A Hunter's Challenge [The Hunters 3] (Siren Publishing Allure) Read online

  To take her mind of both Erica’s wounds and the fears about her grandmother, Amy decided she would cook something for them all to eat. Anthan had said that Martin needed food. She knew Hunters didn’t eat meat so she made a vegetarian lasagne. She even made some bread, anything to keep busy. Every thirty minutes or so she would check on Erica.

  She hadn’t intended to but once she found herself standing in the doorway of the bedroom and look over at Martin lying asleep, with each passing second her attraction to him was growing. Even in sleep, he looked drawn and tired. She noticed his arm was cut and covered in dried blood still. When he woke, she would suggest he shower after he fed.

  Fed.

  That was scary. The way she casually thought of him feeding as if it were something that everyone did.

  Shaking her head, she went back to her cooking before going inside to be with Erica.

  At 4:30 she heard someone moving. Catching her breath, she tried to look natural while sitting alongside her sister. She looked up as someone entered. It was Anthan and Amy found she was disappointed.

  “Sorry it’s only me. Martin is still asleep.”

  Amy realised he knew what she had been thinking. She looked up at him. If anything, he looked worse than Martin. His face was haggard and his hair looked limp and lifeless.

  “I’m leaving now. Tell Martin he must feed before he does anything. Remind him to check her first for any poison or any injuries we may have missed before he wakes her. I’ll check her quickly now, before I go. Warn him to be careful when he wakes your sister, she’ll still think she is in the lair.”

  With those few words, he turned and walked into the dining room. He stood looking down at Erica. As Amy watched, he reached out and ever so gently brushed a stray hair from her face. His face was filled with pain as he sighed then walked out, leaving Amy to stare in surprise.

  She quickly ran after him but he had vanished. For some reason she was very worried about him.

  He seemed even more distant, more alone.

  * * * *

  “No more. Please I beg you no more!”

  Erica screamed—half crying, half pleading.

  The pain was so bad!

  Erica thought if she could just concentrate enough maybe Amy could hear her. She could let her know she was alive but the pain, oh the pain! It was beyond anything she could ever have imagined. It stopped her from thinking straight. There wasn’t any part of her body that didn’t hurt.

  When the vampire took her, she’d fought. She fought hard but it was just too strong. It had flown for about forty minutes with her dangling from its claws. Then it had thrown her on the dirt floor of cave. Erica had seen so many broken bones lying nearby. She tried not to think of who they might belong to, tried to pretend they were from animals.

  At first when it took her, it had looked like a handsome man. She had been terrified but nothing could prepare her for what followed. Never in her wildest nightmare could she have imagined such a monster! Gone was the handsome man.

  Instead now—now the creature was horrifying!

  The stench was putrid. Its flesh seemed to be rotting away from its body.

  When it had sunk its fangs into her arm, she had almost fainted from the pain. She tried to get away from it but it grabbed her and she felt her arm break.

  If the pain in her body was bad, it was absolutely nothing compared to the pain in her head, to the mental torment it bombarded her with!

  Her mind was continually filled with absolute horrors—of her body broken and hacked to pieces, being raped, being stripped of her flesh. The list of agonies went on and on. She had begged, she had pleaded but in the end it was useless. It had ignored her except to laugh.

  When the sun rose, Erica thought she would be able to escape. She knew the creature would sleep once dawn came but when she made it to the cave entrance she’d doubled up in excruciating pain. Somehow, the creature had bound her to the cave.

  On and on she tried to leave but each time she became weaker and weaker. At some point, she fell unconscious, whether from exhaustion, fear, or pain she wasn’t sure. She came to, her body wracked with the agony, her mind still filled with horror.

  She lifted her head from the hard dirt floor and looked out.

  The sun was just sinking below the trees. Any minute now the beast would wake.

  She had to get outside, get free!

  Once more, she tried to crawl past the entrance, once more she curled into a foetal ball from the pain. Tears pouring down her face, she wished she could die. Looking back into the cave, dark shadows were reaching out with their ephemeral fingers toward her. She cringed tighter into her protective ball.

  Suddenly she’d felt claws sink into her ankle.

  Erica was dragged back and flung across the cave, landing hard against on wall at the side of the lair. She felt her leg snap and screamed in agony.

  It hung over her, laughing. She couldn’t bear to look at it. Its skin hung in decomposing ribbons. The stench was overpowering. She kept gagging whenever it came close to her.

  The monster grabbed her head and forced her to look into its decaying face. Its eyes were glowing red, like the very fires of hell. From its mouth, dirty brown fangs hung over rotting lips. It pressed those horrid lips against her mouth then laughed when she cringed away in horror, wiping her hand across her lips.

  Grabbing her again, it tore at her clothes, sank its fangs into her breasts, groped between her legs with those filthy claws.

  Then grinning sadistically it sent images of being raped into her mind. Of its gross penis in her mouth. Of her pleading with it to “fuck” her. Thankfully she passed out.

  But then when she came to, it grabbed her broken leg and pressed its claws into it. Erica screamed as she felt the bones grind together and passed out once more from the pain.

