Читать онлайн книгу "Midnight Hunter"

Midnight Hunter
Kait Ballenger


Hunters of the supernatural,the Execution Underground are an elite group tasked with protecting humanity but can dark temptation destroy good intentionsOccult specialist and witch hunter Dr. Shane Grey is called upon to investigate a string of crimes that bear all the hallmarks of black magic. But he can't take on this daunting assignment for the Execution Underground alone. He'll need the help of Vera Sanders, a witch with a dark past–and a woman who disturbs him as much as she intrigues him.Vera is determined to ignore the dangerous chemistry between herself and Shane so she can prove her loyalty to his cause; otherwise she risks the wrath of the Execution Underground once again. If she can't make Shane trust her, they won't stand a chance in hell of defeating the evil that's terrorizing their city. No easy task, considering old habits die hard and Vera may be the very person responsible for luring Shane into a killer's trap.







Hunters of the supernatural,

THE

EXECUTION

UNDERGROUND

are an elite group tasked with protecting humanity…but can dark temptation destroy good intentions?

Occult specialist and witch hunter Dr. Shane Grey is called upon to investigate a string of crimes that bear all the hallmarks of black magic. But he can’t take on this daunting assignment for the Execution Underground alone. He’ll need the help of Vera Sanders, a witch with a dark past—and a woman who disturbs him as much as she intrigues him.

Vera is determined to ignore the dangerous chemistry between herself and Shane so she can prove her loyalty to his cause; otherwise she risks the wrath of the Execution Underground once again. If she can’t make Shane trust her, they won’t stand a chance in hell of defeating the evil that’s terrorizing their city. No easy task, considering old habits die hard…and Vera may be the very person responsible for luring Shane into a killer’s trap.


Praise for Kait Ballenger and The Execution Underground (#ulink_5e8b47b8-0a93-5833-a065-169b8029a40c)

“Newcomer Ballenger offers an extremely promising high-voltage start to her series.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Twilight Hunter

“Paranormal fans have a new voice to check out with the debut of Ballenger’s terrific first book in her Execution Underground series.”

—RT Book Reviews on Twilight Hunter

“Debut author Ballenger shows awesome potential and talent.”

—RT Book Reviews on Shadow Hunter

“Kait Ballenger is a treasure you don’t want to miss!”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“Non-stop action, pulse-pounding suspense, and red-hot romance… Kait Ballenger’s Execution Underground series delivers in spades!”

—Jaime Rush, New York Times bestselling author


Midnight Hunter

Kait Ballenger






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my wonderful, hardworking, dedicated agent, Nicole Resciniti, for always championing my work and for taking a chance on me when no one else would. Thank you for always believing in me, even during the times when I haven’t believed in myself. Nic, you’re amazing, and I feel so privileged to share this journey with you.


Contents

Cover (#u9356e2ba-e5ae-5e22-9d68-79d26e411662)

Back Cover Text (#u564f25ea-b56e-51b8-b131-1f85120720b9)

Praise (#ulink_fa7afb23-82f2-5659-b475-826b2b71ad86)

Title Page (#u2310df26-90fd-5e4b-8808-32a0e0ddcaf4)

Dedication (#udf7a8094-81a7-579f-9b64-55ea73c6358b)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_fc0ef933-51b1-5910-97bc-286ccccda07a)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_13fa868d-b6f0-50e0-9ee8-68f802300822)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2a222236-5d48-5ac9-bcd7-bb761c0a54c2)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_222334eb-d5d8-575a-be75-2965c01bb3e1)

RED AND BLUE lights flashed through the encompassing darkness, dancing across the mixture of elaborately carved Victorian and modern tombstones. The dead silence of Mount Hope Cemetery shattered with the resounding whoop of the Rochester PD car’s siren as it rounded the nearest grassy hill. Dr. Shane Grey swore. In two seconds flat, thanks to the police’s arrival, the night had transitioned from shit to supershit. Because as much as Shane hated digging up dead bodies, he hated getting pinched by the cops even more. From the looks of it, both were on tonight’s menu.

He shook his head. “This cannot be happening.” He swore again.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Ash Devereaux drawled. Shane’s crazy Creole partner in crime shot him a “we’re fucked” glance as they both dropped their trenching shovels into the dirt of the grave they’d been excavating.

“Freeze!” a deep male voice yelled.

Both Shane and Ash obeyed, standing stock-still lest they be shot by a trigger-happy policeman. Damn. This was so not good, Shane thought. The feds kicking down his door for his database hacking, or getting the crap beaten out of him for counting cards in a casino, had always been his first guesses on his list of Things That Will Likely Lead to Me Being Shot or Put in Jail, not being busted for grave robbing. This wasn’t even in his usual job description.

“Put your hands up,” the cop barked.

Shane and Ash lifted their hands over their heads, doing their best versions of the Y in the Village People’s “YMCA.” Between Ash’s snakeskin cowboy boots and the cop behind them, all Shane needed was a headdress and they would account for at least half of the flamboyance.

“Good. Now turn around—slowly.”

Shane spun first, closely followed by Ash. Courtesy of the near-impenetrable darkness engulfing the cemetery, Shane could barely decipher the officer’s face behind the blinding light of the man’s flashlight. The silhouetted officer slammed the driver’s side door of his vehicle as...was that a second officer he heard getting out of the car? Another door slammed. Yep, two cops for the price of one. Double damn.

They were so screwed.

Of all the things he could get arrested and lose his teaching career over, helping his fellow hunter was going to be his downfall. A cruel twist of fate, if you asked him. He and Ash had enacted every precaution to ensure they weren’t caught during their nighttime visit to see the very dead Mrs. Jennifer Foley, who had tragically passed of an aggressive bout of breast cancer two years earlier. When Shane and Ash had arrived at the gravesite, they’d known straight away that all their efforts might be for naught. The recently disturbed dirt suggested Mrs. Foley’s coffin might have been moved. But they had to check to be certain. To make matters worse, the cops showing up to save the day—er, night—was just total shit luck. To the unknowing eye, their work to burn Mrs. Foley’s bones in order to put her murderous spirit to rest appeared to be little more than vandalism. But as a card-carrying Mensa member with an IQ of over one hundred and fifty-five and multiple PhDs, there was no way Shane was letting two overly nosy members of the Rochester PD screw up his plans. He would figure out how to get them out of this.

