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A kaleidoscope of emotions—shame, awe, gratitude, anger—swarmed his psyche. She had seen him at his lowest, stripped of everything humane, denied even most basic decency. Without a word spoken between them, she had freed him, then left. Not a glance spared back. The Huntress indulged his gawking for a beat, then looked away, stepped away, walked away. She was leaving! Again. Already out the door and out of sight. Breccan ran after her. I don’t even know her name. *** Drina marched across the paved courtyard of the witches’ villa. After the cool dining hall, the heat outside was as oppressive as a shroud of molten lead. Blinding sunrays reflected off of tan stucco walls, gilded window trims and marble terraces. Nothing reflected the vileness of its inhabitants, overdue an Order punishing. And she had come, planning to oblige. Drina planned and Karma laughed. Seven years ago had been her grad exam into Hunterhood, a slay-all-or-die-trying solo stint into a House of Mind coven. And she had slain, slain them all. Until that cell. In the basement. With the captive. Chained, his body abused, yet his defiant spirit unbroken. Disobeying Order code, Drina had spared him. That young man hadn’t merely endured, he braved an existence in a malefic hell. A feat worthy of praise, not a death sentence. Or maybe she'd seen herself in him, a prisoner of her own fate, of her devourer Duty. So she’d freed him—let at least one of them be free. Luckily, seven-years-ago-Drina hadn’t seen a consort before and hadn’t assumed he could be one, his presence there a gross oversight on the Order’s part. Rescue ops of captive immunes required several seasoned Hunters—not a lone greenhorn—given that witches would rather kill a consort than lose him or her. Had she deduced what the captive was, she might’ve done the damn strategically wise move—brought him to the Order. He no doubt had firsthand intel on scores of covens, given that consorts were so scarce, all nine Witch Houses had to share them. “And now, older and wiser, I ought to know better than to leave such an asset behind.” She entered the stables, straw crunching under her boots. Drina hadn’t arrived by horse but would depart on one. When a basic witch died, it raised no alarms. Yet if a High Priest(ess) croaked, the local Witch Guard received a distress signal. She’d rather be far, far away when the cavalry rolled in. When she stashed her backpack in here earlier, a palomino filly had caught her eye. Digging her gear out of a haystack, she went— Steps approaching, quite in a hurry. The immune. Was he looking for her? Her heart lost a beat at the absurd idea. A bay steed stuck his head out of a stall and nickered as Drina walked past. The gorgeous beast still had his tack on. The tracker Quad who’d wrestled the immune inside must’ve been too impatient to show off their catch to remove it. She offered her palm and the animal sniffed, expecting a treat. Finding none, he snorted in reprimand, his chin hairs tickling her skin. “That’s my horse,” a familiar husky brogue carried from close behind. She peeked over a shoulder. Closer than he should’ve reached undetected. Why, for the Great One, didn’t a single, well-honed sense detect the encroaching danger? As he came nearer, his amped-up immune aura engulfed her in sensory overload. Summer in the prairie. Heat and sunshine and wildflowers. Still, not a ping of danger. Stupid senses, in dire need of re-honing. The stallion neighed in greeting, claiming the man as his. “Well, if you say so, gorgeous,” she cooed, and stepped aside. The man entered the stall and rummaged in his saddlebags, took a short-sleeve shirt out and put it on, corded muscles bunching and shifting. Them shoulders, wider than before. Way wider. Gone was the emaciated creature from that dank cell. Blue-grey eyes met hers. Those remained the same. Piercing. Daring. Unsettling. Busted ogling, she mumbled, “Your hair’s drenched in blood.” Genius. He touched the sticky mess, then jerked his hand back. Was he surprised? Of its gory state, or that Drina hadn’t lied? “It’s on your face too.” She tossed him a handkerchief. He cleaned up as best as he could and had the good sense not to offer the soiled cloth back, just stuffed it in his pocket. Speaking of, she too should be a mess. Brain-devouring let her inherit a witch’s memories, which usually clawed to invade her mind. Doing that while gift-loaded was akin to shoving a nest of livid wasps in a bag full of feral cats. Yet the moment the man walked in, total serenity suffused her, his mere presence calming those frenzied elements to a kitten purr. Pity that they’d be parting ways. Again. Drina bridled and saddled her filly and led her outside, beyond ready to put this vile place behind her. Mounting up, she cut through the villa’s manicured park. In a clomp of hooves, the man rode up on his steed. “Seems we are taking the same road.” A