Chapter 2

The target of our twelfth hunt was a low-level werewolf.

When the veteran guild hunter handed me the contract, he gave me an extra look. "This werewolf's been roaming around the south side of Black Forest for half a month now. It's injured several loggers. It's only a low-level one, but the moon's been full lately, and werewolves get nastier than usual around the full moon. Don't go alone."

I told him I had a partner. The old hunter glanced past me. Damian was leaning against the guild entrance, his white hair catching the morning light with a pale silver sheen, flipping through the gear list I'd organized the day before. Sensing the look, he raised his head and gave the old hunter his usual harmless, easy smile.

The old hunter looked away and slid the contract toward me. "Your call."

The terrain south of Black Forest was rougher than the outer edge. The canopy blocked most of the daylight, and the ground was littered with exposed roots and moss-covered stones. Layers of rotting leaves had built up for who knew how many years, soft underfoot like stepping on a corpse. We searched the woods for most of the day, and it wasn't until dusk that we found signs of the werewolf on a gravel bar beside a stream—a massive paw print, fresh scat, and a small tree torn clean in half. It hadn't been broken by impact. The trunk had been ripped apart at an angle by claws, like several sickles had slashed through it at once.

Damian crouched beside the broken tree and measured the width of the claw marks with his fingers. "Male. Around four hundred and forty pounds. It's probably in a cave up ahead. We should find it before dark." He stood, then casually plucked a torn piece of my cloak off a thorn bush. I'd snagged it earlier because I was walking too fast. He folded it and tucked it into his pack, as naturally as he had cleaned up after me every other time over the past two years.

There was a natural cave in the cliff wall at the end of the stream. The opening was narrow, barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways, but the stench pouring out of it was so foul it made me gag. I drew my silver sword, and Damian slipped in behind me.

It was far darker inside than out, with only a little daylight from the entrance giving us enough to see the loose stones underfoot. We went about twenty steps in before the space suddenly opened up—a natural stone chamber maybe thirty feet across, with a crack in the ceiling letting down a thin beam of moonlight.

The werewolf was crouched in the center of the chamber.

It was bigger than any low-level werewolf I'd ever seen in the bestiary. Its shoulders stood a full head taller than mine, and a dark brown mane ran from the top of its head down along its spine.

It heard us. Its ears twitched, then it opened its eyes.

Its scarlet pupils glowed in the dark like embers.

I tightened my grip on the silver sword, bent my knees, and braced for the attack. The werewolf sprang off the rock and came at me.

I twisted aside to dodge the first swipe and slashed backward with the silver blade, shaving off a tuft of mane from its foreleg. It roared in pain and lashed out with its left claw. I raised my sword to block.

Its claws slammed into the blade with so much force my hand went numb. I was thrown back several steps, my spine smashing against the cave wall hard enough to shake down a spray of gravel and dust.

My right hand was trembling. The web of skin between my thumb and forefinger had split open, and blood was running down the hilt. Before I could reset my footing, it was already lunging again.

Too fast. I couldn't even get my sword up.

Damian's hunting knife drove into the werewolf's side from an angle.

The strike was perfectly placed, wedged right into the soft gap between the rib cage and hip. The entire blade sank in. The werewolf let out a ragged, tearing howl, its huge body jerking off balance as one forepaw slammed into the ground, just grazing my shoulder. I took the opening and rolled clear, dropping to one knee and raising my sword again, chest heaving, the taste of blood thick in my mouth.

The werewolf turned its head.

Its fangs were bared, a low threat rumbling in its throat as it braced its claws against the ground and tried to rise for another attack. Its hind legs had already tensed, shoulders lifting, body angled straight toward Damian. One more breath and it would have launched at him.

Then its gaze landed on Damian's face.

Moonlight was pouring down through the crack in the ceiling onto Damian's white hair.

The werewolf froze.

Its mane flattened. The low growl in its throat weakened, turning into something short and strained, almost like a whine. Its hind legs stopped pushing. Its shoulders slowly sank, and its whole body lowered toward the ground. Its scarlet eyes stayed locked on Damian's face, pupils shrinking sharply—not with the excitement of seeing prey, but with the fear of seeing a natural predator.

It didn't recognize the silver sword in my hand.

But it recognized him.

I took the chance and drove my blade into its heart.

The silver sword pierced through fur and muscle, slipping cleanly between the ribs. The werewolf let out one short, shocked breath and toppled onto its side. Blood poured from the wound, soaking into the gravel. Its legs twitched twice, then went still. I pulled the sword free, breathing hard, my arms still shaking.

Damian pulled his knife out of the werewolf's side and crouched beside the corpse, wiping the blood from the blade with a rag. "It was already about to counterattack," he said. "I almost didn't get the angle."