“Evenin’, Officers.” Ash grinned, his Louisiana charm as thick as the syrup in any sweet tea south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Grave robbing, boys? That’s a Class E felony.” The second cop sauntered forward flanked by his partner, who held the flashlight—and they both had guns. From the smug swagger in their walks, you would have thought they’d busted Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid rather than two men armed seemingly with nothing more than a pair of shovels in a historically insignificant subsection of the sprawling cemetery.

“It’s not what it looks like, Officers,” Ash said, spouting the least original line Shane had ever heard.

Really, Ash? You couldn’t come up with a better opening line?

“Not what it looks like, huh? Do you know how many times I’ve heard that one, buddy?”

Shane cleared his throat. “Thousands of times, I’m sure, Officer, but we have a permit to exhume the contents of this grave site. If you’ll check my back pocket, you’ll see we’re law-abiding citizens. No need for the gun.”

The officer remained silent for a moment, examining Shane as if his face held the secrets of the Lost Ark. “Fine,” the officer said tersely. “But I’m patting you down in the process.” He glanced to his partner. “You take him.” He nodded toward Ash. The officer holding the flashlight clicked it off, leaving nothing but the headlights of their patrol car to illuminate the scene. After Shane’s eyes readjusted to the darkness, he eyed the cop who’d headed over to Ash. The officer had tucked his gun away. Perfect.

Shane turned back to the officer standing in front of him.

The man waved his hands at Shane. “Okay, arms up, bud.”

Here goes nothing. Shane lifted his arms. “Sorry, Officer.”

He head-butted the officer in the bridge of the nose. Stars swam in front of his own eyes. He blinked them away as he slammed his fist straight into the policeman’s face, a quick punch Shane hoped would be enough to subdue the man in blue. No such luck. The officer stumbled back, crimson blood gushing down the front of his uniform. The officer reached for his nine-millimeter, just as Shane tackled him. They toppled onto the frozen ground with an audible oof as the mucky taste of dirt coated Shane’s tongue. Without delay, Shane straddled the man’s chest and socked him in the face again. The officer swung, but missed, and Shane hit him one more time. A moment later the officer lay flat on his back, as unconscious as a sack of potatoes. Adrenaline pumped through Shane’s veins and he released a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Pain pulsed through his forehead.

Humans were so much easier to take down than supernatural creatures. A small sense of pride rushed through him. Clearly, his combat training with the Execution Underground hadn’t been lost in the past few years as he’d worked less physical crimes. He worked out enough to keep himself in top physical condition, but his combat skills hadn’t been tested for quite some time. Not too shabby a job, he decided.

Shane wiped off the officer’s blood on the thigh of his jeans before turning toward Ash. His friend was sitting in the dirt, shaking his head at the second officer, who he’d clearly just finished taking down. “Poor son of a gun.”

Shane nodded despite the slight ache in his skull. The officers had only been trying to do their job and nothing more. Unfortunately, that job jeopardized Shane and Ash’s mission, and supernatural crimes were the royal flush to the PD’s full house—they trumped the day-to-day job in importance every time.

“Was that a head butt I saw? I knew you were smart ’n’ all, always usin’ your head, but damn. I didn’t know you’d be so literal about it.” Ash brushed a few stray strands of blond hair from his face.

Some of Shane’s own hair had pulled loose from his ponytail and was dangling over his eyes, but he didn’t bother shoving it out of the way. “I had to do something to get us out of that.” He pushed himself off the ground and walked over to Ash, offering his friend a hand and helping him up. They both brushed themselves off, but it was pointless. They’d already been covered in dirt from digging.

“Bang-up job, my friend. I didn’t know ya had it in ya.” Ash grinned from ear to ear and clapped Shane on the back.

Shane returned the grin. Yeah, he had it in him, but he would need a couple aspirin now for his head once they got out of here. But man, was he glad they’d gotten out of that. Now they just needed to get out of here. He grabbed the shovel he’d dropped a few minutes earlier. “Let’s hurry up and get this done before anyone else shows up.”

Ash grabbed his own shovel, and they both resumed digging again. Shane jabbed the shovel into the frozen ground, heaving all his weight into the effort. The tip of the blade pierced the recently disturbed dirt over and over again, with a near-silent swish each time he drove it down. He frowned. Damn it. He kept hoping to hear the crack of his shovel against the wood of the casket anytime now. Digging up graves, then salting and burning the body to put a nasty spirit to rest? Not his forte by a long shot. Helping his fellow hunter was all fine and dandy, but he’d been ready for this monotonous task to be over before it had even begun.

“Just about another foot,” Ash said. He stood on the other side of the grave, shovel in one hand as he wiped a sleek sheen of sweat from his brow with the other.

Despite the chill in the early-April air in western New York, sweat was pouring off both of them like it was the middle of July in Vegas. Digging a six-foot-deep hole was tiring as hell. Period. Good shape or not, as far as Shane was concerned the task majorly sucked, especially with the thought of more cops showing up niggling at the back of his mind.

He threw another pile of dirt over his shoulder. “The next time I agree to help you, remind me how much I despise doing this and how much trouble we almost got into with those cops.”

Ash laughed as he continued to dig. “You know I really appreciate this.”

Shane nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Another jab into the dirt, followed by a loud thunk.

“Bingo.” Ash raised his shovel over his head in victory.

Shane chuckled. He brushed some of the dirt off the casket lid, revealing what was no longer smooth lacquered mahogany. “You take way too much pleasure in your job if you enjoy this.”

Ash grinned before he lodged his shovel in the side of the casket to help pry open the lid. “When you’ve dug up as many graves as I have, you learn to take small pleasures where you can find ’em. I can’t count how many times I’ve dug a huge damn hole just to find the grave site was moved, and that seemed pretty likely with this one, considerin’ somebody had already been diggin’ here. I’m just ready to burn this sumbitch,” he said.

Shane followed Ash’s example and lodged his own shovel into the crack of the casket opening.

“On three,” Ash said. “One, two, three.”

Together, they hoisted the lid open. A cloud of dust and debris billowed from the inside of the casket, sending them both into coughing fits. Shane stared down into the dirt, hoping to see the corpse, but when the dust cleared, both Shane and Ash remained silent for a long moment. The damp-wood smell emanating from the casket filled Shane’s nose, but the scent of the dead wasn’t there. He blinked several times. Was he seeing correctly? Ash swore under his breath, a confirmation of Shane’s conclusion.

The casket was empty. No corpse, no half-decayed body, no bones. Nothing.

After another long moment of silence, Shane cleared his throat. “Um, Ash, where the hell is Mrs. Foley?”

