Seventeen-year-old Harper Westbrook isn’t afraid of monsters…she is one.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Killing Rules by Bree Despain, which is out now.
For the past three years, she’s been one of the Blood Bound—girls and women cursed with a bloodlust only satisfied by killing terrible men. Once every three months, she trades in her pom-poms for a lethal throwing axe. Her life is led by a strict set of rules to keep her dark secret as hidden as the bodies she buries.
And her number one rule? Stay away from Grayson Jones.
The boy she was totally falling for until the night her curse manifested, everything went horribly wrong, and she killed his father. It was self-defense. Or at least that’s what she keeps telling herself.
Grayson is an investigative reporter for their school paper, and he’ll stop at nothing to find the truth behind his father’s gruesome death.
As he follows new clues down darker and darker paths—to an unbelievable world of mythical beasts and the men who hunt them—Grayson doesn’t realize he’s on a collision course with Harper’s biggest secrets. Now, she must stop him before he exposes her family to the Hunters, even if it means risking her life and heart.
Because who could ever love a monster like her?
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Harper
My cheer uniform is the icing on the damsel-in-distress cake. Despite the chill in the sea-salty air, I hitch my skirt a little higher on my hips so the hem barely covers my spankies.
Then I wait.
On a secluded, forest-lined road, I watch as an older man rounds the corner, walking his dog in my direction. Right on time.
I lean under the open hood of the beat-up Toyota sedan I’ve “borrowed” for the evening, peer cluelessly at the engine, and let out a frustrated sigh as soon as the man is within earshot. His file says he passes this way, headed to a deserted dog park, at half past ten every night with his cockapoo, Skipper.
“You need help, little lady?” the man asks as he approaches with shuffling steps.
I look up and pretend to be surprised, as if I only just noticed him, then switch to a relieved smile, making sure my curls bounce just so. “Yes, I do. Wow, I’m so lucky you’re here.” Laying the helplessness on thick. “Thank you so much.”
Shocker, he actually maintains eye contact. Most of them don’t bother controlling their lurid glances at my clearly teenaged ass.
“Let me see if I can get you moving again.” The man, whose name is Emmit—but he doesn’t know I know that—hunches his shoulders and gives me a reassuring, grandpa-like smile, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.
Someone else might buy into his act. But I’ve studied this man closer than most of my textbooks. Emmit is one of those guys who wears the mask so well, people truly believe he’s one of the good ones. I know better.
“Sweet girl like you shouldn’t be out on this road alone at night,” he says, his voice dripping with concern.
“Oh, I wasn’t alone. Not at first.”
Emmit moves closer to look at the engine. “You come from the football game?” he asks, nodding toward my Cliffside Sirens cheerleading jacket.
“Yep.” I sniff, feigning a shiver in the cold night air. “I was following the away team’s bus, and this happened.” Two truths and a lie.
I wave my hand at the car that appears stalled on the empty, eucalyptus-lined road. The woods smell pungent and medicinal, like the balm Nana used to rub on my chest when I had a cold. Back when I was still a normal kid . . .
The man gives a concerned whistle. “That’s a long walk back to Cliffside.”
We’re in Sandy Creek, California, an hour’s drive from the sleepy Central Coast town I call home. Even so, it’s closer than I’d usually go for this sort of thing. Still far enough out that I’m not breaking any rules, though.
Any of my rules, that is.
“It’s good you came along, then.” I give him my best you’re my hero smile.
“Call anyone?” he asks, even closer now. He leans past me as he checks a valve, exposing his jugular.
Little Skipper pulls on his lead, whining, clearly wanting to continue on with his walk.
“Quiet!” Emmit snaps, yanking the leash, and I wince as the points of a pronged collar dig into the pup’s tender flesh. The “nice guy” mask is slipping.
“Phone’s dead.” I sigh. As if it’s not exactly what he wants to hear.
“Too bad.” He laughs under his breath. And just like that, the Good Samaritan act vanishes altogether. He drops the cockapoo’s leash and grabs my upper arms, pinning them to my sides in a vise-like grip.
I feign surprise just long enough for him to pull me up against him, close enough to hear the blood coursing through his veins. His rhythmic pulse calls to a familiar strength, tightening my muscles.
He’s stronger than I expected. Probably younger, too. His shuffling steps and hunched shoulders had been part of the mask, a way to make girls feel more comfortable around him. Like those girls from the summer camp he manages—the ones who came home older, angrier than when they arrived.
And now it’s time to show him what a girl can really do.
