Growing up, my mom always told me I was special. But when you're raised in a quiet town like Yerrington, that kind of talk just sounded like background noise. Everyone's parents said the same thing—"You're special"—even though they all lived the same, ordinary lives. But Mom? She was different.
Now, looking back, I find myself craving those "simpler" days—arguing with Mom over hard math homework or refusing to wash a mountain of dishes on my own. Back when my biggest fear was flunking calculus. But in truth, those times weren't simple at all. While other kids played hopscotch or dressed dolls, Mom had me learning to shoot targets and calculating coordinates in our backyard.
Because my mom wasn't just a mom. She was a hunter. And I was supposed to become one, too.
My father, Anthony Hawkins, was rarely around. He'd pop in every six months or so—just long enough to make sure we were still breathing. I used to worship him, but by the time I hit twelve, the shine had worn off. I asked Mom once why he never stayed longer than a weekend. I was still young, but I guess she figured I deserved the truth.
She looked me in the eye and said, Your father has other children. You have two brothers, Kate, but they live with him. Not us.
I asked more about them as I got older. But Anthony never said a word about them, and Mom knew little more than their names: Williams and Alexandra Hawkins. And that was all I had to go on—for a long time.
This past week, Mom had been a whirlwind of nerves—darting around the house, muttering under her breath. But today, she seemed worse. Her normally sleek blonde hair had fallen from its usual topknot, and her deep blue eyes were wild, unfocused. Thunder rolled outside, lightning illuminating the living room—and the duffel bags stacked like warning signs.
"Mom?" I called softly. She was perched in her favorite chair by the front window, frozen like a statue. She flinched slightly when I spoke, like she was only just realizing I was home.
"Kate," she said, voice unnervingly calm despite her disheveled look. There was something expectant in her tone.
"It was a werewolf," I began, shrugging off my soaked jacket. "In Dallas. Poor guy didn't even know he'd killed his own wife. One clean shot ended it."
"Did you take your vitamins?" she asked abruptly, brushing aside my report.
I hadn't. And already, my head was clouded—like someone had stuffed cotton into my skull.
"No," I muttered.
She gave me that look—the one that didn't need words. I spotted the bottle on the kitchen counter: white plastic against black granite. In the cap sat a single jet-black capsule.
I took it without water, like always. Habit. Duty. Then I came back and found Mom in the exact same position, playing absently with the crystal pendant around her neck. I'd asked about it before—she always deflected.
Her paranoia had a grip on me now. I couldn't stay still. I paced.
"Who are you waiting for?" I asked, tension rising in my voice. I'd just gotten back. A week on the road living off granola bars and gas station coffee. I needed a shower—preferably one with water pressure.
"At least let me change. I stink."
"There are clothes in the bag," she replied without glancing up. "Change."
I shot her a glare, then grabbed the maroon duffel bag she'd motioned toward. When I unzipped it, I froze. It wasn't just a change of clothes—there were a dozen outfits. All mine.
"Mom." I stood up slowly. "What's going on? Really?"
She didn't budge. "Go change, Kate. I'll explain after."
Too tired to argue, I changed in the downstairs bathroom. I dumped my bloodstained, week-old hunting gear in the hamper and returned to the living room in fresh clothes. She was still sitting there, body taut and alert like a coiled snake.
I snagged an energy drink from the fridge, plopped into the chair across from her, and popped the can open with a hiss.
"That brew is poison," she remarked, eyeing me disapprovingly. "You should rest."
"This 'poison' has saved my ass more times than I can count," I replied, taking a long sip. "You said you'd explain. So explain."
She sighed heavily. I braced myself for a non-answer.
"Your father's on his way."
My eyebrows lifted. "Anthony?"
She nodded. "I asked him to come pick you up."
"Pick me up?" I repeated, anger flaring. "I'm not twelve. You can't just pass me off to him like I'm some forgotten package. I'm an adult!"
"Kate," she snapped. "I have my reasons. All I ask is that you trust me."
"I do trust you," I said, standing. "But handing me off without warning? That's not trust. That's betrayal. What's going on?"
"There's something happening," she said, her voice suddenly low and measured. "Something big. I don't have all the answers. But Anthony does. He'll explain."
"Explain?" I scoffed. "What is this, a father-daughter road trip? A late Disney run?"
"Watch your mouth," she growled, eyes narrowing. "Your father and I have done more than you know to keep you alive. I'm asking you to go with him. Don't make this harder than it already is."
"So that's it?" I asked, bitter. "No warning? No explanation?"
"Yes," she said, standing slowly. "And until he arrives, that's all you're getting. I suggest you get a grip, young lady. He'll be here any moment."
She sat back down, like a lioness returning to her perch. Calm. Dangerous. Her loose blonde hair draped over her shoulders like a mane. Outside, thunder cracked the sky.
And then came the knock.
A deep, deliberate knock at the front door.
I jumped, instinctively reaching into the chair's hidden compartment for my pistol. Mom didn't stop me. I moved toward the door, cautiously pulling back the curtain.
There was a silhouette on the porch—tall, broad-shouldered. Familiar.
I turned to Mom. "Stay here."
She barely glanced up, then looked away again.
I flipped on the porch light and pressed the muzzle of the gun to the door as I unlocked it. When I swung it open, my grip faltered.
The man standing there had a rugged face carved from years of battle, a salt-and-pepper beard, and eyes as dark as coffee—soft, but haunted.
"Katherine," said Anthony Hawkins, "it's good to see you again."