Shane didn’t know all the details of Ash’s job as a ghost hunter, but the general training Shane had received from the Execution Underground before he’d started specializing in hunting witches and warlocks, but after he’d already earned his first PhD in religious studies—with a focus on the occult and pagan religions, of course—had taught him enough to know that generally corpses remained in one place, regardless of whether their spirit roamed the earth. And Jennifer Foley was supposed to be dead. Very dead.

Ash shook his head. “I have no fuckin’ clue.” He stared at the open casket with a stunned look on his face. A glazed aura clouded Ash’s green eyes, as if he were dreaming while awake. Shane knew that look. Ash struggled with PTSD. Shane didn’t know from what, because Ash wasn’t a former military man, and he’d never had the heart to ask. That look said, I’ve seen a lot of bad shit in my life.

“Ash, you with me?” Shane asked.

“Huh?” Ash looked up, roused from his trancelike state. He shook his head as if shaking the memories off. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Shane nodded before he tossed his shovel to the side. “I’ll give you a second. Don’t worry about calling Damon, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, man,” Ash muttered.

Shane held up his hand. “No problem. I’ll handle it.”

That seemed to have become his motto: I’ll handle it. Even though he was both the youngest and least experienced among his team members, who were all his senior by at least five years, he acted as the oil for the sometimes squeaky Rochester division cog in the massive machine of the Execution Underground. A covert international organization of elite hunters, the Execution Underground protected humanity from the paranormal creatures who, unbeknownst to the general populace, lurked around every corner. When his fellow hunters, his division team members, needed his aid, he obliged. Always.

Earlier that morning he had read an article in the Democrat and Chronicle about the murder of Mr. Ted Foley. Reportedly, the deceased had been telling his close friends for several days before his death how his dead wife, Jennifer, the now-missing dead woman, was haunting him, threatening him. That detail had been enough for Shane, and he’d brought the article to the attention of the team. They’d all agreed it was best to take every precaution and ensure that the wife really went to her eternal rest. Aside from all the digging, it should have been an easy job for Ash, their resident ghost hunter, especially with Shane’s help with the hard labor. A very straightforward murderous poltergeist case. Easy to fix, if you had a corpse to burn. The case should have been dealt with tonight. Except...

Shane called Damon Brock, their division leader, to break the news. While he waited for Damon to pick up, Shane let out a tired sigh. Damn it. The night had gone from shit to supershit to megasupershit.

Missing bodies always complicated things.

* * *

VERA SANDERS SLIPPED out the heavy steel back door of Soft-Tails and into the damp alleyway. She wrapped her near-floor-length jacket around her, shielding her almost-bare legs. Despite her plaid miniskirt, fishnet stockings and stilettos, she might as well have been in the buff, given how the night air chilled her to the bone. She was used to it, though. Rochester had long winters and springs that often didn’t feel any different, and on nights like tonight, when she was slinging liquor behind the bar and working her ass off to fill her tip jar, she often found herself walking home in costume. And by costume she meant some barely there getup sanctioned by the strip club’s owner, her wannabe gangster sleazebag of an uncle. Thank goodness she was off work the next several nights.

Home.

The word skittered through her mind again.

Home was where she should have been going. Instead, she was holding a one-way ticket for the trouble train, and she knew it. Nothing good could come from what she was about to do, but damn, deciding to just let go had been such a relief. The familiar itch niggled beneath her skin. She longed for this like a druggie needed a fix.

Druggie?

Who was she kidding? She was a druggie. A black-magic druggie. She’d had one too many tastes, and now she was hooked. Just the thought of the familiar feeling of power racing through her body, supercharging her soul, sent a powerful shiver through her. She hurried down the alleyway out into the strip club’s parking lot and then to her car. Some part of her felt that if she slowed down for even one moment, the better half of her would win out again and she would end up going home, like she should. Back to the constant cravings. Back to the monotony of everyday life.

No. She couldn’t resign herself to that.

She quickly unlocked the door to her ancient Volkswagen Beetle and slid inside. She started the engine of the once-great piece of machinery, whose only flaw was having been driven for one too many decades more than it should have been, and peeled out of the parking lot. Damn, this was a dumb move. She wasn’t even really sure where she was going. Regular practitioners of black magic loved to be ridiculously cryptic. All her contact had given her was a general location. She would need to figure it out from there.

She drove across the city, singing so loudly that people waiting to cross the street could probably hear her—anything to drown out the “this is not a good idea” chatter in her head.

When she finally reached her destination in the heart of the city, she parked her car, and headed down the nearest empty alley. She stopped behind an overstuffed-and-smelling-of-rot Dumpster and removed her hands from the warm den of her jacket pockets. She held her hands out in front of her, closing her eyes with the certainty she was alone and allowing her white-magic power, the power she possessed within, to flow from the pit of her stomach, through her chest, down her arms and to the tips of her fingers.

A vibrant violet light pulsated from her hands, and she urged that light to lead her in the right direction. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure she was still alone and not being watched, she followed her instincts, slowly navigating the city’s back alleys until she reached a metal door with no handle. She allowed her magic to fold back in on itself before she balled her left hand into a fist and pounded on the metal door.

A young African-American woman with an afro poked her head out the door several moments later. She gave Vera the once-over, scanning her up and down with her shiny glossed lips pinched together, as if assessing Vera’s entire worth in a glance, before pushing the door fully open and gesturing her in.

Once Vera stepped inside, the woman closed the door behind her. The metal echoed, a loud, thunderous clang, like the door of a jail cell slamming shut, and Vera wondered if that perception was her conscience’s way of screaming, What the fuck do you think you’re doing? once again, as if the dingy haven’t-been-renovated-or-lived-in-since-the-sixties look of the place wasn’t enough to give her that vibe already. She couldn’t quite tell from the interior whether this was a gutted-out old business or apartment building, but she would venture a guess that there had been more than one waterbed in this establishment back in its day. The way the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, as if it hadn’t been stepped on in ages, sent a slight chill down her spine. The creaking echoed courtesy of the equally wooden walls and wood coffered ceiling. How had termites not destroyed this building already?

“I’m Trista,” the woman said. The silver of her large hoop earrings glittered in the dim accent light of the hallway, along with the star-shaped diamond stud in her nose. She was beautiful in an exotic, high-sculpted-cheekbones and eyes-so-fierce-they-could-cut-you sort of way. “You’re here for the circle.” It was a statement, not a question.

