3. Draven

" D id you grow an inch? Jesus fucking Christ."

I wonder how easy it would be to sew her lips shut. The fight she would give wouldn't be any more than I've had with pulling my pants up after taking a piss.

"Hello? Draven!"

My patience with her is wearing thin. I told Jarvus to stop hiring fresh out of high school kids . Eighteen years old feels too close to the womb, and I'll never understand his obsession with starting them out young.

Sometimes I feel like I'm far older than I am. The casual dismissal of this barely legal teenager, scarcely old enough to smoke, suggests that I'm not exceeding a decade above her.

I've been standing in front of the ticket booth for the past twenty minutes waiting for Troy to get his short ass over to me when this little princess showed up. I prefer silence over perpetual talking. I really don't understand what people see in me that makes them think I'm a listener.

"I know you aren't fucking mu—"

I don't bother using words to silence her. Instead, I slide three fingers into her small mouth, pushing them nearly to the back of her throat. Her immediate gag makes me raise an eyebrow. I'm not into them this young, but that reaction is going to be disappointing for anyone who tries to throat this girl.

As if she's a fish on a hook I've caught, I pull her down, my thumb grabbing tightly at the bottom of her jaw. Her hands are grabbing at my forearm, orange painted nails biting into my inked skin.

"Shut your fucking mouth," I whisper. "If I didn't respond to your first question about my height, what makes you think bombarding me with more would have me answer?"

Too many words. Satan himself, I swear I could kill her.

I take a deep breath.

Damn anger issues.

Another breath, my chest rising as I lean back to my full height and shove the girl away.

She steps backward, fear dripping from her eyes. That look, I love it. The pleasure it sends straight to my groin has me adjusting.

My gaze falls to half-mast as I snap my fingers, and point down before me. "Do not run yet," I demand. "Come here."

If she tries to flee, I swear it'll be worse for her.

She isn't as idiotic as she appears because she takes the three steps to stand right before me. Her flushed cheeks quiver, and she nervously tucks her bottom lip between her slightly discolored teeth, attempting to stifle her emotions .

I raise my hand, still slightly damp from her saliva, and drag it across her shirt. Gripping the fabric tightly, I bunch it up in my grasp, ensuring to wrinkle it and wipe away any trace of her from me.

"What do you do here?" My voice is low, just above a whisper.

"G-game stall attendee."

Her blue eyes are becoming glass, the shine over them betraying the strength she's trying to project. Not that the tears wouldn't give her away, I can practically hear her bones trembling—especially in her knees.

"That is your place," I lean forward, bending uncomfortably to accommodate her short stature, the strain nearly causing my back to protest, until our faces are mere inches apart. "I'm a hunter, and you are lower than prey. Leave, fille na?ve, before I sign your resignation with the tip of your cut off pinky."

She turns immediately and sprints off. Her brunette hair falling from the loose bun it was in. Too slow for me anyways, I'd catch her in a mere minute at best and that's being generous.

I need someone to make my thighs strain at how hard I have to run to catch them. I'm so tired of being fucking bored.

The crunching of leaves snaps me out of watching the girl disappear behind the carousel, which looks like something straight out of a horror movie. I'd like to blame it on Halloween being this Saturday, but that's just how it always looks. Even during Christmas, this place resembles something the Devil himself shit out, marked with Hell in mind, and dropped right into our world.

"You have a way with women," Troy says, his voice slow and methodic. "It's no wonder you are everyone's favorite." His sarcasm is as strong as his upper body. If there was anyone that could be defined as a short king, it's this asshole.

I simply hum and turn to him.

"Have you checked the requests?" He gestures toward the ticket booth, and I follow suit. The cramped room, striped in black, white, and red, barely fits the two of us. I have to duck as I enter, staying slightly bent to avoid hitting my head on the low ceiling.

So fucking inconvenient.

It's the only place other than Jarvus's office that has a computer, and I'd rather lick Troy's fucked up big toe then step into that smelly fish bowl.

"Once again, you've got about a hundred requests," Troy mewls while tapping on the keyboard, pulling up the events for the weekend. "It has to be the mask. I should change mine."

I roll my eyes.

"Could also be your height," he continues, pulling up our hunter profiles. Troy is one of us Hunters, totaling seven with me included, his specialty is phobia manipulation. I must say, I was intrigued enough to take a night off to watch him work and I was not disappointed. His prey that night had a fear of heights and by the end, she was begging to be fucked upside down on the stalled carousel while hanging out of the top with no restraints.

I train over my profile. It says six foot eleven, it's possible I could be that or even an inch taller. Who knows?

I do. I'm exactly seven feet.

"Could be that lovable face—" he scoffs.

None of the Hunters profiles have our faces. Only our masks. Mine, a golden Devil, with the teeth black as the abyss of my fucked-up mind. The eyes are the only piece that aren't covered and for good reason. I was blessed with eyes of silver and while some say red eyes are that of the Devil, they are wrong.

Red warns of evil. Mine beg of trust. Just what a predator wants to reel in their prey.

"Maybe it's the tattoos."

"I get it, you short fuck." I lean against the wall. "How many do you have?" I'm only curious because I want to shove it up his ass.