I break free from his grasp and shove him hard against the front of the car. His backside slams onto the hood.
He sputters and swears. Slowly, I reach back into my letterman’s jacket and pull a fourteen-inch-long throwing axe from the magnetic harness on my back. Emmit’s eyes go wide, his body frozen in place, making it too easy to press the blade against his pale, white throat, deliciously close to an artery.
“I said I wasn’t alone. Meet my friend Lizzie.”
“Little bitch,” he spits. He moves his arm like he might make another grab at me, this time in anger, but I’m quicker.
I slide Lizzie’s sharpened edge against his throat, drawing blood. Just a nick. A warning. It’s nothing compared to what comes next. Panic flashes in the man’s eyes. He calls me all sorts of horrible names as he presses his hand over the weeping wound. It must sting like hell.
Skipper barks, but he doesn’t intervene to help his cruel owner. Good boy.
The smell of Emmit’s blood sends a bubbly, euphoric sensation rushing through my veins. My vision blurs for just a moment as once-dull colors brighten in the dark. The smell of the forest engulfs me, and my head feels light as a feather. It’s intoxicating, but I’m careful not to go for the artery just yet. A gusher would be messy, and I can’t meet up with the cheer squad looking like I’ve just committed a murder.
Still, the red of his blood sets me off. Fibers and sinew swell until my muscles are taut with strength, quick and agile. Superhuman.
I can tell by the way Emmit looks at me that my face scares him more than the axe now—the glassy look that takes over my eyes when my bloodlust is about to be quenched. His mouth quivers, and he cowers against the front of the car.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpers.
I flinch, a part of me answering to his plea.
The human part, the girl.
Harper.
But even if I wanted to show him mercy . . . once the curse awakens, there’s no turning back. I have no choice but to kill.
I grip my axe tighter, anticipating what comes next. It would be easier to snap his neck and be done with it—but the curse wants blood. Always blood.
“Run,” I growl. I step aside, gesturing toward a path that cuts into the woods.
Emmit scrambles to get away, nearly tripping over his own feet. He sprints onto the narrow path, probably hoping to make it far enough ahead to hide from me. We dodge between tree trunks; he stumbles over roots and sloughed bark.
I’ve always liked the way bark peels from eucalyptus trunks in curling tendrils, like flesh stripped from bone.
But now isn’t the time for taking in the scenery.
I follow at a steady pace, intentionally slower than his, knowing exactly where he’ll end up. And in another moment . . . there it is. The crunch of footsteps on a plastic tarp ahead lets me know he’s reached the right spot. Predators are surprisingly predictable.
With both hands, I pull the axe back over my head, then fling it forward, releasing. My arms swing down and back behind me like I’m the Little Mermaid springing from the sea-foam—it’s all about the follow-through—as Lizzie soars through the air, sinking into the middle of his back with a satisfying thunk.
He falls forward, landing face first in the middle of the tarp. He’s still alive, his moaning sobs muffled. Hot rage for the girls he’s hurt—the ones listed in his file—urges me to draw this out. To make it as painful and gory as possible.
But I can’t linger. I can’t let my control slip, or anyone, regardless of their guilt or innocence, could be in danger. I know exactly how much violence is needed to keep my curse at bay without giving into it completely.
Besides, there are good friends and cheesy fries waiting for me at the Shake Ship.
Emmit begs for mercy, his pleas mingled with questions about why I’m doing this. We’re deep enough into the woods that his blubbering won’t draw any attention. I wonder if he thought the same thing about me.
I don’t like seeing my targets’ faces when they know they’re going to die. It gives the bloodlust too much fuel. It claws at me now, anticipating the kill.
My bundle of supplies waits next to the tarp. A green plastic poncho, nitrile gloves, and silicone shoe covers. I pull them on to protect my uniform, sneakers, and hands.
I’m not ruining my matching mani-pedi on this pedo.
Emmit whimpers as I approach him in my cheap plastic getup—not exactly a fashion statement, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
I press one foot into his hip to keep him in place, then pull the axe from his back. The blade wiggles up and down until it dislodges from his spine. He screams, digging his fingers into the tarp as he attempts to crawl away, but Lizzie has made a paralyzing blow. His legs lie limp.
My muscles ache to plunge the weapon into his flesh again and again, but something holds them back. It’s that overriding voice in me—the Harper voice—keeping me in control.
I grab a clump of Emmit’s gray hair and yank his head back a few inches. Then I picture his young victims.
Mira Walley-Purohit, aged twelve. I slot Lizzie into the small wound at his neck.