Vera nodded. “Yeah.”

Trista scanned Vera up and down again. Her nose scrunched and her nostrils flared, as if she’d just put something distasteful in her mouth. “You have the look of a black-magic witch.”

The look? Vera frowned. Whatever the hell that meant. Whether insult or compliment when coming from the gatekeeper of a black magic coven, she wasn’t sure. She contemplated a weak Uh, thanks, but opted instead for silence. One thing held certain with black-magic witches: no matter what, any advertisement of your own weakness meant exactly that, you were weak. Taking a half insult to heart, or expressing an opinion of it in any way, fell straight into the category of things that might make her appear weak. She couldn’t allow that. She held Trista’s gaze. The woman might have had eyes that could cut, but Vera was no spring chicken in the world of black magic. She wouldn’t be easily intimidated. She was a powerful witch, more powerful than she looked.

Trista raised an eyebrow at Vera’s obvious lack of intimidation. Vera stood just the slightest bit straighter, eye to eye with the woman. She almost expected Trista to make a halfhearted threat, but the woman surprised her when she took a step back, gesturing for Vera to follow her down the dark wooden hall. As they approached the last door on the left, the sound of chanting filled Vera’s ears, and the familiar buzz crept into her veins. This was it. This was what she needed. Trista waved her forward, and Vera pushed open the door.

Black-magic paraphernalia—from Santeria-like candles to nightshade herbs to animal blood and bone-filled pestles—lined the walls of the dim candlelit room. In the center, eleven people sat in a circle, hands clasped together as they chanted in a tongue Vera didn’t recognize. As she and Trista entered, a pair of cold blue eyes snapped open. The leader of the circle broke his trance and fixed his gaze on Vera.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly. His voice cut through the ongoing chanting. The lit candles around the room flickered, as if a swift breeze had rushed through.

A chill shivered down Vera’s spine, though the room was comfortably warm. Aside from her own father, who had once been thought of as the most powerful warlock of the past century, this man, this warlock, was powerful beyond anything she had ever encountered before. That thought sent icy adrenaline through her veins like a well-placed IV.

“My name is Vera Sanders.”

“Sanders?” He rolled her name around on his tongue as if it was a sweet candy that could melt in his mouth. “You bear a striking resemblance to Johnathan Summers. Are you sure Sanders is your last name?”

The chill racing down Vera’s spine hardened to numbing ice. She froze. In all the time she’d been practicing black magic, no one had ever recognized her as her father’s daughter before. She had tried very hard over the years to keep that association buried. Her father had been a powerful warlock with plenty of friends and supporters, as well as enemies. She wasn’t sure she wanted to cross paths with either side.

“No relation,” she said, lying worse than Nixon during Watergate. She held his gaze. Though she was generally a fantastic liar, he’d caught her off guard, and if he didn’t recognize that, he wasn’t nearly as powerful as she’d originally believed.

“My mistake.” He gave her a crooked grin, and she knew, despite his words, that he didn’t believe her for a second. From the spark behind his eyes when her father’s name passed his lips, she knew he must have been either friend or foe, and there was a very, very thin line between love and hate. She wasn’t prepared to walk that tightrope. “My name is Nathanial.”

He held her gaze, and the tension escalated. Several long seconds passed. Finally, she forced herself to look away, even though it grated against every feminist fiber of her being.

His eyes...they were so predatory and unforgiving.

“Well, Ms. Sanders...” Her last name sounded like a hiss and made his disbelief clear. “What are you here for?”

“I’m just here for the magic, that’s all.”

He grinned again. Something about his stare and his crooked smile made her feel as if she were a small animal cornered by a gun-wielding hunter. “So would you care to know what spells we’re executing today?” The sounds of the chanting had become less than background noise to her, a humming against the quiet threat of his voice. He didn’t have to speak loudly for his words to be powerful and all-consuming. Her father’s voice had been that way.

An internal war waged deep in her chest. The little voice inside her head screamed she should care to know exactly what she was getting herself into and what spell her power would be assisting, but another voice reminded her that she was already in too deep, that it was too late to back out now. Was ignorance bliss? The third and most dangerous voice, the voice of her addiction, reared its ugly head, making her skin crawl. God, she wanted it. She knew it was wrong, but she did. She’d been too weak to stop herself from coming here, and now, with it dangling right in front of her as if she were a starving person staring at her first bite of food in days, she found herself incapable of resisting.

When she’d refused to don the mantle of her father’s black magic legacy, he’d called her weak for her addiction, for caring more about the high than about the power she could wield. She certainly felt weak now.

You’re stronger than this. You’re worth more than this, Vera. You deserve better. She repeated the mantra over and over again in her head. But as she looked into Nathanial’s eyes, all she saw was the scared little junkie girl her parents had accused her of being all those years ago. The same scared little girl who would never amount to anything more than a trashily dressed bartender at a sleazy strip club, whose mind was always clouded by wondering when—or if—she would be able to get her next fix.

She sat down at the edge of the circle and joined hands. The voice inside her head fell silent, and as Nathanial smiled at her, she knew her father had been right.

* * *

IF ONE THING truly scared Shane out of his ever-loving mind—and rightfully so—it was the thought of being on the receiving end of his division leader’s wrath. He watched Damon, silently waiting for a response to the story he and Ash had recounted. Nothing incurred the wrath of Damon Brock, their leader and resident vampire hunter, more than two things: 1) having Execution Underground headquarters breathing down his neck, and 2) allowing civilians, particularly the Rochester PD, to get any inkling of their operations.

Someone in the division was usually on the receiving end of Damon’s anger, since it was his task to keep the ragtag group of alpha-male hunters in line. Shane just wasn’t accustomed to that person being him.

Damon’s voice remained eerily calm, easily filling the Rochester division’s small underground control room as he spoke. “You mean to tell me that the two of you allowed yourselves to be cornered by the Rochester PD, leading to the possibility of your faces being identified, just to dig up a grave with no body?” He examined them with blue eyes so cold they could make a man’s balls shrivel just by staring into them for too long. The tension in his stance indicated to Shane that the man would transform into a ballistic missile in about ten seconds if they didn’t manage to explain themselves first.

“Yep. That’s ’bout how it went down.” Ash crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles as he leaned against a desk.

Clearly, Shane thought, Ash’s balls were not quite as shriveled as his own at the moment. He couldn’t decide whether that was courageous or stupid. He was erring more on the side of stupid. Pissing Damon off was never a good idea, and part of being a good hunter was choosing your battles wisely. This battle was not wise.