"Twenty-eight." He gives me a weak thumbs up. That was more than last time.

"Twenty-eight people that are interested in being chased by a fucking leprechaun." That joke will never get old, because his eyes are green and he has red hair—it was like God fucked him in every means possible, except in the ass.

His glower was as evil as if the coin collecting, rainbow hopping shit himself. I give Troy a hard time, but he is damn good at the hunt. All of us are, but no one is better than me.

"You going to select one ahead of the weekend this time?"

"I never do. I like to pick my proie in person, it's nearly as good as the hunt itself." He pinches his brows together in apparent confusion. I roll my eyes. "Prey."

Drawing in a sniffled filled breath through his nose, he returns to the computer and scrolls through his possible targets. "Didn't know you spoke Spanish."

I said he was good at hunting, not a fucking genius. "French, you moron."

"Whatever. Tomato, potato."

I refuse to entertain his idiocy. "Was there something specific you wanted me to see?"

"Yeah, we have a special guest this weekend." With a grin, he shifts the screen, transitioning from the spreadsheet to the web browser. He brings up our website and logs in. "The Governors son, along with his fiancé and several buddies, will be here. Jarvus is going to request you select him and his fiancé."

He pulls up their applications, but I roll my eyes and look outward toward the darkening scenery. Right in front of the ticket booth is the Playhouse of Mirrors, one of my favorite attractions.

"No one dictates who I select. Not even that roly-poly. I don't give a fuck if he signs my checks."

I really don't.

I don't do this for the money, and even if I did, I could kill that prick just as quick as I could run this piece of shit traveling circus—carnival, whatever it's classified as. Not one of these souls likes him, and if I were to give my crew the order, he'd be dead within a snap of my fingers.

"Just saying, he's gonna ask."

"That is his right. As is mine to say no."

I'd rather stay as far away from Jarvus as possible. I refuse to allow him to select for me. He sits his round ass in his trailer, making bank doing absolutely nothing but fisting his dick to the things we do in the name of his Carnival. Nearly ten grand a ticket, plus a no refund policy, and no liability? Pfft , as if I'd let that creature dictate my fun.

I step out of the booth, run my hands down my torso, and tuck my thumbs into the loops of my belt.

"Walk with me." Troy closes the door behind him and swats my back. The thump of his open palm hitting my muscles makes him laugh, at least, that's my assumption based off his comment. "Leave some muscle for the rest of us."

A rumbling groan filters from my throat.

"When did you learn French?" What is this buddy-buddy chit chat? Yes, Troy is the only one of the Hunters I interact with personally , but this is a lot, even for him .

"I grew up on the border of Canada, a lot of my classmates spoke it so I naturally learned it."

As we moved beyond the Funhouse, there was a break from the attractions, and straight ahead on either side there were booths of food, and games. This was considered the safe zone. Most congregated here, the brave ones moved beyond the confines of the safety net this place provided.

This was also where I sought my prey.

"Mommy or daddy issues?"

"Troy…" We have been working with each other for years, why's he trying to be funny all of a sudden? "If you don't want to be Shade's meal this evening, I would shut the fuck up."

He barks out a laugh, and before us, I can see the other five Hunters. Jun, Po, Marcella, Oscar and Gabe, all equally deadly in their own right. This is way too much interaction for me at the moment.

"I'll catch up with you guys before we begin." I divert around them. None seemingly surprised and don't say anything other than the blonde. Well, bleach-blonde, I could see the black roots beginning to peak from.

"If you find yourself disappointed this weekend, Draven, please come find me." Marcella grabs hold of her breasts and squeezes them together. I'm more of an ass and legs guy; tits always hinder the runner. She's pretty, but that's where the attraction ends with her. She's far more interested in skinning and sewing together a blanket of skin than actual pleasure.

I love pain mixed with my pleasure, but that doesn't do it for me. Blood? Yes. Using their skin to jack the other off? No thank you.

I wave bye, tuck my hands into my pockets and disappear beyond the exit.

The redwoods here are beautiful, especially with the setting sun spilling through them. It's a shame deforestation nearly got the better part of this section. It's the only reason we were capable of putting a whole fucking carnival here. The air here carries a rich, earthy aroma, that of a damp forest blanketed with decaying foliage.

It's a perfect place for the Midnight Menagerie, because the smells that begin to permeate by the second night, are fucking vile. Not that I don't love it, but the smell of nature satisfies me more.

I take a deep breath and lean my head back against the trunk of a tree. The lights from the attraction rides begin to light up the darkening forest. It won't be too long now, likely a few hours when the first few guests arrive. Cars will start filtering in through a singular road that winds through the thicket.

My phone is in my hand and I'm swiping through different social media platforms, looking up hashtags with Midnight Menagerie or, California crazed carnival, or Halloween with the Hunters. Most of these people will last barely a singular night if that. Nearly ninety-five percent of guests don't come back the second night, but it's more fun for us.

It's especially pleasant when our prey think they're safe if they leave the carnival and not return.

The contract states the weekend. Even beyond the premises, they aren't safe until 12:01 AM the following Monday. It's my favorite part, and the one everyone glosses over.

Something is telling me this may be my favorite weekend of all time. Maybe it's the location, but the elation in my stomach tells me otherwise.