The hunter turned and ran.
For a moment, Celia could only stare in shock.
She never expected the thing to flee. She thought it would come for her, try to take her, but apparently, this one had enough of her.
She ran after it, chasing it down the street and into the next intersection. Faces peered out of dirty windows or from hiding places as she flew by. Well, good. Let them see that the hunters could be afraid, too.
It was fast. Probably faster than anyone in Dunfield, except for Celia. With Solomon out of town, she was probably the only one who could catch it.
And she did. The hunter turned the corner and hesitated as if trying to pick a new direction, and that was all she needed. With a lunge, she jumped on it, wrapping her arm across the hunter’s throat from behind.
Like the other times, she felt a hard body moving beneath her, with very little give to it, even when she squeezed her arm as tightly as she could, trying to choke it. She didn’t know if the thing breathed, but it certainly didn’t like what she was doing.
The hunter spun, ran backwards for a couple of steps and slammed Celia into a wall. Her breath exploded from her, but she held on, getting her hand wrapped around the arm she was using to strangle it, pulling it tighter.
She was slammed into the wall again, then a third time, but the hunter was moving slower. Her back felt like it was one giant bruise and she was trying hard to draw in large gulps of air.
She stuck her leg in between the hunter’s, and the two of them fell to the ground in a heap. That was enough to dislodge her, but she was still faster than the thing.
In a flash, she rolled over, getting some distance between them. As the hunter scrambled up, Celia moved in, fists flying. It was like pounding on a tree trunk, but her blows were having an effect. The hunter staggered; short, sharp whistles bursting from it with each punch it took.
Celia kicked it in the leg, and then unleashed a powerful uppercut that caught the hunter right under the mask. Its head snapped back and the whistle was cut off. Like the last time, it fell, its body staying stiff like it was a tree that had been cut down.
Unlike the last time, Celia was now ready for it.
She undid the rope and started tying the thing, starting with its legs. Once they were securely lashed together so that it couldn’t run, or even rise easily, she moved up, tying its arms behind its back.
It wasn’t easy. She needed to roll the thing back and forth to get the rope around it, but she managed. Finally, the hunter was bound tightly, and she stood up straight, stretching against the ache in her back and taking a deep breath.
“Now,” she said out loud. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She squatted next to the hunter’s head and reached for the edge of the mask, and then stopped. Last time, she’d only gotten the tips of her fingers under it and it had been…unpleasant, to say the least.
“Drat.” She hadn’t thought of that.
She looked around for something to protect her fingers but saw nothing. Raising her head, she saw that several people were watching, none of whom seemed inclined to offer assistance.
Then, she looked back at the hunter and his bizarre red outfit. Including red gloves.
“Good enough,” she muttered and pulled off the one on its right hand. Inside were pale, slender, long fingers, with no fingernails. Celia shuddered. They felt wrong, like an unfinished sculpture of a person.
She pulled the other glove off and after a moment’s hesitation slid the right one on her own hand. She braced herself, ready to pull it off at the first inkling of trouble or unease. It was nothing more than rough, red, fabric. Not particularly comfortable, but nothing dangerous either.
Now she was ready. She moved so that she was straddling the hunter’s chest and reached for the mask.
It stirred as she grabbed the sides of it and started to pull. The mask stayed stuck to the head, although she still didn’t see anything holding it here.
Maybe I’m trying to pull its actual face off, she thought. Then, it gave slightly. Like last time, the hunter went crazy. It bucked and thrashed beneath her, but she held on, pushing down with her legs while pulling steadily on the mask. Shrill whistles rang out, and she was sure that if others were around, they would be coming to this one’s aid. But there were no others.
The mask lifted further, making a moist, sucking sound that she could hear even over the increasingly desperate whistles.
Finally, with a last yank, she ripped it free, and the hunter went completely still, the whistle cut off in mid-tone.
Celia panted, staring at the white mask in her hand. It seemed like an ordinary porcelain mask, smooth and unblemished, with only slight indications of where a face’s features would be. It was cold, totally inanimate.
Then she turned back to the hunter.
It had no face, but Celia recoiled in horror anyway, sliding off it and scrambling to get away.
Under the mask was mud like you would pull up from the bottom of a swamp. It was dark brown, almost black, and it stank. As she watched, a long, plump white worm came up out of it, then burrowed back down. Another soon followed.
Celia leaned over and gagged, both from the smell and the sight. She noticed the mud clinging to the gloves and ripped them from her hands with a cry, throwing them across the street.
She remembered the muck on her actual fingers from last time and shuddered,