“I think what Ash is trying to say is that there was no avoiding it. We took every precaution, and it was simply bad luck that the police showed up in the middle of us digging up the grave site. Since we were already so close to uncovering the body, once the officers were subdued it made sense to continue digging so we could complete the task. Nobody could have anticipated the missing corpse.”

The stiffness in Damon’s spine slackened ever so slightly, as if Shane had managed to placate his anger for the moment. Shane was thankful for small favors.

“So when you say no body, do you mean no casket, or there was a casket without a dead woman?” Trent Garrison, the division’s resident hunter of shape-shifters, asked from above the massive pile of papers on his desk and beneath the brim of his Red Sox cap. The Jersey native was purportedly an ardent fan, but Shane often thought his constant sporting of the cap had more to do with hiding his very obvious facial scar than his love of baseball.

“The casket was intact,” Shane said. “There was just no corpse.”

Nothing about this situation sat right with him. Dead bodies did not just get up and move on their own, nor did piles of bones. Unless...

“It was like she’d stood up out of her grave and moseyed away,” Ash said, his thoughts mimicking Shane’s own.

“Like a damn zombie? Shit. I don’t know whether that’s awesome or fucking horrifying.” Jace chuckled to himself. “Now that Frankie’s too pregnant to run the pack and Alejandro’s filling in, she’s catching up on The Walking Dead. Wait until I tell her she really better prepare for a fucking zombie apocalypse.” As the division’s werewolf hunter, it had been more than a little perplexing when Jace McCannon had fallen in love with Rochester’s first female werewolf packmaster. It had created one hell of a mess and a shitload of paperwork. If anyone was a thorn in Damon’s side, it was Jace. He was a hothead and played by his own rules in a way none of the other hunters dared. But Jace was damn good at his job, loyal to his friends and family to a fault and had calmed down considerably in the past several months with his girlfriend now expecting twin girls. Despite all Jace’s vices, Shane was proud to consider him a friend.

“Man, I love that show.” Trent grinned from ear to ear. The scar beneath his eye puckered and wrinkled.

Just as Damon opened his mouth to say something, the answer hit Shane like an oncoming freight train.

Black magic. The answer was black magic.

He had been racking his brain trying to figure out what would cause Mrs. Foley’s remains to go missing, and that was it. When he had read about Mr. Foley reportedly being haunted by his wife before his death, his first thought had been a poltergeist. That was where Ash had come in. His area of expertise was ghosts, including poltergeists, basically any spirit crossing over from the great unknown or who just hadn’t headed that way yet. But ghosts didn’t take their corporeal bodies with them, so once they had found her body was missing, the pieces no longer added up to a haunting.

Aside from the disgusting possibility of plain old human necrophilia—he shuddered at that thought—the only reason Shane could think of for the body being absent was if someone was using it for black magic, and that particular specialty ran right up his alley. If he was right, this case had just turned into something altogether different.

“I think I know why the body is missing,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

All eyes turned toward him.

He stood just the slightest bit straighter, like he did when he was teaching a lecture hall full of undergraduate students. “I think it’s black magic. That’s the only reason I can think of for someone taking the time to dig up her body, even resealing the coffin to hide what they’d done. That could potentially explain why Mr. Foley thought his wife was haunting him before he was murdered, as well. It could’ve been a spell.”

His fellow hunters remained silent, but none of their faces registered disapproval.

Damon spoke first. “If you think that’s likely, the case is yours.”

Shane blinked several times, uncertain if he’d heard Damon correctly. This case, a major case involving a murder, was his? “Really?” The moment he said it he wanted to whap himself in the head for not coming up with a more eloquent response.

Damon nodded. “You’re likely smarter than everyone in this room combined, so I don’t doubt your judgment.”

Jace huffed. “Hey, I get the kid’s smart and all, but I resent that comment. Are you calling the rest of us idiots?”

Damon swiveled his chair toward Jace with a scowl. “You’re damn right, I am.” The words came out almost as a growl.

Shane ignored the ensuing bickering between Jace and Damon. That kind of background noise was always there when it came to their meetings. He couldn’t help but feel a little stunned. Originally, he hadn’t expected to be involved much, aside from bringing the issue to the division’s attention. Murders were rarely something he dealt with in his particular role in the division, at least not as the head hunter on a case. He went over crime scene photos, assisted his fellow hunters in research and DNA analysis and provided general tech-support, but his fellow team members hunted down the killers.

His role as a hunter wasn’t like that. When it came to hunting witches, there was subtlety involved. Unlike most supernaturals, witches weren’t known for killing humans outright, at least no more often than murder occurred in the general population. It happened occasionally, but for the most part witches either kept to themselves or stuck to more bloodless crimes. In Shane’s mind, he liked to think of it as hunting white-collar supernatural criminals, while his fellow hunters took care of the less savory killing machines.

His job was more challenging than his fellow hunters’ jobs, but it was different. Their positions required calculated force, whereas his relied more on quick wit. They dealt with two different consequences, too. While they cleaned up dead bodies, he monitored the underbelly of Wall Street, making sure witches weren’t casting spells to let them embezzle money undetected or commit other sorts of unsavory crimes. He didn’t want to think about the numbers of big bankers and corporate executives who were practicing black magic.

Shane glanced toward Damon and Jace as they argued like two old women—two very large, muscular, hairy old women. “I’m going to need the official crime scene photos.”

Damon shot one last glowering glare at Jace before turning his sharp eyes toward Shane. “Done. Whatever you need.” He glanced around to the other hunters. “If that’s everything, you’re free to leave.”

Trent raised his hand. “Wait a second. Where’s David?”

David Aronowitz, their resident demon hunter and exorcist, was surprisingly absent from tonight’s meeting, which was unusual for him. The motorcycle-riding Rochester native really had a talent for frying demonic spawn, and he rarely missed a day on the job.

“He asked for the night off,” Damon replied.

Jace grinned. Having known each other since high school, he and David were sometimes more like brothers than friends. “He told me he’s taking Allsún out on a date. I’m damn glad those two are back together after all these years. David was a miserable son of a bitch without her.” Jace shook his head. “Don’t get me started on that shit he pulled in Ireland. Damn if I couldn’t still wring his neck for that.”

“I hear ya on that one.” Ash nodded, real slow. No surprise. He did most things real slow. It was just the Southern boy in him.

