Greykin Valley

| 21 | Sixteen Hunters

⥐ ⋞ ☽ ⋟ ⥐

| Jackson |

Pain twinged in Jackson's leg. His body felt numb, his senses were distorted, and through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the faint voices of men and women.

Where was he?

He tried to open his eyes, but the bright whiteness of wherever he lay stung and sent pain through his head, forcing him to keep them shut. He could smell burning wood, cooking meat, and blood. And there was something else. Something that singed the insides of his nose and throat every time he inhaled.

Wolfsbane.

Dread shot through Jackson, and when he tensed up, his body hurt a whole lot more. He was sure that he knew where he was without even having to see it. The voices, the smell, and the fact that he was so weak that he couldn't even move a muscle. He was in a hunter camp, wasn't he?

Jackson attempted to open his eyes again, but the brightness hurt so much. He had to fight through it, though. So, he grimaced and struggled, and after a few moments, the blinding light started clearing, and he could make out a few blurred figures and the glow of a burning fire.

He looked around for Sebastien; he remembered the hound being with him before he passed out, but there was no sign of him. But then he heard a familiar roar, followed by the sound of clanging metal. The hunter started whooping and laughing. Jackson searched for the source of their entertainment, and when he spotted a haze of orange, black, and white, he became almost certain that Wilson was there with him.

With a pained groan, he tried to move his limbs. Something dripped down his face, and as the feeling slowly returned to his body, it began to feel as though he lay in a puddle of something. Could it be blood?

"Hey, hey," came a man's voice. "Dog's coming around."

Jackson searched for the man, but a crowd of hunters quickly appeared in front of his cage and gawped at him like he was some sort of exhibit.

"I thought he was gonna die," a woman mumbled.

"What do we do with him now?" a man asked.

"What's left of his pack'll probably come looking. We'll take 'em out when they turn up," a gruff-sounding man said.

Jackson frowned in dismay. He knew that Damon would come for him, and that was exactly what these people wanted. They were using him as bait, and they were going to try and kill his packmates. But Damon wouldn't fall for it, would he? He was smart; he'd have to know that the hunters would try something like this, right?

He looked around frantically as the hunters surrounding him went back to what they were doing. It was only then that he realized he was in a cage, and the bars were shimmering silver in the sunlight. Was that why he felt so weak?

No. He'd been shot. He remembered that. But when he looked down at his leg—his human leg—he saw that it was bandaged. Albeit whoever patched him up did a crappy job, he was still glad that there wasn't a bullet wedged in his thigh anymore.

But he couldn't just lie around and do nothing. He had to get up. As hard as he tried, though, the most he could do was stiffly nudge his head a little, allowing him to see more of the camp. It was Wilson he'd heard, and he could see his friend locked up in a cage on the other side of the camp. There were several other cages, too, and in one...he could see the black, winged hound.

Sebastien.

He wasn't moving; silver chains constricted his body like snakes, burning his skin—it was sizzling and steaming—and blood sept down his body to join the puddle he lay in.