The Hunter's Prisoner

Serena

I wake up screaming. Again.

Night terrors are a lifelong occurrence for me, but they’ve gotten worse since entering The Heritage’s containment center, a prison for the paranormal creatures that humans believe only exist in stories. My solitary cell has padded walls, a twin-sized cot, and a partially concealed bathroom area. Instead of iron bars, a sheet of reinforced glass stands between me and freedom.

It’s not my first time in captivity, but in this instance, I’m right where I want to be. That might sound insane, but the only way to dismantle the supernatural hunting society is to understand its objective. I can only do that from the inside.

Then, and only then, I can take The Heritage down.

Again.

I toss the thin gray blanket off my legs and stretch, sitting up on my cot. My eyes sweep around the block of cells to the guard desk. Peter, the commander’s son, is on duty this morning—a sight for sore eyes if I ever saw one. His hazel irises are on me, assessing the circumstances of my sudden yelling fit.

Peter’s face gives away no indication of emotion—it seldom does. It’s a good face, though. A spectacular one, even. This month, Peter is growing out his facial hair. It suits him, yet somehow makes him look even more intimidating.

Peter’s been putting more effort into his appearance recently, and I’m just arrogant enough to pretend it’s for my benefit. It’s absolutely not. I’m sure the man hates my guts, but he’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. (And that’s saying something because I’ve been around for about two millennia) In any case, I enjoy the view, constantly making guesses about the shape of the tattoo that peeks out from the neckline of Peter’s black uniform.

Unphased by the fact I just woke up screaming bloody murder, I throw Peter a flirtatious wink. Then, I begin my minimal morning routine, which pretty much consists of washing my face and brushing my hair and teeth.

It must be early. Today’s change of clothes hasn’t even arrived yet. The uniform is always the same. Grey sweats and a black T-shirt.

I’d kill for a pop of color.

A knocking sound comes from the cell wall to my left, quickly followed by a high-pitch voice. The walls might be reinforced, but sounds carry through the vent just fine. “Another nightmare?” the prisoner in the cell next-door asks.

“Good morning, Harmony. Sorry to wake you,” I answer good-naturedly in return.

Harmony and I have become fast friends over the last two months. The hunters captured her while dismantling her werewolf pack in California, and from what I can tell, the poor girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. Harmony doesn’t deserve to be here.

My cellmate has shared plenty about herself, but admittedly, I haven’t been so forthcoming. For one, Harmony thinks I’m a werewolf, like herself. I told her I hail from the Aklin pack in Halloway, North Carolina. It’s only a half-life. I am in an alliance with the Aklins. In fact, I’m imprisoned because I offered myself as a trade for one a pack member The Heritage captured.

Becoming a prisoner of the hunting society was always the plan. It’s when people think they have the upperhand that they’re willing to divulge the most information. I need them to be cocky. Arrogant. Sloppy.

I’ll admit though, I wasn’t totally prepared to turn myself into the hunters yet. I thought I’d have more time to prepare. If my sudden disappearance is realized… Well, it would be bad. And that’s to say the least.

My supernatural species is of the siren variety. Legends describe sirens with wings or mermaid fins, but neither description bears any truth. We’re not shifters, but we do have affinities for the elements of nature.

Fire. Wind. Earth. Water.

Most sirens have an affinity for one. Rarely two.

I have reign over all four, which also makes me the clan’s leader. And let me tell you, it’s not exactly an easy job keeping a bunch of emotional, hot-heads in line.

The official story is I needed a sabbatical. It’s imperative no one find out otherwise, or else there’s threat of an uprising. Unfortunately, since my plan to turn myself into The Heritage camp became expedited, I didn’t have time to lay out the proper groundwork. The person in charge of holding my entire life together is the newest, most inexperienced member of my clan.

What could possibly go wrong?

In any case, I can’t tell Harmony the truth about what I am, because I can’t risk whispers of my imprisonment reaching the outside world.

Harmony’s voice is more vibrant today than usual. “Don’t worry about it, Serena. I was already up. I never can the night before my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you say anything sooner? Happy Birthday!” I run my fingers through my white-blonde waves. “How old?”