Damon waved a hand at them. “All of you—out. Do I need to tell you twice? Get to work. And don’t forget, we have a hunter from Detroit coming in for a consult in the next few days. If you cross paths with him in the meantime, play nice.”

The hunters exited one by one. Usually Shane was one of the last to leave, hanging around to use some of the division’s equipment to complete his tech work or look up some obscure fact for one of the other hunter’s cases, but today he was the first out the door. He felt as if there should have been a little spring in his step after being handed such a major case, one that was far outside his usual duties. He enjoyed his job. The thought of taking down a group of black-magic practitioners—or even just one—that was playing with fire as dangerous as raising the dead should have invigorated him, but it didn’t. A ball of dread bundled in the pit of his stomach.

White magic was benign, gifted to witches through birth, and was of no interest to the Execution Underground. Black magic was its evil counterpart, practiced both by those born as witches and those who chose to follow dark magic’s evil path.

Until now, there had been no signs of black magic brewing in Rochester, and he could only see things getting worse from here. Black magic bred nothing good, and to make matters worse, he could only think of one person who could point him in the right direction of the underground occult groups in the area: Vera Sanders.

The thought of asking for help from the gorgeous, troublemaking witch, who also happened to be one of his students and, oh, yeah, who worked in a fucking strip club to make matters even worse, made the head on his shoulders scream in agony and the one beneath his belt buckle sing in praise.

Shit, this was not going to be good.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e379231f-3743-5689-86ca-85cad3ce0735)

THE VIBRANCY OF her green eyes haunted his memory. He’d seen that face before. He knew he had. Nathanial Weil recollected the woman’s features as he tried to recall where he’d seen her, where he knew her from. She’d said she wasn’t any relation to Johnathan, but he knew better. She had some connection to him, whether familial or not. He hadn’t seen her since he’d relocated to Rochester, of that he was certain, which meant he must have known her from back in Detroit. But how? The question clawed at the back of his mind, slowly irritating him. “What do you think of that girl we saw tonight, Trista?”

“What was her name again?” She paused for a moment, staring off into space before returning her gaze to him. “Vera. That was it. Vera.”

Vera. He rolled the name around in his mind. Everything about her, her name included, seemed so familiar. Still, he couldn’t place her. Those eyes...he’d seen those eyes before, and he intended to find out where. “So what do you think? She might be a good choice.”

A coy smile crossed Trista’s lips. “I don’t know, Nathanial. She’s clearly addicted but isn’t far enough in yet to really know what she’s doing.”

He nodded. “And that’s what makes her perfect. She’ll be easily manipulated, don’t you think?” That was exactly what he needed, someone he could bend to his will, who wouldn’t expect what he had in store for her, someone he could control. He could use her to his advantage and satisfy his own aching curiosity in the process. All too perfect.

Trista shrugged. “I’m not so certain. She may be an addict, but I don’t think her heart is really in it. She’s just here for the high. I doubt she’ll agree to it.”

“We’ll force her heart into it, then. She doesn’t have to be willing, now does she?”

Trista shrugged her shoulders again. “I really don’t know, Nathanial. She seems strong-headed, full of opinions. She doesn’t seem to know much, but I doubt she’s the type of girl who would fall for...”

“Do you doubt my judgment?” he growled.

She stopped what she was doing and turned toward him then. “No, I don’t doubt you, but...”

He stood and launched himself across the room until he was nose to nose with her. “But nothing!” he roared.

Her eyes widened as she cowered beneath the enormity of him. She shut her mouth and looked to the floor, refusing to meet his gaze.

That’s right. Learn your place, you dumb bitch. He was sick of these insubordinate witches challenging his every move. He was in charge, and the sooner they learned that fact, the better off they would be.

“But is exactly the word you need to drop from your vocabulary. There are no �buts’ when I give you an order. Understood?”

She nodded once, continuing to stare at the floor.

“Good. You’ll go ahead with the plans, then. Send your familiar to her. It will work.” He snaked his hands up the smooth skin of her upper arms until they rested on her neck. “Look at me,” he ordered.

She raised her gaze to meet his. Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed his lips against hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth. He released her face, groping for her breasts and giving them a good squeeze.

He pulled back. “Is that a new bra I felt?”

She smiled, her lips still full from his kiss. “Yeah, I thought you would like it. It’s...”

He slapped her. Stumbling back from the intensity of his blow, she clutched at her cheek. Tears poured down her pathetic face.

“I didn’t ask you to think,” he snapped. “You don’t do anything without my permission. Understood?”

Whole body shaking, Trista nodded, refusing to meet his gaze again. She stood like that for a moment, not moving. He watched her with the eyes of a hawk. If she dared to look him in the eyes, to challenge him, he would end her. After she collected herself, she inched toward him, eyes still downcast and arms out as if to offer an embrace.

He raised a hand to stop her. “No, you’ve spoiled my mood. Do as I say and summon your familiar. I want Vera here by tomorrow, under my control. Understand?”

Trista nodded. Eyes still glued to the floor, she whispered the words the devil had gifted her to summon her precious pet. From a crack in one of the floorboards, a large orange-and-black tarantula emerged. It stretched its eight hairy legs as it slowly made its way across the wooden floor to her. The creature crept up the side of her slender leg and along the length of her body until it nestled itself at the base of her neck. She lifted the edge of her curled hair, and it sank its fangs into her skin, latching on to feed from the small teat that marked her as one of the devil’s black magic servants. The teat allowed the familiar to feed from her soul, bending it to do her will. When the creature was satisfied, it released its hold on her neck. She affectionately stroked a finger over one of its many legs.

“Go to the girl,” she whispered. “Fill her, and then come back to me.”

With a small affirmative hiss, the arachnid scampered onto Trista’s extended hand. She bent, placing it on the floor. It crawled toward the open door without haste.

* * *

WHEN VERA STUMBLED into her apartment later that night, she was flying as high as a kite. Not just any kite, but one of those fancy multicolored ones that looked like a parrot or some other beautiful tropical bird. She fell back onto her sofa bed, giggling at the idea of herself as a parrot. Stretching her arms wide in a tired catlike reflex, she reveled in the leftover tingles of power coursing through her. That had been such a great high.

Before she could snuggle any farther into the sofa, someone pounded loudly at her front door. She groaned, not wanting to leave the warm confines of her position. A moment later the knock sounded again, this time even louder. Oh, for Pete’s sake.

“Coming!” she yelled to whoever stood on the other side of the door.

