Hunting the Hunted

Hunting the Hunted Part 8

I have to say, it’s interesting to go back and re-write/clean up a serial I started years ago. Part of me cringes every time I pull up the next segment, wondering how on earth I allowed myself to post them. But, I also remember that was a long time ago and I have learned a lot since then. Anyway, I give you the next installment of Hunting the Hunted.

Getting in Deeper

I awoke to find myself in a bedroom I didn’t recognize. My heart racing, I sat up trying to remember what happened. The last I remembered was running through the forest with Kris, James, and the others.

“How the hell did I get to London?” I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud until James’ voice came out of a shadowed corner of the room.bedroom-3778695_640.jpg

“We brought you here for your protection, do you remember?”

I jerked around to face him. “James! What the hell are you doing hiding there?”

“Kris and I wanted to be sure you were well. What do you remember?” James approached the bed as he spoke.

I glanced down, glad none of my clothes appeared to have been touched. “Yeah, kind of. We didn’t take a flight here. How did Kris do whatever it was he did?”

James didn’t answer at first. I moved to get up and beat the answer out of him when he spoke again. “Emma, the world I am about to tell you of must be kept secret. If it became common knowledge, many lives would be in danger. Do you understand?”

“Sure.” The confusion and disbelief must have shown in my face. Quicker than I could blink, James was leaning over me pinning me to the bed with an intensity I hadn’t seen from him since meeting him.

“I am in utmost earnest with this request.”

“Okay.” I blinked. “No one will find out from me; I give you my word.”

“And I will hold you to it.” James backed off to sit in the chair next to the bed and gestured towalandscape-540115_640.jpgrd a huge photo on the wall.

The photo featured mountains taken near sunset. The golden light washed over the ancient hills in amazing contrast to the verdant shades covering them.

“Our story starts there, the Isle of Skye. Our people were driven from the Isle centuries ago.”

“What people? What does this have to do with how we got to London from Germany?” My brow furrowed as I worked to puzzle out how it all connected.

“Because we are what you Americans call werewolves.”

I didn’t know what to say to his matter-of-fact statement. “Excuse me?”


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