“Old enough that I’ve stopped aging.”

Werewolves who are born into the pack only age until thirty, and then, if they shapeshift regularly, the aging process is stunted altogether. “I assume you look very young for your age,” I quip knowingly.

“Seventy-two,” she finally admits. “How old are you?”

Ancient.

“Twenty-one.”

Physically, I’m twenty-one, but I’ve been twenty-one for a long time.

“Wait? Like seriously twenty-one?”

“Yep,” I fib.

“Wow, you’re young.”

I bite my lip with amusement. I’ve been faking being a twenty-one year old for so long that there’s really no use in stopping the charade now.

“I’ve been thinking. You know the chemical mist the hunters pump into our cells? It mutes out abilities, right? What if it also restarts the aging process?”

I study my appearance in the deformed mirror over the sink. I don’t look any different than the day I arrived. “It’s possible.” I poke at my cheek. “It’s almost like we’re human.”

The Heritage’s scientific efforts have been successful in developing a drug to mute supernatural abilities, but if I go too long between doses, my powers return. There’s been a few days here and there where I’ve been able to produce sparks on my fingertips.

“You’re right. I feel human. I think that’s why they don’t torture us during questioning,” Harmony admits. “I fully expected to be missing a few fingers by now.”

“They have a code,” I answer automatically.

“You think so?”

I know so. In fact, I know a lot about The Heritage.

I’m the reason they exist.

I steal another glance at Peter, who’s standing now, talking to three other men. It’s generally a bad sign whenever multiple guards ban together. It means someone is leaving the tank.

Every few weeks, a supernatural prisoner is escorted out of the containment center, never to be seen again. I don’t know what happens to the prisoners after they step out of the blue door.

And unfortunately, I need to find out.

I could force one of the guards to answer me. When I turned myself in, I managed to sneak in a powerful relic—a gemstone that grants the wearer mind control. It’s hidden now, always on a thin chain necklace under my shirt. The relic is my fail-safe if I need to make a sudden escape, but the moment I use it, they’ll know I’m not entirely powerless. I’ll have to cut and run, so I should wait for the right moment.

Harmony’s voice echoes, bouncing around in the vent, but I don’t think she’s talking to me anymore. It sounds like a prayer. All the supernaturals get fidgety when it’s apparent someone is leaving. No one wants to be picked. If I’m being honest, it even makes me nervous.

The three guards leave Peter’s side, now moving toward their designated target. The seconds it takes them to approach the cage across from me seems like an eternity.

The cell belongs to an angry-looking man with a long dark beard. As they close in on their prey, the man shakes his head, even daring to beat his fists on the glass casing.

But the glass doesn’t break. It never does.

I watch with a pit in my stomach as a familiar pink mist fills the cell of the man across from me. The dose must be more potent than usual because the man quickly starts to sway, almost drunklike. No matter his species, the man falls like all the others taken before him, and the guards quickly enter his cell. Within seconds, he’s cuffed and escorted through the mysterious blue door.

“There goes another one,” Harmony narrates through the wall. “I think they kill us after they get all the information they need. That’s why I never answer their questions.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about the killing.”

I’m not sure she’s wrong either.

“What do you think happens to the people they take then?”

I have a few hunches, but none that I’m ready to share. “I’m not sure.”

Peter’s movement catches in my peripheral vision. He’s heading toward my cell with a pair of silver cuffs.

The corner of my lip lifts as he draws within earshot. This is routine for us—daily questioning. “Hi, Peter.” I scan him, eyes ending up on his new facial hair. “Remind me to thank whoever keeps hiding your razor from you.”

He sighs as if my comment physically exhausts him, but I bet it takes a lot to exhaust the man. Peter’s tall, broad, and muscular. From the outside looking in, he appears to be the more powerful between the two of us. “You know the drill, Serena. Cuffs on. Mist will start in a few seconds.”

