Hunter and Hunted (The Shifter Chronicles 4) Read online

  Hunter and Hunted

  The Shifter Chronicles 4

  Beginnings Book Four

  M.D. Grimm

  Hunter and Hunted

  The Shifter Chronicles 4

  Beginnings Book Four

  By M.D. Grimm

  Cover Art by Catt Ford

  Copyright 2021 M.D. Grimm

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  About This Book

  About M.D. Grimm

  Other Titles by M.D. Grimm

  Connect with M.D. Grimm

  Prologue

  Hunter pressed his ear against the door, struggling to hear what the two people inside were saying. His heart pounding in his ears didn’t help the situation. He closed his eyes and directed his entire focus on listening.

  The foster care administrator, a kindly old woman named Mrs. Jenkins, was speaking. Going over his records, Hunter suspected. He crossed his fingers. He really liked Janice, the woman who had visited him every day for the last week. She was nice, pretty, and black. That counted for something. He was black himself, and he couldn’t count the times white folks came into the foster home and overlooked him, going to the white children. And as he got older, he knew his chances of being adopted lessened. He was already thirteen and he’d been in and out of foster homes since eight.

  Now Janice was talking. Her voice was soft, melodic, soothing. He wanted her as a mother. He was on his best behavior when around her and hoped he’d made a good impression. The fact she was talking to the administrator was good news. He wanted a family, somewhere to belong. He didn’t want to feel like an outcast anymore. Something unwanted, like a dirty secret.

  “What ya doing?”

  Hunter waved a hand to hush Daniel, another foster child. He was a friend, but a year older. He was also white, freckled, and resembled a stick figure. Instead of leaving, Daniel knelt down beside him and pressed his own ear against the door.

  “Getting out of here?” he whispered.

  “Don’t know,” Hunter murmured. Suddenly, his vision blurred and turned inward. He saw a series of images, like a movie on fast-forward, and he smiled. Janice came out of the office and took his hand before kneeling down in front of him. The administrator came up behind her, smiling happily. Janice said he was now her son.

  Hunter snapped back into the present. He moved away from the door and tugged at Daniel’s sleeve.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Daniel asked as they stepped to the opposite wall.

  “Nothing.” Hunter grinned. “Nothing at all.”

  Chairs scraped along the floor behind the door and he braced himself. He’d started having visions like that a couple of months ago, and so far, they’d never been wrong. They’d started as visions only a few seconds into the future, and then they grew into minutes. Of course, he’d been freaked when they first started, and whenever he tried to tell any of the adults, wondering if this was normal, they sent him to counseling. He’d learned to keep quiet about them.

  He also started to enjoy them.

  The door opened and Janice walked out. She was about six feet tall and slender with generous hips. Her hair was short and frizzed around her face. She wore a red pants suit and high heels that probably accounted for several inches of her height.

  She walked over to Hunter and knelt before him, taking his hand. Hunter’s heart pounded hard and his stomach clenched with anticipation. It was just like his vision. The administrator stood behind Janice, smiling, and Hunter delighted in the warmth of Janice’s hand and the affection in her eyes.

  “You’re my son now, Hunter,” she said softly.

  Hunter grinned. “Can we go home?”

  “Yes, we can,” she said and stood, still holding his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter One

  Out of the mid-wood’s twilight

  Into the meadow’s dawn,

  Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,

  Flashes my Faun!

  He skips through the copses singing,

  And his shadow dances along,

  And I know not which I should follow,

  Shadow or song!

  ~Oscar Wilde, In the Forest

  Seven years later

  Hunter glanced at his GPS before turning in a circle, nothing but trees and shrubbery for miles. The bag was heavy on his back, and despite his training, the rifle felt awkward in his hands. Scattered sunlight touched the ground, making a patchwork quilt of light and shade. Branches zigzagged above him, covered with moss and leaves, the symphony of chattering squirrels and birds rustling his only companion. He enjoyed the peace and steady rhythm of the forest, and the two days he’d camped here had been a happy change from the confines of the Knights’ substations.

  He loved his family but doubt always gnawed at his gut. He learned not to voice it, just as he’d learned not to voice his ability when he was a child, before his adoption. Hunter thought it was odd that what he once hid had been embraced and considered normal by the Knights. The rest of his family had abilities, and that had been a marvelous discovery.

  The wind was cold and Hunter pulled his jacket closer to his body. It was March, and he was on a hunt in the Wayne National Forest in Ohio—for a deer shifter—and he wasn’t at all happy about it.

  Leaves crunched under his boots as he continued through the brush and ducked under branches or climbed over fallen trunks. It wasn’t deer hunting season, which meant he was alone out here, and he figured this would be the time when deer shifters would be in their animal form. The danger toward them would be lessened. But that also meant he needed to be extra careful. If a park ranger found him, he’d be in big trouble.