She dragged her still-slightly stoned ass to the front door before pressing her eye to the peephole. She nearly shit bricks when she saw who was waiting on the other side. She parted her lips to release a resounding, “Fuck, you have got to be kidding me,” then clapped her hand over her mouth, realizing he would hear her through the paper-thin walls. Why in the name of all things holy—or, well, more like unholy, considering what she had been up to in the past hour—was her drop-dead gorgeous religious studies professor knocking at her door?

A shiver ran down her spine. Every bit of the power high she had experienced from her relapse into black magic disappeared as if a massive bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head. There was only one reason Dr. Grey would show up at her door like this in the middle of the night and, well...it wasn’t because her midterm paper was two days past due.

She’d been Dr. Grey’s student for the past several months. Aside from being an intelligent, astute and caring professor, far more lay underneath Dr. Grey’s muscled, sexy-nerd exterior. She knew firsthand the badass-ery of which he was capable. The man had once cracked one of her bar patron’s skulls open after the sick creep had palmed her ass in a very unwelcome way. The patron had returned a few nights later for his usual debauchery, but he had never once tried to lay a hand on her since. So yeah, there was much more to Dr. Shane Grey than met the eye, including the fact that he was a witch hunter, and she’d had one too many run-ins with the Execution Underground already. The elite organization of hunters fancied themselves as the police of the supernatural community, and they didn’t take kindly to black magic practitioners.

Was it coincidence that he’d showed up at her apartment right after she’d fallen off the wagon? She thought not. Shit. Had he been watching her? Waiting for her to screw up?

Only a month earlier, Dr. Grey and two of his fellow hunters had approached her, asking for her magical aid in one of their cases. Well...asking politely was what Dr. Grey had done. As for his colleagues, they had made it clear that if she didn’t cooperate, there would be negative consequences. Considering she already had a not-so-bright past history with the Execution Underground, she’d agreed to cooperate. But she knew full well that her cooperation didn’t grant her a free pass when it came to future wrongdoing, and unfortunately, it had placed her back on the organization’s radar.

Several years ago she’d done some pretty stupid things and landed herself in their godforsaken hell-hole of a detention facility after a run-in with the Detroit division. She’d relocated to Rochester shortly after her release, and had ended up aiding Dr. Grey and the Rochester division shortly thereafter. She couldn’t go back to the detention center. She couldn’t.

Bolting down her hallway, she scrambled into her bathroom, clamoring for some perfume to cover up the herbal spell scents that clung to her clothes, scents Dr. Grey was bound to recognize, given his glorious intelligence. She snatched a bottle of Britney Spears’s Fantasy that one of the dancers had given her for Christmas but she’d never worn, and spritzed the sugary sweet scent all over her body. She quickly straightened her mussed hair until it looked halfway decent, wiped some smudged eyeliner from the edge of her temple and ran back to the door.

Momentarily, she considered cracking open her living room window and rushing down the fire escape, but since Dr. Grey already knew she was home—she seriously needed to check the door from now on before yelling, “Coming!”—there was no way a seasoned hunter like him would fall for that. If he was here to collect her for practicing black magic tonight, she might as well go peacefully. She really hoped it didn’t come down to that.

Finally, she wrenched open the door, trying to feign surprise. “Dr. Grey, what brings you here, especially in the middle of the night?” She leaned against the door frame as he scanned her up and down. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was still wearing a plaid miniskirt that barely covered her ass cheeks. Just great.

He met her gaze as he adjusted the gold-rimmed eyeglasses hooked to the collar of his long-sleeve polo shirt. “Can I come in? We need to talk.”

Okay...so clearly he wasn’t here to arrest her or he would have done it by now, but for the life of her she couldn’t understand what in the world he would need to talk about.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, if this is about my midterm essay being late, I’m really sorry, but I’ve been working. I know you care about my success in your class and all, but regardless, I think it’s a little weird for you to show up...”

“Vera, this isn’t about your paper,” he interrupted her nervous word-vomit. “I would have really appreciated it if you’d turned it in on time, but if you get it to me by class tomorrow, consider the tardiness forgiven.” He pinned her with a sharp look. “Just this one time.”

Yep, there it was. That stern teacherly look that all truly good educators possessed, the one that simultaneously made you feel like shit for being a disappointment, made you think that you could have done better and also told you they expected better from you because you were better than that—all rolled into one. Damned if he didn’t make her want to be a good student. Aside from the fact that he really was a great professor— always expressing the ideas and concepts clearly, helping his students when they needed it, being firm yet forgiving, making the subject matter interesting and really just overall caring about their success as undergraduates—the man was all things sexy and perfect in one package. She would be severely lying to herself if she tried to deny that in many ways she had a bit of a crush, along with pretty much the entire female student body at the University of Rochester.

Really, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t have a bit of a crush on him, though? Dr. Grey was smart, kind, just nerdish enough that it was cute, with those gold reading glasses of his, and if you couldn’t see the sleek mean muscles beneath his button-down shirts and blazers, you were freaking blind. Couple that with the short ponytail, which she was pretty sure every girl in his class wished she could run her fingers through, a sleek jawline, warm brown eyes and an award-winning smile that could make a woman’s panties drop to the floor, and you had the recipe for lots of young horny twenty-somethings fantasizing about being privately tutored by him.

He appeared pleasantly oblivious to all the attention, though. The man had no clue as to why his classes were always filled to the brim and in fact had a waiting list every semester, and were disproportionately filled with women, just like every other class in the religious studies department—not. Honestly, she’d taken his class just to see what all the hullabaloo was about. And boy, had she seen. She wasn’t sure whether she regretted that or not.

“This isn’t something to do with that demon thing you wanted my help with last month, is it?” She remembered all too clearly watching the crime scene she had used her white magic to recreate for him. The thought still haunted her. She had cooperated with Dr. Grey and his fellow Execution Underground hunters then for the sake of getting them off her back. Not to mention the plight of Dr. Grey’s fellow hunter...what was his name again? David? His clear love for the woman he had been trying to save had given her heart the warm fuzzies, so she’d felt she had to help. She was a huge sappy sucker for a good love story.

He shook his head. “Not exactly, but I do need your help. Can I come in?”

Man, she really didn’t want him seeing the piece of trash apartment she called home. It was already bad enough he knew which crap area of Rochester she lived in without seeing that she wasn’t exactly Suzy Homemaker—if he couldn’t already tell that by looking at her. “Um, I’d prefer not actually—the apartment is a bit of a mess.” Talk about an understatement...

