Chapter 8
Her mother was hosting the knitting circle. Today of all days, thought Evie with a sigh as she climbed the steps to the back door. The clatter of knitting needles and the bright murmur of voices stilled as Evie walked into the kitchen. You could have heard a stitch drop.
For an instant Evie was reminded of a picture she’d once seen of the women who used to sit at the bottom of the guillotine knitting while the nobles lined up to have their heads chopped off. It felt like the knitting circle ladies were waiting for her to climb the steps and kneel down before them.
She forced a smile onto her face and kept walking, hearing the *ter-clatter of needles start up behind her like so many gossiping tongues.
‘How did your schoolwork go?’ her mother called as she got to the door.
‘OK,’ Evie mumbled, jogging up the stairs. In her hand was Mrs Lewington’s rolled-up newspaper which she’d taken from the kitchen counter.
Once in her bedroom she threw her bag to the floor and sat down on the bed, unfurling the paper and scanning it quickly. The serial killer story was all over the front page. Two dozen people reported dead; over a hundred reported missing in the last week alone. No witnesses; extreme violence in every homicide. There was no pattern in terms of victims or time of death, no robbery or apparent motives. The police were at a loss, speculating only that it was the work of several perpetrators.
Evie got up and started pacing, a storm of adrenaline whipping up in her veins. She was shaking more than if she’d drunk two litres of coffee, and her stomach felt like it was lined with rock. Running her hands through her hair she crossed to the window trying to force herself to think straight.
The police were clueless because they had no idea what they were fighting. It was Thirsters, Evie was sure of it. Or maybe even Originals, the older Thirsters, the ones that made Thirsters look like fluffy, toothless kittens. Evie had killed one back in the Bradbury building using a shadow blade, the only thing that could make a dent in them. But what if more of them had come through before the gateway had closed? It was possible, wasn’t it?
For a brief moment Evie’s thoughts flew to Vero and Ash, the last of the rogue Hunters. What were they doing now? Were they still in LA? Were they still hunting unhumans? She didn’t know. She knew that Vero had wanted out but she had no clue where the two of them might be now. She hadn’t seen or heard from them since the day at the Bradbury building when Cyrus and Lucas had died.
There had been no love lost between the three of them before and there certainly wasn’t now that Cyrus was dead. In their eyes it should have been Evie who died. She wished she could tell them how much she wished it had been her also, but it was too late for that.
Evie paused, suddenly realising something. If Vero and Ash weren’t fighting these monsters, who else would? The police weren’t going to have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping a single Thirster, and not even an army could take on a handful of Originals.
She started pacing her room. Surely there had to be other Hunters out there. Ones that she didn’t know about perhaps – rogue Hunters like Vero and Ash, Hunters who weren’t part of the official Hunter clan, who weren’t purebloods like her. It couldn’t just be Cyrus who had led a band of rogues. And surely, if there were others, they would know what was going on, and would do something about it?
As she paced, Evie’s attention kept flicking between the newspaper lying on the bed and the piece of paper tacked to the wall with Victor’s name on it.
It was early evening by the time Evie judged it safe to re-enter the kitchen. The last of the knitting circle had left and her mother was clearing up after them.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asked Evie.
‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ Evie mumbled.
She watched her mum out of the corner of her eye, weighing the opportunity, and deciding to wait until the best teapot and creamer were safely stowed on the sideboard before she began.
‘So, mum,’ she started, clearing her throat.
‘Yes, sweetheart?’ her mother answered, closing the cabinet and turning to Evie.
Evie saw the weight of expectation in her mother’s eyes, the hope that Evie might be about to start explaining what had happened eight weeks ago, and for a split second it almost all came tumbling out of her.
Lucas died. She very nearly said it. It was right there on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself at the last moment. She winced and took a deep breath, letting the pain dull to a savage ache inside. Her mother was still watching her expectantly, eyebrows raised.
Evie opened her mouth to try again. She had practised this in her bedroom. This time she wasn’t going to run off without leaving a note. This time she was going to tell her mother to her face where she was going.