  On and on through the night she would come to only to have it inflict more pain on her. It rarely spoke, only laughed. It just kept up the torture.

  She wanted to die. “Kill me! Let me die!” she had screamed over and over but it had laughed then bit her again and again.

  Another sunrise, another day of praying for death.

  She dozed.

  She woke.

  She fought against the pain and tried to leave, dragging her pain-wracked body across the dirty floor of the cave.

  She fell unconscious.

  Nightfall.

  More agony. More pain. More begging. So despondent. Such despair.

  It would feed from her, biting her on the arm, the neck, the breast.

  She wondered how much longer she would live, how much pain she could endure before her body gave up?

  It seemed as if the vampire knew when she was close to death. It would stop its torment for an hour or so, until she had recovered enough for it to continue. She’d felt it squeeze her broken leg between its claws, felt the bones crush to powder. She was desolate. The creature kept sending thoughts of mutilating her body.

  The pain she felt never left her. She gladly wrapped her mind around it. It was the only way she knew she was still alive.

  The days had merged together until she could no longer tell whether it was night or day, how long she had been captive. All she could dwell on was the pain. As long as she felt that agony, she knew she was still alive but she had lost hope. Erica wished for the welcome embrace of death.

  She was delirious at times. At times her mind floated away. Other times she imagined she was at home dreaming the worst nightmare she’d ever experienced.

  The sun sank once more behind the trees.

  Another round of punishment. Another round of excruciating agony.

  How long had it been?

  She felt it squeeze her crushed leg.

  Her screams rent the air.

  It sank its long nails deep into her.

  She looked beyond it, anything to stop herself looking at its face. Now she was hallucinating.

  She screamed then she laughed deliriously. Of all the th
ings to imagine—a handsome Native American complete with war paint and war cry. Maybe this was finally her end.

  She welcomed it with open arms. Her final conscious thought was “Amy!”

  * * * *

  Anthan flew the short distance to his home. He knew he should follow his own advice and feed but he didn’t want to. He wanted to feel bad, he wanted to feel close to death.

  He stood on the deck and looked out over the water. If he were honest, even to himself, he was overcome with jealousy.

  Yes—even more jealous than when Viorel had met Avril.

  Martin had met his One. In under a thousand years, he had met her. The pain he felt when Viorel had met his mate was back with a vengeance now that Martin was with his. The two melded together and he felt despondent.

  Anthan wanted to throw things, wanted to scream to the gods in rage. He threw himself into a chair and sat with his face buried in his hands, his long hair tangled and knotted, released from its thong, it fell across him.

  Now the search for Erica was over, he felt drained and the jealousy was filling him, eating him, reminding him of just how alone he was. He was so envious of Martin. The overpowering urge to walk in the sun was the strongest he had ever felt.

  He straightened up, his decision suddenly made. He got to his feet and pushed his hair off his face.

  No more fighting.

  No more daily battles within himself.

  He would use this night, this final night, to make his peace.

  Anthan went out to the garage and after unlocking then entering it, he carried in the largest canvas he had purchased. It was over two metres by one. Then back to the garage to collect the easel before collecting the paint, brushes and mediums he bought at the same time. He put the easel together and set the canvas on it.

  Methodically he set out paints—every shade of gray he had or could make. He thought about carrying everything out to the studio but changed his mind. He felt a little regretful that it would now never be used.

  He would ignore the hunger gnawing at him. He would ignore the pain from not feeding. He would no longer search. It would be Martin’s job to carry on. He would leave the boy his house. He and Amy could care for it.

  Instead, he would paint one last time. He would block out every emotion, every hunger as he painted. This would be his legacy. He would put the last of his life into it.

  Stripping down to just a pair of black drawstring pants and bare feet, he gathered his brushes. He roughly pulled his hair back and bound it with a leather thong.

  He took a deep breath and released it through his nose noisily. Then with broad sweeping strokes, he began.

  Slowly, over the hours, a face began to emerge on the canvas.

  A few more hours work then Anthan stood back and looked. Ruefully he thought it just might be the best thing he had ever painted. It surprised him. He laughed as he shook his head.

  Ironic that his last work would be his best.

  It wasn’t a pretty traditional portrait, instead it was raw, almost unfinished but undeniably striking.

  A face filled with agony, a face that wore years of pain and loneliness. A face that was stark and hungry and tired. Oh so very tired.

  A face with the agony of living etched deep on it.

  A face that had finally given up.

  It was his own.

  This was his good-bye.

  Anthan threw down his brushes and walked into the family room. He wondered if he should write a note but then decided against it. The painting would serve as his memorial, his reason for his actions. He would just write that the house was Martin’s.

  Anthan was surprised to find the sun was up. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 7:15. A few more hours and he could finally walk into it.

  He was not in the least surprised to find he was looking forward to it eagerly.

  “Anthan! Glad I caught you awake.”

  “Viorel, hi.”

  “What’s up? You seem distracted. Are you okay?”

  “Just tired. We found Erica. Any news?”

