Blood stains the sharp spears of bone projecting from his head. His face bears deep cuts and contusions, the evidence of a fight to the death. His brawny chest is covered in streaks of blood and soot and mud. His eyes blaze with an unhinged, crazed intensity that steals my breath.

As I stare at Emmons, the horror of what his presence means crashes through me with a devastating violence.

Kallum.

“Where is she?” His words are delivered in a controlled manner.

Yet I hear nothing. Not the roar of his follow up demand. Not his enraged growl as he limps forward across the crest. The thundering beat of my heart cancels out everything. I’m drawn inward to some dark recess as the world descends into shadow.

The sigil on my thigh burns my skin as adrenaline pours into my blood.

Hand trembling, I touch the sleeve of Kallum’s shirt, swallowing the painful ache as I drag the cuff up to feel the defaced script on my forearm. The sticky heat of fresh blood coats my skin.

Emmons comes to a halt before me, his massive frame towering over mine. “Where the fuck is Devyn?” he shouts.

My palm coated in red, I dig my nails into the wound and then rip the remaining stitched threads from the flesh of my arm. The pain is a sharp relief to the debilitating ache encasing my soul as I tear through each layer, ripping my wounds wide open. I let the blood flow, the pain bleeding out of me and igniting a furious frenzy.

I bring my fingers to my face and trace the contours along my cheekbones, smearing blood under the hollows of my eyes in a horrid depiction of the killer I once hunted.

I was Kallum’s muse, although I never felt like one, especially after I killed the Harbinger. No, muses aren’t supposed to inspire death. In that moment, I shed the layers as a victim of loss and became a huntress like Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and moon, a vengeful deity.

As the drums surge through me, I embrace the violence that wants to reap retribution. If Kallum is gone, then there’s nothing left to inspire.

I wear the face of a killer as I go to meet the Harbinger in that abyss.

Slowly, with methodical, deliberate ease, I cast a look over the side of the dam, giving Emmons his answer. “She’s down there.”

“No—” he roars. Teeth clenched, he strikes quick. His hand snaps around my neck and he drags me closer, my toes scraping the rough surface of the dam. “Goddamn bitch…”

His words slash through me, and Wellington’s mutilated face flashes across my vision. The pool of blood spreads, coating everything around us as his sinister voice rises up from the trenches of my mind: I’ll show you, bitch.

The vise choking my throat tightens.

It’s just a snatch of memory, but the overpowering deluge that comes with it leaves nothing in its wake but wild fury.

My throat constricted in the vise of his hold, I gasp around the crushing pressure. “I can’t let the killer get away.”

The words are plucked from another moment in time, an echo of the past. Delivered right now, they’re vengeance personified.

Balanced on my toes, I sink the nails of one hand into his strained forearm and dig into my pocket with my other.

Emmons has two weaknesses: his blinding obsession, and his injured leg.

I use both to my advantage as I curl my fingers around the broken piece of antler in my pocket. “She’s not a killer,” I manage to whisper, my lungs burning for oxygen. “Not like us.”

He pushes his face close to mine, where I can see the blown pupils of his eyes, the maniacal desperation. He’s lost everything—and he’s going to choke my life away.

I recognize this feeling, because it surges through me now with the strike of the drum. My lips curl into a manic smile as I jam my heel in his leg right above his knee. On reflex, he drops my feet to the concrete, and I drive the sharp point of the antler through the fleshy submental under his chin.

Stunned and off-kilter, Emmons releases my throat. He stumbles back and claws at the bone. I don’t give him time to recover.

“You’ll never find her,” I tell him as I brace my feet against the concrete and push off.

I crash into the solid wall of his chest to send us both over the dam.

The moment I go over the edge, arms band around my waist—the strong, familiar arms I recognize as he crushes my back to his chest.

A racked sob escapes as I twist in his locked embrace, needing to see his eyes, to know that he’s really holding me now.

Against the darkness, I meet the striking blue and green embers of his gaze.

Kallum looks past the blood and tears as he swipes his thumb across my cheek. “I will never let you fall.”

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16

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NIGHTS IN WHITE SATIN

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KALLUM

The moody, smoky ambience is absent from Pal’s Tavern, the pool tables vacant, the curved bar top abandoned. The establishment has been closed to the public in order to accommodate the FBI’s task force unit now that the Hollow’s Row Police Department is under investigation.

Seated under the softly lit lamp of one of the round tables, I prop my forearms on the lacquered walnut and spin the ring around my thumb, my gaze cast on the front door of the townie bar.

Slow and melodic folk music drifts from a jukebox along the far wall. The rising, emotive chorus competes with the news broadcast currently playing on the widescreen above the top shelf liquor bottles.

It appears that a doomsday has been averted in the small town of Hollow’s Row, where just yesterday the FBI reported an end to their investigation of thirty-three missing residents and two suspects wanted in connection to ritualistic crime scenes incorporating human remains that resulted in the murder of a federal agent.

One of the suspects was confirmed to be police detective Dean Emmons, a native to the town and once beloved member of the community. Emmons died during a procedural pursuit that led authorities to the town’s water treatment facility, where earlier the source had been contaminated with a fatally toxic strain of hemlock.

The facility was shut down when authorities arrived in time, preventing a disastrous event that could have ended in tragedy with a fatality rate in the thousands.

It’s also being reported that a minor concentration of hallucinogens was discovered in the town’s water supply, alleging its residence were under the influence of a highly susceptible substance. We’ll be following this story closely as more information develops.

At this time, it’s still unclear as to how many of the missing residents have been recovered alive. There is no update yet on the second suspect who evaded capture, but who is presumed to be dead. The whereabouts of the Harbinger killer have not been determined. A pending investigation into the offender’s connection to the town is underway.

This case has many people questioning if this was the prophesied doomsday the Harbinger killer foreshadowed at the start of their killing spree. As it does seem Hollow’s Row has in fact escaped a disastrous fate, maybe this town owes gratitude to not only the authorities, but the Harbinger, as well.

Next to me, my lawyer makes a sound of derision. “Fucking serial killers and government cover-ups,” Crosby mumbles before taking a swig of bourbon. “Locke, next time you decide to chase a girl to a small town, don’t get me involved with the feds. Also, try for an island with white sand and blue water. Something tropical.”

A wry smile tips my mouth. “Duly noted.”