‘I need to tell you something,’ she began.
Her mother’s face fell and her gaze flew to Evie’s stomach. Evie groaned inwardly. She knew her mother was thinking, Pregnant, oh dear lord, she’s pregnant. Perfect, Evie thought, that’s just what she needed her mother to believe. How long would it take before the knitting circle started crocheting baby booties?
‘I …’ she hurried on, then stopped again, unable to find the words.
Her mother waited. ‘You what?’ she asked after several more seconds of silence.
Evie could see the worry building, the panic flaring behind her mother’s eyes, but just as she was about to tell her she was heading to LA for a few days to see a friend, her attention was snatched by something outside. Her hearing funnelled and her eyes flew to the back door.
There was someone outside in the dark, hiding. There – a footstep – so light it could have been mistaken for a leaf falling. Then, almost simultaneously she became aware of a familiar tugging sensation at her sternum.
There was a Hunter outside.
‘Evie?’
She blinked at her mother. ‘Huh?’
Her focus was fully on the footsteps, which were growing more distant as they headed through the orchard and down towards the river. She tried to calculate who it might be. It wasn’t Jocelyn. There was no reason for Jocelyn to be skulking through the orchard at the back of the house when she could just walk right in the door, no questions asked.
Vero and Ash didn’t know where she lived, as far as she knew, and they weren’t likely to be paying a social call on her of all people. Which left only one other Hunter she could think of. Victor.
Evie brushed past her mother, already scanning the counter top for a weapon and seeing only her mother’s best teapot.
‘Where are you going?’ her mother shouted after her.
‘I need to borrow a hammer,’ she called over her shoulder as she made for the stairs to the basement.
‘That’s what you wanted to talk to me about? Why didn’t you just say so?’ her mother huffed. ‘You know where your father keeps his tools – kept his tools,’ she corrected herself a little angrily. ‘And what on earth do you need a hammer for anyway?’
Evie was already halfway down the basement steps. ‘Um, there’s a floorboard that’s come loose in my room.’
‘I can get Joe to fix that,’ her mother shouted down to her. ‘There’s no need for you to go hurting yourself with a hammer.’
‘I’m not going to hurt myself,’ Evie answered, her gaze running anxiously over the tools hanging from nails along two walls. Her hearing was still tuned to the outside. But she could no longer hear anything. The tugging on her sternum had lessened too.
‘Suit yourself,’ her mother sighed loudly before marching off.
Evie jumped onto a wooden crate and quickly lifted down her father’s hunting rifle from where it hung above the door. It had been rusting up there until a few months back, but after Caleb had come looking for her that time, Evie had taken it down and cleaned it, scrubbing the rust spots off the barrel, oiling the firing mechanism and learning how to load it one-handed in the dark. Now it was pristine. Already locked and loaded. She hefted the gun to her shoulder and headed for the basement door, pocketing some spare shells from the drawer on her way.
Once outside she crouched down in the shadows of the stairwell, letting her eyes and senses adjust to the dark. There. She caught the faint pull again, as though a fine strand of thread attached to her clothing was snagged on a thorn bush. She jumped to her feet. If it was Victor she needed to be fast. He was stronger than her, but she knew she was faster. He was also a bigger target, so if she could slip through the trees and track him, she might be able to take a shot.
She sprang up the stairs and darted towards the tree line, crouching low. Her breathing was coming quick and fast. He’d pick up on that. She tried to rein it in, not wanting to show anything he could misconstrue as fear. Her feet were crackling through the piles of leaves despite her efforts to move silently. Evie paused, pressing her back against the rough bark of a tree. She closed her eyes and willed her instincts to take over.
She caught the scent of him first. Something musky and, overlaid with it, something floral. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She frowned, listening harder. There was a crunch, a heavy footfall, and what sounded distinctly like a sigh. Evie’s eyes flashed open. She swung out from behind the tree, the rifle at her shoulder and her finger already pressing down on the trigger.