The Malefic

1: Hunter

Brooklyn

The singing has stopped. That's how I know.

I duck down on all fours, holding my breath as my heart pounds at the walls of my chest. Nausea creeps into my stomach as my body realizes what my brain already knows: I'm about to die.

Without moving a muscle, I scan the woods surrounding me, forcing myself to calm down. It could be a mistake. I could be wrong. After all, I can't see the cause of the tension I can feel hanging in the air.

I listen closer, straining my ears.

Silence. Perfect, unbroken silence.

Every bird's song is quiet, every creature still, as if the forest itself is holding its breath. For half a year, what's left of the world has held its breath. It's a perfect stillness that leaves no room for doubt.

As quietly as I can, I drop to the ground and pull my handgun out of my backpack. I flick off the safety and wait, half hidden in the ferns. The familiar feeling of the cold steel in my hands brings no comfort.

Because deep in the woods, a hunter knows I am here.

I can't hear him, but I can sense him. Like every cell in my human body is screaming, danger, danger! My legs twitch, urging me to run, but I keep my limbs locked. There is no escape. I will be found, just like all the others before me.

Maybe I'll get lucky, I think. Maybe he'll be quick.

The thought almost makes me laugh. If I was lucky, I would've died six months ago.

I wait in the stillness for a small eternity before I hear him: the soft, graceful footfalls of a predator. I feel a chill go down my spine as he approaches and I dare to lift my eyes, my finger hovering above the trigger.

Standing in front of me is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

His skin is smooth, the rich color of coffee with cream. His perfectly mussed hair is a shade of brown so dark it's nearly black. Despite the cold, he wears only black sweatpants and a short sleeve shirt that shows strong, defined arms.

He has no weapons; he is one.

"Hello, human," he purrs. Cold, black eyes meet mine. I cock my gun and one corner of his mouth tilts up. I shiver, resisting the urge to run my hands up and down my arms to warm up. It's as if cold radiates from him. I stand–there's no point in hiding now.

So this is how I die, I muse. I'm going to freeze to death in the woods of rural Washington state.

I grit my teeth. If I'm dying, I'm not dying without a fight. In a quick, practiced movement, I point my gun toward him and pull the trigger.

Crunch!

I blink. The bullet lies embedded in a wall of ice that wasn't between us a millisecond before.

"Tsk, tsk." He gives a playful shake of his head, offset by the soul-deep coldness of his eyes. His lips curl into a smirk, and I feel my face get hot as something occurs to me: it's just a game for him. For all of them.

Adrenaline rushing, images flash through my mind. I see my mom slipping in her own bile and collapsing on the kitchen floor, dying from the disease they created. I see my dad's warm eyes light up as he tells one of his corny jokes and remember how hard he fought to keep me alive. I think of the children I've watched die, the loved ones I've seen murdered, and suddenly, I'm furious. Something hot and reckless stirs within me and I do something incredibly stupid.