The Cupid Killer

By Lincoln Reed

Ten minutes to midnight, the arrow sliced through the window. Glass sprayed. An arrowhead thumped, piercing the wall an inch away from my right eye. I dropped to the floor, army crawled toward the shotgun on the coffee table, and pumped a round into the chamber.

With the weapon ready, I slunk toward the cabin window. Outside, snowfall draped the countryside in a glistening white sheen. A pale moon painted the wilderness in a bluish hue.

I risked another glimpse out the window. He was somewhere in the wall of pine, shadowed by the distant mountain peaks. I checked my wristwatch.

Nine more minutes to freedom.

For twenty-four hours every year, my life was open season, and Cupid had a hunting permit. No matter how much I prepared or where I fled each February, he always located my hiding spot. For the past day, I had kept a sleepless vigil, waiting for my killer to arrive—praying for Valentine’s Day to end. The moment I dozed off, the arrow had jolted me awake.

The acrid scent of tobacco wafted from outside the window. He was close, my killer, perhaps nursing a cigar as he did last year when his arrow punctured my shoulder. I had been lucky, evading his pursuit through Chicago’s cityscape until midnight.

This year, I chose the remotest place I could find—an off-grid cabin in the Pacific Northwest. Even so, as he did every year, Cupid discovered my trail.

My fingers wiggled on the shotgun as the frigid wind howled through cracks in the glass.

The ticking clock on the wall chimed. Eight minutes until midnight. Four hundred and eighty seconds until the end of Valentine’s Day and another year of freedom.

Never again. This year, the curse ends.

On cue, a projectile thudded the cabin door.

Wood sizzled.

Fire.

Other flaming arrows cascaded onto the cabin, stabbing shingles and walls alike. He’s trying to smoke me out!

I crept toward the kitchenette. Retrieved a gallon jug of water. Sloshed the liquid onto the walls. Despite my effort, the flames spread with primal fury.

Outside, my hunter waited. The god of love, the deity of death. After years of fleeing and hiding, I would burn alive… unless I faced him.

Tonight, Cupid needed to die. Then I would be free. I would win my life back. I would wrestle my future away from Fate’s cruel decree.

With the shotgun butt pressed against my right shoulder, I kicked open the door and fumbled into the snowy landscape. As fire consumed the cabin, another arrow whizzed past my ear.

I knelt, aimed toward the trees, and pulled the trigger—a literal shot in the dark. The gun blast reverberated off the distant peaks like a cannon. I pumped another round, eyes scanning the tree line.

Cupid had me where he wanted me. In the open. Vulnerable.

Could I sprint in knee-high snow fast enough? Could I find shelter in the forest?

My father had once told me, “They say we can’t cheat Fate. But as long as we breathe, there’s free will. There’s hope.”

I leveled the shotgun toward the wall of pine.

Another arrow rode the wind, streaking through the air, whistling until piercing my left leg.

Pain streaked through my limbs like lightning. I groaned. Dropped to my knees.

Blood leaked into fresh snow.

“I’ll always find you.” Cancerous memories of my killer’s voice rattled within my skull. “Your father was wrong.”

Adrenaline spiked as rage flooded through my veins, fueling my focus.

In the distance, my hunter appeared like a frontiersman draped in a crimson hunting jacket and buckskin pants. Cupid emerged from the forest, trudging through the snow with a cigar in his mouth and a drawn compound bow—the final kill shot in our game of cat and mouse.

The arrow in my leg rendered me immobile. With a shotgun containing one more slug, I could still kill Cupid if I could muster the strength, if I could fight through the agony coursing through every fiber of my body…

I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

The blast resounded, but the slug missed.

Cupid didn’t break stride. He advanced with black eyes sparkling in the cigar’s glow.

Not here. I wheezed through clenched teeth. Not this way.

I glanced at my watch.

With minutes dwindling, I retreated, dragging myself toward the cabin’s inferno as smoke stained the night air. Cupid followed with steady steps, his snowshoes crunching in pursuit.

Exhausted, I crumpled as he snatched the shotgun from my grip and tossed the weapon aside.

“Love has consequences.” Cupid chewed on the cigar. “Like I told you, you’re my mistake. Your parents weren’t supposed to fall in love. You shouldn’t exist.”

I met Cupid’s cold gaze with teeth gritted.

He aimed the arrow between my eyes. “Tonight, I fix the timeline.”

I pictured my parents. My mother’s warm embrace. Father’s smile.

Their love wasn’t a mistake.

Neither was I.

With all my remaining strength, I lunged forward, tackled Cupid, and pinned him to the snowy ground. His eyes widened. My fist cracked his nose. Blood sprayed.

Cupid cursed, kneed me in the chest, and rolled me over.

As I gasped for air, he wiped blood from his face with a lurid grin, enjoying his work.

He unsheathed a Ka-Bar knife and swung the blade downward. I blocked his wrist and gripped his arm, resisting as the knife lowered toward my eye inch by inch until the timer on my watch vibrated.

Midnight.

My hands clenched into fists with nothing to hold onto as Cupid disappeared like smoke.

I exhaled. Stars glimmered in the night sky.

Hunting season was closed for another year.

As I caught my breath, a resolution sparked within my gut. I was finished running from Fate. As long as there was air in my lungs, I had hope.

My parents’ love wasn’t a mistake.

I was born for a reason.

Next Valentine’s Day, Cupid, I will hunt you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than sixty of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. Short film adaptations of his Havok stories “Tritanopia” and “Dark Side of the Moon” are currently in their film festival run.

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