Vanquished

Prologue

William Blackwell hit the ground running. The Afflicted leaped over his fallen body and came to a halt a few feet away, its arms flailing in attempt to control the fire that danced across its flesh. The boy, Will saw, had sapphire eyes that shimmered as he moved. His fingers were orange, flames sprouting from each nail like individual candles, and when he ran, his devilish gaze sweeping, Will couldn't help but smile back.

William's favorite part of the Hunt wasn't seeing the fear in their eyes, but knowing that he was the one who put it there. The chase made it all worthwhile, an exhilarating sport that came naturally to Will, as if he'd been conceived for the sole purpose of striving in the Hunt. But it was the fear, the absolute terror in their gazes, always searching for an escape, a way to survive when they knew none existed, that was thrilling.

Relishing in the savory zing of his blade upon unsheathing it, Will swung it about twice, tossing his sword between each hand, not so much as to appear more intimidating, but rather to show his ease at sword play, and how composed he felt wielding a weapon.

They stood in a dimly lit courtyard before the looming mass of a decrepit body that appeared to be a church. Atop it sat a large bell, glinting in the brilliant moonlight, and through its stained glass windows Will saw movement as clear as day. Shadows dancing, bodies twirling, threats whirling like spinning blades.

The Afflicted rounded on him, hands curled into fists. Will dodged a punch to the face, sweeping to the side. In one fluid motion, he brought his sword up and slashed it across the boy's back, leaving a shallow cut over the evident ridge of his spine. The Afflicted, now rapidly evolving into a conflagration of blues and greens and reds, only stared, his gaze holding Will's.

"You don't need to do this," spoke the boy, his fiery hands up in surrender. His hair was now aflame, crackling atop his fearful façade, incinerating each and every shadow woven into his startled countenance. "Please," he begged, dropping to his knees at Will's feet. His head fell into his hands.

Will released a heavy sigh and turned around, his tired eyes complacently drifting. "Fine," he said with a smile, shutting his eyes. "I'll give you to the count of ten to run, but no more than that."

Will counted back from ten, leisurely hopping from foot to foot, swinging his sword as he did. When the time ran out and he rounded, a smile etched deep into his facial features, Will was disappointed to find the boy hadn't moved. His fire had gone out, leaving a cold, shaking boy kneeling in the center of the courtyard.

"I'm not running," said the boy, his voice quivering in his throat. "Not if you're going to kill me anyway." His rheumy blue eyes met Will's, lost and scared and alone.

"Well . . . What else am I supposed to do? It was your kind that forced me to become a Hunter, after all, so really, if you think about it, it's your own fault." Will raised his sword and gently rested it on the Afflicted's shoulder, leering down at him. "Come on, kid. This is the only exercise I get these days, so you can't deprive me of a workout. Now run along."

The boy stood his ground. "I'm not running."

Will released another sigh, rolling his eyes in angst. "Your kind is dangerous, I'll admit to that. But I swear, part of the reason we hunt you is because most of you are just plain annoying." Without another word, without another thought, and without time to waste, Will lifted the blade from the boy's shoulder and drove it through his heart. Time slowed. Seconds passed in a trickle, leaving Will engrossed in a world of his own.

In an instant the Afflicted was dead, his body left to curl in on itself like a dying spider.

When Will looked down, his hands around the boy's shoulders, he stared into the eyes of the Afflicted and found them a pale-blue, the brightness having gone from his body with his fiery affliction.