Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

2. Fairytales

Of course, that is not where our story starts.

A sky ripe with thunder. Rain, cutting sharp against my skin.

A ship that is about to explode.

And a girl—a girl I love.

No, I promise our story starts much simpler.

My name is Jude. I'm a writer. And this probably isn't what you're used to, but if you follow me—I'll take you right to the beginning.

A FEW FUCKING MONTHS AGO

If I told you getting kidnapped was on my bucket list, you would probably think I was crazy. And, in a way, you would be right.

Getting kidnapped is insane. And wanting to get kidnapped? Even worse.

But if you think that's bad, then you don't want to see the rest of my bucket list.

The problem is—well, this time, I didn't mean to get kidnapped.

"Can somebody stop fucking around and tell me what this is?" I snap. A black cotton bag is tied around my head, my wrists are behind my back, and I'm strapped to a chair.

The only answer is the sound of humming—some kind of chanting. Latin, maybe.

You've got to be fucking kidding me. I don't have time to be kidnapped. I have twenty pages to write on dominant alleles and genetic imbalances due by midnight. And honestly, if I had to pick my kidnappers, my last choice would be some college witch cult.

"Quiet," someone hisses from beside me. A girl's voice. "It's an initiation. Don't you want to be here?"

I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes. Through the black cotton, I see dim gold-orange light. Some kind of fire—candles, possibly.

"No," I say. "I decidedly do not want to be here. And you do?"

Her voice has a touch of worship. "They're called the Lunars. And only a selected few people get to join every year. We're the lucky ones."

An elitist club of sorority girls and frat boys? Oh, absolutely not.

"Excuse me?" I call out, making my voice as loud as it can go. "Excuse me? Hello?"

The chanting stutters. Stops.

Yes, I have their attention now.

Politely, I ask, "What the fuck am I doing here?"

A hand pinches the black cotton bag. Then, ever so slowly, she lifts it off and I am face to face with a beautiful girl. Her blonde hair is almost white in the light of the fire, and her eyes are pale green. Her lips purse into a slender smile, and she gives me the kind of look that says, I'm hot and I know it. Want to fuck me?

Trust me. I got all that from a look.

"You were chosen," she says simply.

I don't back down. "Chosen for what? To be a Satanist? Not that I have anything against hell or anything, seeing as how I'm going there, but what the fuck am I doing here?"

Her face flickers—something unidentifiable. Behind her, I see a circular platform and a glossy table with only a goblet of red liquid atop it.

Great. This is getting better and better.

"This is an initiation test, and you were chosen," says a girl in sheer robes from behind the dais. You would think, considering this is religious or whatever, that the robes wouldn't be transparent and lined in silky black fur. Some holy practice this is.

From where I'm sitting, I see that I'm a row of chairs. Alongside me, maybe seven or eight other girls are tied and blindfolded.

"So you just go around campus kidnapping random girls?"

I hear muffled gasps, intakes of breath, from the others.

The blonde girl's face is close, so close I can see the flecks of black in her green eyes. A butterfly's wings. And her lush pink lips form into a dangerous smile as she says, "We know more about you than you think, Jude."

I can't help the sneer. What? I'm a bitch. "Like my name? Great, I'm terrified now."

Her eyes darken. "Like your little accident. Does Friday, April 14th bring up any memories? Or does the name James help?"

The other girls—members of this Lunar club—watch wordlessly. Like silent deities. Quiet gods. But all I can think is, Fuck this. Even as I stop breathing.

I'm not going to be bullied into joining a goddamn cult.

"Well, thanks," I say pleasantly. Not letting her see how the words tear through me, a twisting knife. "But I'm done. I want out of here."

"Once you're chosen," she whispers, "you don't get to leave."

I roll my eyes. "What are you going to do? Stop me?"

In the time we've been talking, I managed to slip out of my wrist ties. Hands free, I wave them in front of her with the knife I keep on me at all times—particularly for something like this. Not that I knew I was going to get kidnapped.

"I know everything," the girl says.

I scoff.

The chanting continues, an ominous thrum of dark words. What are they trying to do, summon a demon? My paper isn't going to write itself.

But then she says, "Tell me, Jude Barrow. I always get confused—was it a candlestick or a candelabra?"

I freeze.

The blood thins in my veins, and slivers of ice burn beneath my skin. Turning me cold.

She can't know.

She can't.

But the candelabra—that was a detail from the crime scene report. And the only people who have access to that . . .

No, there is no way she knows.

Nobody knows.

"Nice try," I say. With one movement, I hold her in a tight lock, my knife at her throat. Her eyes widen. "Now you're going to point me in the direction out of here."

"Don't do this," she breathes, the blood draining from her face.

I smile. "You're screwing with the wrong girl."