Otter Creek Blood Stains on the Collar Means Just Don’t Ask

Machiavelli's breath caught in his throat as his vision adjusted to the brighter light. There, just beyond the veil of tangled branches, stood a figure. The familiar silhouette sent a cold rush of dread straight through him, freezing the blood in his veins. It hadn’t been a dream. His worst fear was no figment of his addled mind—Herod was real, standing just out of reach.

The realization hit him like a blow to the chest, and a string of breathless expletives tumbled from his lips, thick with alarm. Instinct kicked in, demanding flight, and he lurched backward, heedless of the searing pain that ripped through him. Agony seared up his limbs, but he pushed onward, uncaring. The burning in his body was nothing compared to the icy terror gripping his heart.

He twisted, limbs flailing in a frantic attempt to dart out from the other side of the bush, to escape—anywhere—but his body betrayed him. His legs—weak, trembling from exhaustion and pain—collapsed beneath him like broken twigs, spilling him onto the unforgiving ground. He landed hard among the twisted roots and leaves.

Machiavelli tried to push himself up again, claws scraping uselessly against the earth as he gritted his teeth against the pain. But it was no use. His heart thundered in his ears, each beat a frantic countdown, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but no amount of will could force his trembling muscles to move.

He was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of the one man he had spent his life trying to escape.