comedian, that one. They now waded in the waist-high nettle and bramble that began right where the coven grounds ended. No road to be seen. She considered shaking him off, just galloping away. And if he galloped after, then what? On and on they’d go, like some bad comedy skit? So undignified. No, better to keep him close. For now. Given his proclivity for getting (re)captured, she couldn’t risk him describing her to the Witch Guard. With a resigned huff, Drina fished a wooden comb out of her bag. “Grow,” she whispered a spell over it, that single word vibrating with power. Then flung it away, across the mansion, on the other side of the sprawling gardens. It helped, being fuelled by telekinesis. As the comb fell in some wild shrubbery, a forest sprouted, creaking and groaning. Dark, forbidding and impenetrable, thorny vines weaving among craggy trees. It was big magic, but not too big for the combined power of the ten Craft gifts she had devoured. The immune gaped at the newly sprung grove. “Why throw it all the way there? Why not between us and the house?” Drina shrugged and leaned to the side, plucking weeds and weaving them into two small wreaths. “Pair up. Restore,” she commanded, then tossed one behind the horses, the other she tucked in her vest pocket. For the next hour, any vegetation they trampled would return to its previous, undisturbed state, the first wreath trailing after its ‘pair’ and repairing any damage. A short-lived yet handy spell, and most importantly, subtle. The man frowned in the direction they were going, then at the tree barrier looming the opposite way. Realization dawned in his light eyes. Clever man. It was big magic. As required by any big, attention-snaring misdirection. When the Witch Guard came sniffing around, they’d assume the Hunter who punished the coven ran that way. And would waste their time trying to cross those enchanted woods, or go around them. If they didn’t fall for it and chased after them, Drina could always turn the bloody handkerchief into a lake. A lake full of blood. “I’m Breccan. Just Brec to my friends,” the man said conversationally, interrupting her bloody marvelous musings. She gave a slight nod, acting as if he’d confirmed something she already knew. “How may I call you?” he kept on, undeterred by her silence. Someone was familiar with Order protocol. One asked for a Hunter’s name only when issuing a duel challenge. He huffed in agitation. “Do you remember me at all?” A one-shoulder shrug. This Breccan, just-Brec-to-my-friends, had no right to sound insulted. She had recognized him the instant he stepped inside the dining hall, while he’d glared at her as if she was an unknown species of insect in need of examination. Or extermination. Absent recognition. That cell had been awash in amber glow, her features plenty discernible. Seven years wasn’t that long ago, was she that forgettable? He caught her glaring at him and arched a brow. Instead of looking away, Drina doubled down. After a deliberately prolonged inspection, she grumbled, “I liked it better before, with the blood and all.” His spine stiffened and he stared straight ahead. Sulking, so mature. To be deemed unattractive must be unusual for him, especially by witch folk—to which she half-belonged. Unrepentant, she perused him again. True enough, she did like it better when she couldn't see his face clearly. Handsome, Breccan was not. No handsome dared tarnish the bold, sharp angles of his features. With those wintry eyes and harsh, thin line of a mouth, he was downright unapproachable. Menacing even. Her stomach fluttered in a peculiar fashion. Drina had the dreadful suspicion it was ‘butterflies’. Had believed them myth, like unicorns, honest bankers and hookers with hearts of gold. Must be the stolen magic that fancied him so keenly. Witch folk were the ones who found immunes irresistible, not devourers. Consort allure, they called it. Would that diamond-cut cheekbone slice my palm if I stroked it? Maybe nip his stubble-dusted jaw. A playful little graze. Just then, an epiphany struck, a sobering splash of mortification. He hadn’t shut down because she had wounded his vanity. She must be giving off horny vibes, and Breccan must possess a radar highly sensitive to the faintest hints of sexual interest. A skill acquired out of self-preservation. While witches felt drawn to immunes on a primal level, immunes felt repelled, on a visceral level. Hence why covens resorted to abducting them. Enslaving them though, wasn’t due to carnal desires but due to the Houses’ inbreeding issues. A problem of their own making, consorts being their solution. Scarred by mind, body and soul abuse, the last thing a former breeding slave must want, or need, was her magic-induced infatuation. She had to get rid of these allured gifts, stat. Better yet, get rid of Breccan, before he became Brec. Drina couldn’t afford distractions, not when so close to achieving her End Game.