Vilma awoke from the nightmare, a scream upon her lips. She could still feel the wind on her face as they carried her up into the night sky, the swords of fire as they pierced her flesh.
She began to sob, burying her face in the pillow so her aunt and uncle would not hear her. They had already caught her crying twice this week and were beginning to worry. She couldn’t blame them.
Getting a hold of her emotions, Vilma lifted her face from the pillow and caught something from the corner of her eye. Outside her bedroom window was a tree, and for the briefest moment there was something in that tree, something disturbingly familiar, and it had been watching her.
It was then that Vilma was convinced her aunt and uncle were right: She did have some kind of mental problem, and should probably seek help. Why else would she be having such horrible dreams—
And see angels outside her window.
His body covered in armor the color of blood, Malak the hunter crept through the beast’s lair, searching for the scent of his prey. He removed the gauntlet of red from his hand and knelt before the ashen remains of the sea monster. Malak plunged his bare hand into the remnants of the beast, and just as quickly removed it. The hunter sniffed at the residue clinging to his fingers—his olfactory senses searching for a trace of the one his master sought. He hunted a special quarry, one that had meant something important to him long ago, in another life—before he was Malak.
There was a hint of the hunted upon his hand—but not quite enough.
He sensed that there were magicks in the air—spells to mask his enemy’s comings and goings, but not enough to hide him from one as gifted as he was. His master Verchiel had blessed him with the ability to track any prey—and the myriad skills to vanquish them all. He was the hunter, and nothing would keep him from his quarry.
Malak stood and walked around the cave. He tilted his head back, letting the fetid air of the chamber fill his nostrils. His powerful sense of smell sorted the different scents, until he found the one he sought.
The hunter moved across the cavern, zeroing in on the source of the prized spore. He found it upon the wall of the cave, the tiniest trace of blood. He leaned into the wall, sniffing, but the blood had dried, which had taken away some of its pungent aroma. Malak leaned closer, his tongue snaking out from within the crimson facemask, to lick at the stain—his saliva reviving the blood’s sharp, metallic stench.
The smell flooded his preternatural senses, and the hunter smiled. He now had the scent.
It was only a matter of time.