  “Not sure. About seventy years ago, there was a problem. A Hunter rescued a woman, she was about twenty-five. She’d been taken and the Hunter found her a couple of hours later by accident when he was searching for strigoi. Anyway, he took her to her home and her parents were overjoyed. They lived in Hungary and knew of Hunters. There was a sister. That sister turned out to be the Hunter’s One.”

  “Okay but what has that to do with Amy Collins?”

  “The sister that was rescued said that the Hunter was meant for her. She went a little crazy when the Hunter rejected her and left with the sister. The woman disappeared only to reappear with a baby about a year later. She told her parents that the Hunter was the father and that he had impregnated her when he rescued her.”

  “What!”

  “I know. It’s impossible. I mean we can’t even get an erection with anyone other than our destined One so how the fuck a Hunter could get a woman pregnant is beyond me.”

  “Yeah, that was one little item the gods forgot to mention when they took us to transform. At least you and the others were forewarned.”

  “Yes my father took me aside when I was about twenty-one and said to me ‘sow any oats you have now otherwise it might be a long time between chances’.”

  Anthan laughed and added ruefully, “At least you knew. I am the oldest virgin on the planet.”

  Viorel burst into hysterical laughter. Anthan could hear him trying to contain himself so he ignored him to ask. “So what happened?”

  “Well there was a big to-do. The parents demanded to see the Hunter. A Council official got involved and after much questioning the woman finally admitted she had made it all up. The father was some man she had picked up.”

  “So you think the woman in that story might be Amy’s grandmother.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility. The time frame works.”

  “What was her name? Did you find that out?”

  “Yes. Her name was Elisabeta Strobl and she named the baby girl Madalina.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if Amy will tell me her grandmother’s name. It’s a mess. We found the sister, she was badly hurt. Martin is looking after her. She survived four days of torture. Amy still refuses to have much to do with him.”

  “Okay. Well let me know what you find out. By the way, you sound tired, must be all that pure living.”

  “Go to hell, Viorel.”

  He heard Viorel’s raucous laughter in his mind as he broke the connection. Damn, now he would have to write this down for Martin to check up on. He went back into the spare room and grabbed a piece of paper. While searching for a pen, he heard Martin.

  * * * *

  Martin walked into the dining room. Amy wasn’t in sight. He went to Erica’s side as Amy walked in.

  “Martin! Anthan said you were to feed before you did anything.”

  He turned to look at her. He felt better than this morning but not by much.

  “Where is he?”

  “He left.”

  “What? Oh okay.” He was surprised that Anthan would have gone. “Look I do need to feed. You do understand.”

  Amy nodded. “Yes I do.”

  “Good, nîcimos.”

  He took a step toward her and brushed his hand across her face. Amy held her breath. He looked down at her, a smile on his lips then quickly left the room.

  Ten minutes later he returned. He had found several people to feed from and was feeling much better now. Amy looked at him when he materialised in the family room and walked back into the dining room. She may be telling him to go away with her voice but her eyes and body were telling him something completely different. She had long ago stopped doing math in her head and he could hear her confusion.

  “Anthan said you needed to check for more poison and in case there were more injuries inside her.” She looked terrified. “Is she honestly going to be okay?”

  He smiled at her and ran his hand up and do
wn her arm.

  “Yes, it’s just to make sure we got everything. I’ll wake her in a minute.”

  “Oh I forgot, he also said she’d think she was still in the lair.”

  He just rolled his eyes. It wasn’t as if he were a green youngster, he had saved people before.

  “Maybe you should shower before you wake her. Um …you look kind of scary.”

  Martin looked down at himself and grinned.

  “I guess I do. You don’t mind?”

  “No. The shower’s that way.”

  She pointed down a hallway and Martin walked out. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No wonder Amy said he looked scary. His face and chest still wore the ochre he had painted on them. His hair was a tangled mane and his arm was covered in blood. Quickly stripping off, he jumped into the shower. It felt wonderful!

  He stood under the water for a few minutes, just enjoying it feeling then he washed himself. He was about to step out when the door to the bathroom opened and Amy stepped in. She kept her eyes downcast. In her hands were shampoo and conditioner.

  “I thought you might need these,” she said, holding the bottle out and opening the screen, her eyes on the ground. He didn’t tell her that Hunters could clean both their bodies and hair by just thinking about it. But he, like most Hunters, always enjoyed the feeling of water from a shower. Instead, he gravely thanked her and reached for the bottles.

  Their fingers touched and Amy let out a soft gasp and raised her eyes.

  Neither moved.

  Their eyes locked on each other. Amy gave a sigh. She turned away then looked back at Martin.

  “I can’t fight any longer,” she whispered. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  He replied just as softly. “Don’t try, nîcimos.”

  He held his breath. It was all up to Amy. She searched his face. A stray tear ran down her cheek. Martin reached down and brushed it away. She leant into his hand. He cupped her faced gently.

  “Amy?”

  She made no answer so he leant down and kissed her lightly on the lips. It was as if a switch had been flicked. Neither knew who made the next move but suddenly she was in his arms kissing him as hard as he was kissing her.