Ruined Kings and Their Queens

Klaus

Chapter Six

Fairhope, Alabama

"Where is she?"

"She was just there—the little bitch is fast!"

Their voices ripple through the heavy Alabama night air, slicing through the humid stillness like dull knives—sharp enough to graze the skin but never deep enough to kill. The thick air carries the scent of rust, sweat, and something sweeter beneath it—fear.

My favorite.

I press my back against the rough, rusted edge of an abandoned shipping container, the cool bite of metal grounding me. The sharp corners dig into my spine like tiny knives, but I don't flinch. Pain is nothing more than an old friend I occasionally nod to in passing.

My ears catch every shuffle of boots over cracked asphalt, every impatient click of a gun being reloaded, every ragged breath of men who think they're the hunters.

Amateurs.

Adrenaline courses through me, sharp and jagged, humming beneath my skin like electricity arcing through frayed wires. My pulse? Steady. Controlled. Theirs? I can hear the frantic stutter of it, like trapped rabbits beating against their cages.

But fear?

No.

Fear's not something I've entertained in decades.

It's not fear that has my fingers twitching at my sides. It's hunger. The itch beneath my skin, the kind that never really goes away. The craving for the chase—the thrill of being the shadow that moves just beyond the edge of someone's vision.

Hunting has been my art for nearly a century. Not just survival. Not necessity. Sport.

There's a rhythm to it, a cadence like music. The way their steps grow uneven when they think they're being watched. The way their voices pitch higher, false bravado cracking like thin ice under too much weight.

I lick my lips, tasting the faint metallic tang in the air.

Blood nearby.

I grit my teeth, the urge to rip out throats coiling tighter with every heartbeat that isn't mine. Not because I'm cornered—no, they're the ones cornered, and they don't even know it yet. They're rats scurrying in the dark, oblivious to the cat already crouched in the shadows.

But this isn't about them. Not really.

This is about Lucy.

Lucy fucking Bennett.

The witch with a knack for dragging me into her messes, like a bad habit I can't quite shake. I should've known better. Should've turned my back the moment she called. But here I am, tangled in another one of her reckless plans, babysitting a situation I never signed up for.

I shift slightly, rolling my neck until it pops, loosening the tension.

Their footsteps are getting closer now, echoing between rusted-out shipping containers and broken-down machinery left to rot. I smell their vervain rounds. They think I'm easy prey.

Cute.

I could end this in seconds. Break necks, tear out throats, paint the concrete with their insides. But where's the fun in that?

No, I like to let them believe they have the upper hand. Let the hope flicker in their eyes just long enough to snuff it out.

It's the little things in life.