When Keoki lost the client in the jungle mist, he feared for his reputation, his business. That was hours ago, in daylight.
Dog-tired, he hunted for the clumsy, rich, white woman playing Lara Croft, with perfect teeth and $300 nails.
Piercing cackles from the dark triggered goosebumps on his arms. Laughing gulls—noisy fuckers.
The air grew cold. More gulls. Then whispers. Keoki froze.
A hiss. The arrow struck his calf; as Keoki buckled, breathless, the archer emerged, naked, bloodied. Cruel laughter from the trees: not gulls. More crimson nightmares appeared.
The archer drew her bow, smiling with perfect teeth.