  Hunter stopped by a mossy tree and dropped his bag. He leaned his rifle against the trunk and took a sip from his canteen. The location and type of shifter had been his choice, and he only had one month to complete his rite of passage. His family, the Knights, demanded he kill a shifter. Hunter rubbed his stomach as it tangled into knots. Now that he was actually here, amid the natural beauty of the park and the silence it offered, his doubt became more pronounced.

  Shifters had never done him any harm. His mother would tell him stories about the bloodthirsty shifters and what they did to the weak, the vulnerable. Two wolf shifters had killed her own parents, and she’d vowed that no one else would feel the pain she felt every day of her life. He remembered being inspired by that story, and he remembered hating the shifters for a time, working diligently at his training and learning all the Knights could teach him. But as time moved on and he became more aware of what the Knights actually did to ca
ptured shifters, he couldn’t help the questions that formed.

  Hunter stared ahead of him, but he didn’t see the ancient trees, the greens and the browns, the blue of the sky. All he saw was the lab and the shifter on that dissection table. He’d been standing with a small group of children his own age, and they’d looked through a one-way glass, watching… something that still haunted him in the dead of night. The shifter had screamed, and he remembered asking the adult behind them why they couldn’t sedate the shifter. He was told the shifter was faking, trying to gain their sympathies. Hunter was told that shifters didn’t feel pain.

  The snap of a twig brought Hunter back to himself. He ducked and looked around, quietly grabbing his rifle. Thick shrubbery concealed him, and he carefully peered above it, spotting a magnificent white-tailed deer. The buck was old despite the short antlers. The antlers would have fallen off in the winter, but they were steadily growing back. Hunter watched the buck, admiring the grace and strength in the lithe body. The buck’s ears moved constantly; his head held high in anticipation.

  Hunter squinted, silently urging the buck to turn his head, so Hunter could see his eyes. He’d learned a lot from the Knights, such as knowing how to determine whether an animal was a shifter or not. It was all in the eyes. The buck’s coat was the usual dull grey that whitetails took on during winter months, though sometimes the fur or hair of a shifter would be strange or unnatural for the species they could shift into. But the best way to know was the eyes.

  The buck abruptly turned, and Hunter felt giddy since the deer was nothing but a regular animal. The eyes were large and black and held no unusual intelligence in them. They were almost blank, the deer concerned only with food and staying out of danger. Relief settled on Hunter’s shoulders, and he wished he could feel disappointment. But he was far from it.

  Hunter stood and startled the buck, which froze a moment before leaping away. Hunter hated himself for doubting his family. They would know more about the world than him, right? They knew more about shifters than he did, so who was he to question them? Maybe it was just hard for him to wrap his mind around the idea that all shifters, even the prey shifters, not just the predatory ones, were bloodthirsty brutes. Not even predatory animals should be lumped into the “murderous brute” category. They were doing what nature trained them to do.

  In fact it was humans, who the Knights claimed they were protecting, who were the most bloodthirsty. Hunter sighed and grabbed his bag before walking deeper into the park, frequently checking his GPS. He was two weeks into his hunt, having been in another national forest in another state, and he hadn’t come upon one shifter, neither predator nor prey. He was becoming frustrated. What would he do if his month was up and he had no shifter? Would his family disown him? Despite the scary thought, it didn’t harden his resolve. He still doubted he could actually do it. Actually kill a shifter. To murder.

  His family was everything to him, and his mother made this rite of passage sound holy—like he was some crusader. But he didn’t feel that way.

  He would be a murderer.

  Hunter shook himself and tightened his grip on the rifle. His family was right. They had to be. He was just a coward. That was why this was a rite of passage: it was supposed to be hard, and it tested his loyalty to the Knights.

  Taking a deep breath, Hunter followed deer tracks in the mud and found several sleeping places. He knelt, and after counting the number of burrows made into the brush, he determined he was following a good-sized herd. It was almost too big to be natural. Maybe they were shifters. He stood and continued on his way.

  Two days later he was following the same trail but hadn’t spotted any other deer. While still finding the park peaceful and beautiful, his frustration mounted. Hunter had encountered a couple of bobcats and a cougar, but they left him alone. He’d almost hoped they were shifters, but their eyes had shown him the truth. He half wished a predator shifter would attack him, and then if he managed to kill the beast, it would be in self-defense. But he’d had no such luck.

  Hunter was deep in the forest, trails nonexistent, and constantly yanked spider webs out of his face. Scowling, Hunter dropped his bag, leaned the rifle against a tree, and took a small sip from his canteen. There was nothing but silence all around him. It was near dawn, the time when deer were most active. The air was cold and stagnant, heavy on his lungs, and he wanted to sleep, to simply curl up and forget about everything.

