Venators by Devri Walls

Author:Devri Walls
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brown Books Publishing Group

“Please, help me.” The victim weaved as he attempted to cross the room. His feet barely remained beneath him. “They must save them. The Venators—I saw them in the forest.” He gasped, wrapping a hand around one side. “The Venators, please.”

Now that the man was closer, Grey could differentiate between the fabric of his shirt and the flaps of blood-coated skin. Whatever claws had shredded his chest and sides had been incredibly sharp and as thick around as Grey’s pointer finger.

“They have my wife and my son.” He groaned, stumbling the rest of the way forward. He gripped the end of the table, smearing bloody handprints over the white cloth, and focused only on Grey. “You have to help me . . . They took them.” A cough racked his body, and blood sprayed all over Shax’s crisp white shirt.

Shax crinkled his nose.

Reality tunneled in around Grey, blackening his vision on all sides and leaving only this dying man, featured and framed. This was what he was signing up for. Most of him rose through the horror, propelled by righteous anger. But a small part cowered in the corner, feeling like a child playing at superhero when danger came calling.

“Please,” the man muttered, crimson dripping over his bottom lip. “Ple . . .” His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor.

“Tate, don’t just stand there.” Shax distastefully dabbed blood from his face with a cloth napkin. “His pleas are useless without information.”

Tate took several quick steps and picked up the man, yanking him into an empty chair and kneeling in front of him. “Tell us what we need to know.” The man’s head flopped forward, and Tate shook him.

“Stop!” Rune jerked to her feet, her chair screeching backward. “He needs medical attention!”

“Those are werewolf marks,” Shax said. “If he doesn’t die, he’ll turn at the next moon. There’s nothing to be done.” The man’s eyes fluttered. “Considering the pack that lives in the area, I’m sure he’s hoping for death.”

Tate shook the man again. “Tell us what we need to know before you bleed to death.”

It was too late—he was gone. But then the man’s eyes flickered open, and he slowly pulled his head up as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

“We were traveling home along the outer edge of the pack’s territory. We saw them.” His eyes fluttered to Rune. “Venators.” The words were slow and pained, spoken through ragged breaths. “But . . . then the wolves came. We waited, but we . . . we were too far out when the sun went down. The howls.” He groaned, the memory raw enough to cause pain. “They came—I tried to stop them. They took my wife, and then . . .” He leaned to the side, spitting out the mass of blood and drool that had accumulated in his mouth. “They took my son . . . my only—” A violent fit of coughing cut him off. “They took them, they’ll sell them. Please, save—” He opened his mouth as if to say more, but his eyes rolled back, and he slumped forward.

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