, tilting it one way then the other. What’s this?

She snatched it back. My diploma.

His face scrunched up. Your what?

I graduated high school, she said, adding under her breath, miraculously.

Graduated? he repeated slowly. I don’t know what that means.

Though the stealer’s gift translated most words across worlds and languages, some words simply didn’t possess a comparable word or phrase, and the gift didn’t include a built-in dictionary.

Yeah… well… She shrugged. I’m not sure I do either.

She laid the diploma back on the bench. Her mom had been bugging her to hang it up. Something about it being a milestone, an achievement. Unlike Verge, Dee knew what the word graduation meant, but she didn’t feel as though she’d accomplished anything. While she planned to attend community college in the fall, she’d been having difficulty feigning enthusiasm. She didn’t know how to explain that to her mom because she didn’t quite understand it herself. She wanted to be excited, but she just… wasn’t.

So she’d framed the fancy paper and come out to find a nail and a hammer.

Though the afternoon was warm, the garage had been cool, at least until Verge had strolled through the back door.

Now she was sheened in sweat. Her heart thumped erratically, as if it had forgotten its usual rhythm. Verge had been known to inspire sweatiness and heart palpitations before, but not like this.

She frowned. Was she coming down with something?

Great, just what she needed to start off the summer—the flu.

You don’t need to keep checking up on me, you know. She shoved the thick tangle of hair from her face, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

Sure I do. He straightened up. His clothes clung to his tall, lean frame. They were comprised of leather strips and patches sewn together in a deceptively primitive way—deceptive because stealer clothes were some of the most comfortable and lightweight in any world. His star-white hair was shaggy and hung to his shoulders. I still like you, Star.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the fluttering in her chest. She wanted to capture that butterfly and crush it.

Her time with Verge had been fun, but they were from different worlds—literally.

No matter what he said, he belonged to the Crescent. And she belonged here. Nothing would change that.

After six months of fighting with him, she’d told him to hit the pathways. Then she’d taken him back a couple of times over the following months. But the last time she’d told him to go away, about a month ago, she’d been serious. And she was serious.

At the moment though, she felt too strange to argue.

An odd hiss crackled in her ears. Heat built in her blood, pounding through her veins like fists of steam. Her knees wobbled. She placed a steadying hand on the workbench.

I think I’m coming down with something, she said.

For Verge, his expression was awfully serious. Stealers don’t get sick, Star.

Well, I’m not a stealer, she retorted.

Half-a-stealer at most. But she’d never stolen anything, and she had no intention of starting.

Except, when she thought about it, she realized she’d never been sick. She’d spent a lot of time in the hospital, after her original Spirit Mark had been removed, but she’d never even had a cold. For some reason, this revelation unsettled her, or maybe it was that she kept discovering things linking her to the Crescent, to that stealer half she couldn’t escape. Like the shifting.

She’d held out for months, but eventually she’d let Verge teach her how to access the passages and control her ability to move between the worlds. Not because he’d pestered her so much, but because the passages were everywhere, always calling to her, like sirens’ songs.

Look. She took a deep breath. I’ve been practicing, okay? Isn’t that what you wanted?

How’s it going? he asked.

Fine.

Not having any trouble staying on the path, focusing on your destination, finding worlds again, returning to them?

No, she said.

None at all?

None.

He glanced back at the door leading out to the patio—the sun spread over the threshold, a golden fan in the dim shadows. On her other side, the automatic door was open too. Parked in the driveway, her grandpa’s rust-gnawed pickup. In the house, he was dozing. Her mom and grandma were shopping for dress patterns—for the wedding.

You sound pretty confident, he said.

The static in her ears grew. She tilted her head, as if she could tip the sound out like water. I haven’t gotten lost yet.

Although Verge claimed it took years for a stealer to learn how to locate specific worlds, and many more to shift alone, she hadn’t had any trouble. He’d been concerned she wouldn’t be able to find her way home, but she’d been shifting almost every weekend (and some weeknights after everyone was asleep) and had always found her way back.

He cleared his throat. Good, he said. So… you think you could find the Crescent?

She fought the dizzying waves of heat pulsing through her to give him a well-deserved scowl. "I am not going back there."

For hypothetical purposes—he arched an eyebrow at her—could you?

If I wanted to, which I don’t, she said. Yes.

You’re sure?

Yes, I’m sure. I know you think you have to watch out for me, but I’ve got it figured out. You don’t need to worry, and you don’t need to keep coming around either.

His gaze crawled over her. How are you feeling?

I don’t know. Weird. She pressed her finger against her ear and rubbed.

The hiss was fading in and out, like a distant radio signal. The weakness in her legs had passed, but her blood continued to sluice through her veins hotter and faster than normal. She tingled all over.

He circled her, moving toward the front of the garage. Don’t hate me.

She sighed. I don’t hate you.

You might, he said, backpedaling. In the sunlight, his hair shone, blinding. It wasn’t blond. It was white, a thick opaque hue like porcelain.

Why— A flash of movement at the back of the garage stopped her words dead.

She spun, her breath seizing in her lungs.

A muscular silhouette swelled into view, filling up the doorway—the silhouette of someone she thought she’d never see again.

I’m sorry, Star, Verge called.

She twisted, hands fisting. Come back here, right now!

But he was already gone.

Chapter 2

Pivoting, she faced Hunter.

Groping for something to hold on to, her fingernails dug into the wood of the bench.

Grandpa…

Her heart leapt. She couldn’t let Hunter—

I’m not going to hurt your family, Hunter grumbled, reading her thoughts.

Don’t do that!

Her hands clapped over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to shout, but seeing Hunter here… in her world. It was a nightmare.

She glanced toward the house door, but nothing stirred.

Why had Verge done this? Did he want her to die?

I didn’t come here to kill you. His voice was soft, rusty, as if he hadn’t been using it.

Grabbing a hammer off the bench, she lofted it threateningly. Stay out of my head.

The muscles along his jaw bunched. His eyes touched on the hammer, skimmed over her, then roved around the cluttered garage, lip curling.

No doubt the scent of her world was foul to his super-senses. Even she had trouble