Taylor Dunn, fourteen. I force my trembling hands to steady.
Simone Kay Jackson. Eleven years old. That was the last summer she wore beads in her hair.
I slit his throat from ear to ear.
Finally, silence.
When I let go, his face flops into the tarp. Blood pools around his head like a halo, and the scent consumes me. I breathe it in, like taking a hit, and let the smell quench the ache that’s been building in me for weeks—to keep the beast locked inside its cage of flesh and bone for another season, until it tries to claw its way out again.
Once the worst of the bloodlust has been satisfied, I need to act fast. The heightened strength and speed that come for the kill will dissipate, and if I don’t dispose of the body before my superhuman abilities fade, I won’t be able to carry it. Leaving evidence behind is strictly against the rules.
Don’t go overboard.
Never leave a mess.
Always check in when you’re done.
The rules keep me safe from the Hunters.
And safe from myself.
I roll Emmit’s body into the tarp with a medical-grade absorbent pad to soak up excess fluids and carry it back to the car. I’ve stuffed it into the trunk, along with a trash bag holding my disposable poncho, gloves, and shoe covers, before noticing the man’s dog.
Skipper is curled up beneath the passenger side, gnawing on his purple leash as if trying to soothe himself. I wonder how much he understands. Enough for guilt to twist my stomach.
“Come on.” I open the passenger door for the dog, and he hops inside. He can probably find his way back the two miles to his home, but there’s a biting chill in the air and the smell of impending rain, and I decide he’s been through enough.
When I slip into the driver’s seat, the dog sidles up to me, as close as he can get, and licks the side of my face.
“Well, hello there, Skipper,” I say and ruffle his fur, careful not to touch the tender spots beneath his choke collar.
“You really are a good boy, aren’t you?” I say.
He lays over the center console and rests his head on my knee as I drive. He’s warm and soft and close—sensations so foreign to me these days. For a moment, I allow myself to remember the old Harper. The one from three years ago, who had sleepovers with her best friend every weekend. Who had a future beyond planning her next kill, and a boy she dreamed about at night . . .
I stop the car a few houses away from Skipper’s home and open my door. He looks up at me with those inquisitive, puppy-dog eyes.
“It’s okay,” I say. “He’s gone now. And he isn’t coming back.”
Skipper sits up, gives my face another lick, and climbs over my lap and out the car. I watch until he crawls through the doggy door into his house. How will Emmit’s wife feel when she realizes their dog has returned home without him? Free, I hope. Those girls weren’t his only victims.
Fat droplets ping against the plastic tarp and my raincoat as I carry Emmit’s body down the wood-planked path of a nearby wetland marsh. I drove fast enough to make up for lost time, but I didn’t beat the rain. But all the better to conceal my tracks.
I roll the body into a dank, dark crevice deep off the path and cover the opening with loose foliage I’d already stowed there. The stench of sulfur is nearly overpowering here. It will easily mask the smell of a rotting corpse.
I start back toward the stolen Toyota, stretching my arms that had just begun to ache from the weight of the body, when a bolt of lightning cuts across the sky, illuminating the hillside in front of me. For the briefest moment, I see someone on the horizon, crouched under a large bay laurel.
Watching me.
My arm hairs stand on end, and I stiffen defensively, my pulse pounding up into my throat.
A slight, tinny, ringing noise jabs at my eardrums, and I flinch. Who would be out here this late? Some camper who’s accidentally witnessed me disposing of a body? Or worse, a Hunter who’s on my tail? Either way, if I’ve been discovered, it’s all over.
But then a second bolt strikes—and no one is there.
Was it a trick of the light? Or someone who can move as quick as lightning? Someone like me . . .
I use the last of my superhuman speed to dash up the hill to where the watcher had been. If there had been a watcher at all. The area is empty. Just rainwater puddling in the spot where a person might have crouched. A wet squirrel skitters up the laurel, looking for refuge in the storm, and I jump aside.
That’s when I notice it—deep gashes in the tree trunk. As if a mountain lion had used the bark to sharpen its claws.
Nothing to worry about. Just an animal.
Hiking back to the car, I listen closely for any sign that I’m not alone. Nothing went wrong, though. Nobody saw me. I didn’t go too far.
Not like the first time . . .
I shake that invading memory away and focus on the only thing that matters—this kill has earned me three more months of being as human as possible.
I pull my fully functional phone from my pocket and send a text: It’s done.
Now all I need to do to survive the night is make a public appearance with the cheerleading squad, as if this murderous side quest after the football game never happened. And pretend everything is as normal as normal can be.