Peter places the cuffs in a cubby used to deliver necessities, such as food, water, and clothes, into my cell. Then he waits while a light pink mist pumps through the ceiling of my cell like the vegetable water lines at the supermarket. I cough, inhaling the too-sweet scent. The effect it has on my body is immediate, relaxing my muscles—my abilities too. When the mist slows, I place the cuffs around my wrists and lock them in place. “Aren’t you going to praise me for always following instructions?” I ask, batting my eyes too innocently.

I’m always a little suggestive with Peter, which he pretends not to notice.

“No,” he deadpans.

I playfully roll my eyes as Peter opens the door to my cell. He escorts me to the interrogation room, and I lean back, calling over my shoulder to Harmony. “Bye, birthday girl! We’ll celebrate when I get back! How about an inmate dance party. Oh! And singing.”

I’m saying all of this of course for Peter’s benefit, but he barely offers me an eyeroll.

I hear her snort in response. Harmony’s not as vocal around the guards. She finds Peter downright terrifying.

Peter almost always hosts my interrogations. If he has the day off, another hunter named Andrew fills in, who is, by all accounts, much easier to charm. Unfortunately, Andrew doesn’t have the necessary clearance in the organization to be of much use to me or my mission.

Peter is the person I desperately need to pick information out of. Well, him or his mother.

I need to dismantle the organization. At the very least, I need to weaken it. I’ve successfully done so in the past, but this time, The Heritage is more organized. Stronger. My previous methods won’t serve me here.

The questioning room contains a black table, three chairs, and a long, reflective glass window. I can’t see through the glass, but I can always tell when someone is eavesdropping on the other side based on the tension in Peter’s jawline.

Today, there’s definitely someone watching us.

“Another person was escorted out of the prison this morning. Where did you take the captive with the beard? Did you release him?” I ask.

Peter secures my handcuffs to the table and takes a seat in front of me. “Better hope you don’t find out.”

I raise my brow. “Could you be more cryptic?”

“Let’s just say there’s one less supernatural being out in the world.”

I study Peter’s face, trying to determine if he’s serious. Could Harmony be right? Is The Heritage murdering supernaturals? That only fits their code if the individual poses an immediate threat to humans, but obviously, no one locked in a cell is hurting anyone.

Unfortunately, Peter is skilled at keeping his expression unreadable. The man would be a great poker player. He glares right back at me, giving nothing away.

I press my lips together worriedly.

“What’s the matter? No cheery comeback? That’s a first.”

I give him an over-dramatic sigh. “Actually, I was just wondering if you’d miss me when it’s my turn to be hauled away from the prison.”

He swallows hard, which is about as close to a reaction as I’ve ever gotten out of Peter.

“Is that a yes?”

Finally, he settles on, “One less supernatural for me to put up with.”

“And here I thought you enjoyed our conversations.”

Peter glares at me as if willing for me to stop talking. “Serena,” he warns under his breath.

Peter’s eyes dart towards the window.

Not only is someone watching us, but it must be someone pretty important. I don’t usually see Peter squirm. And believe me, I try to make him squirm a lot.

The door to the interrogation room opens again, and to my surprise, Andrew enters. He’s shorter and has half the muscle mass of Peter. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” He gives me a theatrical half-bow, and his auburn hair flops out of place. “Always an honor to speak with the siren queen.”

“How many times have I told you. I prefer Your Highness." I reply, immediately matching his energy.

I actually like Andrew. If we’d met in a different walk of life, Andrew and I might be friends. “I get to hang out with both of you today?” I remark innocently. “What did I do to deserve such a treat?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Andrew replies, sitting down beside Peter and shooting me a signature goofy grin.

According to Andrew, he and Peter are best friends, which I find absolutely delightful. The boys’ personalities are so polar opposite that the realization makes me smile.

Peter shoots Andrew a warning glance before turning back to me.“We need you to start giving us answers, Serena,” he insists. “Your time is running out here.”

My eyes sweep over him. Peter’s definitely carrying more tension in his shoulders than usual. “I wish I could help you, but it’s like I’ve told you, I don’t know the coordinates you keep asking for.”

I’m lying. I absolutely do know the information The Heritage keeps asking me for. The hunting society wants the location of The Lost City of Atlantis, and they have it on good authority that I know it’s resting place.

The authority being… I’m the one who sank it.