"It stopped when it saw you," I said.

"Maybe that stab happened to hit a major muscle group," he said. "Its right hind leg probably couldn't push off." He slid the knife back into place and stood, holding out a hand to me. "You're not hurt, are you?"

His hand hovered in front of me.

The moonlight behind him turned his white hair into the faintest silver halo. He was still wearing that same gentle, harmless smile, but in the dim stone chamber, beside the werewolf's corpse, the moonlight seemed to sink into his skin, making him look more alive than usual—like something sleeping inside him had stirred, just slightly, under the full moon.

I took his hand.

His palm was warm and dry, his grip steady as he pulled me to my feet. Then he let go and bent to gather our scattered gear, picking up the quiver I had accidentally kicked over and sliding the arrows back in one by one.

I stood behind him for a few seconds.

He always seemed more alive in the moonlight.

I stared at his back for a long time, then slid the silver sword back into its sheath. "Let's go. I'll turn in the job at the guild tomorrow."

By evening, there was a long line at the payout window. I handed over the contract and a sample of the werewolf's mane. After checking the sample, the clerk said the werewolf was at least twenty years old and that its weight would need to be reassessed, then told me to wait to the side. I leaned against a pillar, bored, watching hunters come and go through the hall while the sunset slanted in through the high windows.

A hand suddenly grabbed my wrist.

It was rough and strong, the fingertips thick with calluses, the grip of someone who had spent a lifetime holding weapons.

Before I could even turn, I was pulled into a dark corner off the hallway—a blind spot in one wing of the guild hall, stacked with discarded filing cabinets, the kind of place nobody ever came.

The one who grabbed me was an old man, badly hunched, with deep lines in his face like cuts from a blade. His graying hair stuck out in every direction. His eyes were cloudy, but they were fixed on me as if trying to make sure of something.

His hand was shaking, whether from excitement or old age, I couldn't tell. He pulled a yellowed roll of parchment from his coat and shoved it into my hand, his skinny fingers clamped around my wrist hard enough that his nails nearly dug into my skin.

"This contact—it's for you—I finally found someone who can take it—"

"What contract?" I looked down at the rolled parchment.

"A contract that's plagued my family for three generations!" His voice was sharp and urgent, coming out so fast it sounded like he was reciting lines he had rehearsed over and over. "My grandfather took it, and he died hunting the target! My father took it, and the target killed him instead! And now I've found you—you have to take it—only you can—"

He cut off halfway through.

His cloudy old eyes suddenly widened, staring past me at something behind my back. Every wrinkle on his face seemed to bunch together.

Then he let go of my wrist, staggered back two steps, turned, and ran.

Ran fast—far too fast for a man his age, like something had scared him out of his mind. His stumbling footsteps echoed down the end of the hall, then vanished into the stairwell. I looked down at the parchment he'd shoved into my hand, then up in the direction he'd disappeared, not yet having opened it.

"Iris."

Damian's voice came from behind me.

I turned. He was standing two steps away, holding a small bunch of wildflowers—daisies and little white flowers I didn't know the names of, tied together with grass stems, dew still clinging to the petals. He had changed back into that clean ragged cloak of his, and his white hair gave off a faint glow in the dusk.

"The twelfth time," he said softly, with that same sincerity and hope I had heard so many times before. "You were amazing again today. That thrust was beautiful. I really do like you."

I lowered my eyes and unrolled the parchment.

His confession was still in my ears, but the words on the page were already sinking into my mind. The reward number was higher than everything I'd earned in the past two years put together. The rank was marked with the guild's red wax seal.

And in the target field, there was only one phrase.

"Are you still going to turn me down? Just tell me how much more time you need—"

I saw the words clearly.

Ancient werewolf.

Below that, in a line of sloppy handwriting, the ink long dried to brown:

Target has long disguised himself as a human male. White hair. Gray-green eyes. Has remained hidden in the vicinity of the Demon Hunters Guild for an extended period.

I stared at that line.

Damian was still saying something, but I couldn't hear it anymore. His voice sounded muffled, as if I were underwater.

I looked up at him.

The last light of sunset rested on his white hair. In the fading dusk, it gave off the same pale silver glow it did under the moon.

There was still that earnest hope in his eyes, the same look he always had right before I rejected him, quietly waiting for me to speak. He was still holding that bunch of wildflowers, the petals wet with dew. I didn't know where he had picked them, or how long he had been standing in the guild hall holding them while he waited for me.

I lowered my head, rolled the parchment back up, and tucked it into my coat. Then I walked past him.

"Throw the flowers away. Get ready for the next hunt tomorrow."

"Okay." His voice came from behind me, soft and obedient, just like always.

I fought down the trembling and the urge to scream all the way back to my room. Then I shut the door and collapsed onto the floor.