Decem

Oakley

Things in Salem have been… interesting, to say the least. My brother and I made the move here based on some intel that led us to believe that a dark power is rising in Salem. For the most part, the witches have been rooted out of Salem for years. Centuries even-- but being a hunter attached to The Order, it's our job to make sure it stays that way. The roots of our families go back hundreds of years here, just as the witches do. We're as much a part of history as everyone else is. Although The Order has expanded to cover the entire globe since the trials at the end of the sixteen hundreds, it all started here.

Salem is ground zero for our entire history. Where The Order was born. What started as a small council in a small town has blossomed into a worldwide following. Bloodlines with their own kind of magic have been found over the years. Magic provides us with certain senses. Certain strengths that others don't have. Those of us with the gift spend our entire lives honing it. Perfecting it. We're beholden to our calling and our families had no qualms with letting us know it growing up. Our parents were part of The Order as well but Branson and I are our own unit now. We make the plan, we execute the plan. An army of two.

I knew the moment I laid eyes on Sunday that she was a witch. Hunters' senses are specifically honed to be able to capture and kill supernatural beings. Vampires, Werewolves, Witches-- the entire enchilada has been mine and my brother's focus since we were children. We were bred for this. It's all we've ever known.

Branson and I, with our specific lineage, specialize in witches. We always have. That doesn't mean we haven't nabbed any other baddies along the way. I have a bat on my rib cage for each one. Not all witches are bad. We have some that work with us to find those that are truly dangerous. Those whose lineage is dripping in the evil of black magic. There seems to be a specific bloodline here that is of concern for us. The trick was always finding it and rooting it out.

I've never hesitated on a kill before, but there's something about Sunday. Something different that sets my blood on fire when her eyes find mine. I had every intention of taking her out when she took me deep into the woods the other day. There wasn't a soul for miles. No one to hear her scream. But I just couldn't do it. What is wrong with me?

I've had times I was off my game before, sure. Branson likes to tease me about those times. He says it's the Hunter version of limp dick, as though he never struggles with kills. I'm sure he's had his fair share of failures. We may be born and bred for this, but it doesn't take away our empathy. Rooting out these threats sometimes means that we have to set our humanity to the side. Those kills are the hardest won notches on the metaphorical bedpost.

Branson is a Journeyman within The Order, meaning he's responsible for certain territories. It's why we've moved around so much in the past. Now that he's been elevated to a higher tear of his rank, we might actually get to park it somewhere for more than fifteen minutes. It would be nice to get to know someone for once. Maybe have some drinks, make a friend. Something people my age do.

While staying in one place is something I want at my core, it's going to make it hard not to have fingers pointed at the newcomers when people start going missing in town. Two mysteriously hot brothers blow in like a bad wind? Yeah, they're going to notice. My inner voice is telling me that I'm just making excuses not to slay Sunday, but I'm going to revel in the lies just a little bit longer.

The moment I saw her Green eyes, her blonde hair licked up by the wind, drifting like a silent whisper through the air, I knew I was fucked. Extremely powerful witches, such as those that practice black magic, are a danger to the human race, pure and simple. It's always been black or white for me. But she has a dark power welling within her. I could feel it in every part of me that day on the road. The trick is to stop her before she knows what she is capable of. Before she becomes unstoppable.

I walked into the house with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, letting the doors shut behind me. Our modern windowed home sprawls through the trees in a particularly wooded area off the beaten path. Not far away from where Sunday showed me "The Rock," oddly enough. The place I was meant to slay her. My jaw ticks as the memory of my failure washes over me.

"How was the group hokey pokey at the school tonight?" Branson teased across the kitchen when I came in. I chuff a laugh at him, too worn out to engage in a rousing verbal sparring match this evening.

"I've about had it with this high school bullshit. I'm getting too old to pretend to be a high schooler. We're going to have to find a new schtick."

Having graduated a few years back, I'm not exactly excited to be reliving those torturous years of history tests and chewing gum under the desks. In reality, I'm on the cusp of celebrating my twenty-second trip around the sun, but it always falls to me to play the part since Branson is well into his thirties and he looks like someone rode him hard and put him away wet. Unfortunately, that's part of the life of a Hunter. It ages you before your time.

"Come on, I thought you liked playing football," he prods.

The corner of my mouth twitches with a hint of a smirk. "I do like playing football, but I don't like pretending I'm not old enough to buy a beer and planning science projects with preppy assholes that think they're all that since they're banging a cheerleader. They have no idea what life is actually like."

Branson opens the fridge, pulling out two beers and popping their top with the bottom of his Bic lighter with a practiced flourish before sliding one across the counter to me. "Speaking of banging cheerleaders, how's our mark doing?"

I nearly choke on the mouth full of beer as it fizzed down my throat. I don't like him even thinking about Sunday. She's my kill, not his. "She's great. Oopsed a fire, though," I mumble under my breath in hopes that he might miss it. A glance in his direction tells me that he definitely did not.

"Fuck. We need to make a move soon, bro. Before she realizes what she's got going on under the hood of that perfect body. If that happens, we're going to have a difficult time taking her out."

A fire breaks out in my chest, heading my blood to its boiling point. "Sunday is mine. The Order assigned her to me. You're just here to supervise in your old age. No more field work for you, grandpa."

Rolling his eyes, Branson tips his head back and pounds his beer like he's at a frat party instead of a million-dollar home tucked away in the woods. "Yeah, well, the fact that there are other witches here wasn't something we banked on. The intel said the girl we were looking for was a loner. The only one within her family carrying the gift."

I pull out a white leather bar stool, inching myself onto it before leaning both hands on the black granite countertop which is cold to the touch, absorbing the temperature of the room. "Yeah, she is. But the thing is whichever witch did the research on this failed to mention that one of her best friends belongs to another long line of very powerful witches. She's leading her by the hand."

While we are both loyal to The Order, I can't help but wonder if that information was withheld intentionally. That we were sent here for more nefarious purposes. The Order can be extremely underhanded when needed. But you don't question The Order if you would like to remain above ground I know Branson is thinking the same thing, but it's not an issue as long as we both keep it to ourselves. As long as the truth of our thoughts never ghosts past our lips.

Branson finishes his beer in another gulp before snapping the metal beer cap across the room and into the garbage can. "Well, just don't want too long. This is the biggest ask The Order has ever had of you. Do this and you're looking at a promotion of your own. You could start calling a few shots."

"Yeah. Don't worry. She's toast. She just doesn't know it yet."