  Hearing movement behind him, Hunter swung around and knelt, grabbing the rifle. A buck walked into view. Hunter’s hands trembled as he lifted the rifle even with his face. His heart raced and his palms became sweaty. If this was a shifter—could he do it?

  The buck was sniffing the ground, his ears twitching from side to side. Hunter watched silently, controlling his breathing. He didn’t know how, but he could tell the deer was young. There was nothing very remarkable about his looks or stature; he appeared to be a normal white-tail deer, sleek and long-limbed. What if this wasn’t a shifter? The deer’s nose wiggled before his great head snapped up.

  Hunter froze.

  Eyes of a deep, powerful green stared right at him. Eyes that revealed an intelligence that knew he was there, that he had a rifle, and that he was aiming to shoot.

  A shifter.

  Hunter shuddered out a breath and lifted the rifle to his eye once more. It was now or never. Here was his chance to prove to his family that he was loyal. That he loved them. The buck simply stood there, staring in apparent fright. Hunter vaguely noticed the deer was flapping his tail, showing the white underneath, perhaps alerting the rest of his herd.

  Hunter didn’t hear or see any other deer. His entire focus was on this one that he could easily shoot. Yet he continued to hesitate, arguing with himself. Then Hunter’s mind was pulled inward, and he had just enough time to think not now before images in his mind moved swiftly past. He saw the buck run off. He saw himself giving chase. The images blurred, completely incomprehensible, before they abruptly slowed, showing the deer once more. Then the deer shifted into a very attractive, slender, naked man, with the same deep green eyes. His skin was golden while his hair was tawny and charmingly curly, falling in front of those large and powerful eyes. He was more rangy than skinny, and a sprinkle of hair covered his chest and made a path down to his groin, where more of that tawny, curly hair lay. His penis was relaxed in the vision, but that didn’t take away from the powerful image seared into Hunter’s mind, and it didn’t stop his own body from reacting to the shifter’s beauty.

  Then the images blurred again, and slowed down, once again focused on the deer shifter. The shifter stood very close to him, his eyes nearly shut, his mouth tilted up as if expecting a kiss….

  Hunter slammed back into himself, into the present. The images took less than a second, but it was enough to make him drop his rifle. It fell with a thud, and the deer shifter turned and sprinted away, just like in his vision. Shaky and sweaty, Hunter hesitated only two seconds before grabbing his bag and leaving his rifle. He ran after the deer, his blood rushing in his ears and his mind confused, curiosity bursting.

  He rarely had visions so far into the future. The ones only a few minutes in the future depicted events that were inevitable; they would happen. But the ones that were hours, days, or even, once, a week in the future were only possible futures. They had just as much chance of not happening. The blurry images meant some time would go by before those visions had any chance of coming to pass, and he couldn’t predict when.

  Why did the shifter change in front of him? Why did the shifter try to kiss him? And why didn’t he push the shifter away?

  He would only get answers if he followed the deer shifter. He ran faster, tripping now and then, but never giving up the hunt.

  Chapter Two

  Glenn ran deeper into the forest, panic making him forget to duck his head when he passed under a low-hanging branch. His antlers nearly got stuck, and he shook his head fiercely, sounds of distress escaping him. His brother and s
ister had seen his warning and scattered in different directions, knowing they would meet back at the house.

  What was a hunter doing here? Now? It wasn’t hunting season at all! And why hadn’t the hunter fired? Glenn knew he’d acted like an idiot, just standing there with a target on his chest. But in his deer form, he was often subject to the weaknesses that come with his primal spirit. His reactions, when startled, were slow and jerky. And yet he was still alive, leaping and swerving around barriers, trying to put as much distance between him and the hunter as possible.

  Finally slowing, his lungs working hard, Glenn continued to walk, his ears straining to hear any noise. He wanted water but it was too risky to go in search for that now. He turned around and looked behind him, seeing nothing, but he didn’t allow himself to relax. He needed to tell his father, who would determine if it was still safe to be in this forest.

  A sound to his left caught Glenn’s attention. He swung his head around the same time a large wild hog pushed its way out from behind some bushes. It squealed at the sight of him, and fear rose up inside Glenn when he heard smaller, shriller squeals behind him.

  Oh Phoenix.

  He doubted praying to the ancient deity of shifters would help him now. When Glenn thought he was paying attention to his surroundings, listening to the forest speak to him, he was wrong. Panic distracted him and led him into a wild hog’s den. A mother wild hog’s den. And right now he was the one thing standing between momma and her piglets.

  Now Glenn recognized the tell-tale signs and tried to back away, even knowing it was too late. The mother raised her head, opened her massive jaw, and charged him at full speed, squealing all the way. Glenn sidestepped her agilely, cantering on his hooves and bowing his head, presenting his antlers. They were small because it was winter, but he had to use what he could to keep from being gored by the pissed-off mother. The hog swung around and squealed louder, her piglets answering her with cries of fright.