He pressed his lips together as if he were thinking. Before she could figure out what he was doing, he stripped off his brown leather jacket. “Come for a walk with me, then? Here.” He held his jacket out to her.

A tiny cage of butterflies suddenly buzzed around the inside of her gut. Her superhot professor wanted to take a nighttime stroll with her and he was offering her his jacket. Before she could decide whether she wanted to be the type of girl who did that sort of thing with her professor, which was clearly inappropriate, she grasped the leather jacket in her hands and slipped it on. Aw, shucks, who was she kidding? She totally was that kind of girl.

“Let me just grab my keys.” She slipped back into her apartment and darted to the coffee table. She retrieved her apartment keys, stopping only for a moment to lift the open flap of the jacket to her nose. Holding it to her face, she took a good long whiff. The smell of old leather, lemon-scented laundry detergent, Hugo Boss cologne and the unmistakable ruggedness of a well-groomed male filled her nose. Whoa, buddy. That smell almost made her as high as the black magic she’d been fooling around with earlier that night.

This was dangerous, so dangerous, because not only was Dr. Shane Grey her professor and her attraction to him highly inappropriate, but a witch like herself hanging around with a witch hunter was equally, if not more, deliriously dumb.

Without delay, she rushed back out the door, eager for the little business rendezvous and relishing the feeling of his leather jacket bundling her in its warmth.

She’d never claimed to be smart.

* * *

THIS WAS GOING to be even harder than he’d anticipated, because...well...he was already harder than he’d anticipated, and wow, did that make him feel like a grade-A creeper. Shane dared another glance at Vera as she walked beside him down the block. He should not be this attracted to a student, let alone a student who also happened to be a witch, yet here he was, as hungry for her as the day he’d first seen her in his classroom months ago.

It was only a little over a month since he’d discovered that she was not only temptingly beautiful, but a witch with black magic history to boot. During a brief meeting about class work, he’d put two and two together when she’d known far more about the occult than your average religious studies student. One would think that would have been a huge deterrent to his libido, considering he hunted witches for a living, yet somehow it wasn’t.

Despite having grown up the son of a Vegas showgirl and spending countless hours hanging out in dressing rooms with some of the most beautiful women from around the world stripping naked before his eyes, the sight of Vera Sanders fully clothed and in his jacket made him sweat. He wasn’t really sure what it was about her that drew him so strongly, but the combination of long jet-black hair, nearly glowing green eyes and milky-white skin sent his pulse racing to parts of his body other than his heart. If he envisioned what he thought Snow White would look like embodied in the flesh, she was it...well, if Snow White wore fishnets and a plaid miniskirt. Couple that with painted red lips and the long legs of a Rockette, and he was basically a goner.

Clearly, when it came to Vera, in spite of all his intelligence, he had no common sense. If he did, he wouldn’t be here.

He wasn’t even quite sure what it was about her that flipped all his switches to the on position and made his brain short-circuit like he was a twenty-year-old Compaq computer instead of the iMac it normally functioned like. He didn’t even really know her, but from the moment he’d seen her, he’d wanted to get to know her, even though he knew that was a very bad decision.

“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked.

He shoved his hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold air blowing off Lake Ontario. “I’ve just been assigned a case I could use your help on. I’d like you to point me in the right direction.”

She raised an eyebrow at him like he was nuts. Maybe he was. After all, being near her in a personal capacity, let alone working with her, was a compromise to both his professions, yet part of him wanted to do so much more. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Damn, he was messed up.

“What sort of case could you possibly need my help with?”

“A case involving black magic. I need someone to help me navigate, or at the very least locate, any and all black-magic covens in town.”

Vera stopped in her tracks. The silence left when her high-heeled boots were no longer clicking against the pavement was awful. Nothing but the sounds of the occasional car driving by with blaring, bass-thumping rap music, a staple in this neighborhood, and the wind remained.

Her jaw fell open slightly. “First off, why in the world would you assume I know anything about the black-magic covens in this city?” Color rose in her cheeks as her words filled with anger. “And secondly, even if I did, why would I give you any information about them? I don’t owe you anything.” She glared at him.

That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “I’m sorry. I just assumed with your past history you might know...”

She scoffed. “Yeah, that’s right, you assumed. You know what assuming does? It makes an ass out of �u’ and �me,’ so now you’re an ass for thinking I’m involved in anything to do with black magic, and I’m an ass because I’m standing here yelling at my professor. So thanks for that, Dr. Grey. Thanks.”

He met her gaze. “As I’ve mentioned before, you can call me Shane when we’re not in class.”

She huffed and threw her hands into the air, stripping off his coat. She bundled it into a ball and threw it at him. Without another word, she turned and stomped back toward her apartment.

He hurried after her. “I’m sorry I offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I was hoping you could shed some light on...”

She spun to face him and pegged him with another menacing glare. “I can’t shed any light on anything for you, nor would I willingly help the Execution Underground again. That was a onetime-only deal.” She almost sneered at the mention of the organization he had sworn his life to. “Do me a favor and forget this conversation ever happened.” She turned on her heel again and strode off.

As he watched her go, he couldn’t help but wonder why simply asking for her help had angered her so much. Logic told him it was reasonable to think she might know something about black magic, considering she had a past history of it, so much so that at one point she’d gotten herself into trouble with the Execution Underground. He had seen how black magic affected someone, and he knew how bad addiction could get. It was a nasty, vicious cycle.

Black magic caused a person to feel powerful, grandiose even, like some sort of magical high. In many ways it was just as addictive, perhaps more so, than the cocaine his mother had snorted throughout his entire childhood in order to work all the long hours needed to put food on the table as a single parent. While street drugs deteriorated your health, black magic damaged the soul in a way that, if not stopped, was irreparable.

He hoped Vera wasn’t irreparable.

* * *

VERA’S HEELS RAPPED against the pavement as she stormed back to her apartment. Frustration and anger throbbed in her temples. She slammed the building door behind her for added drama and stomped up the stairs. Who cared if it was the middle of the night and her lousy neighbors were sleeping? They woke her up on a regular basis with their bad seventies porno antics, anyway. Debbie Does Dallas, anyone?

When she finally reached her apartment she shucked off her boots before promptly pitching them at her sofa as if the torn-up cushions were the perpetrator of her current woes. Ripping her shirt over her head, she marched into her bedroom, stumbling out of her skirt and fishnets as she went. A massive blob of fur and fat lay sleeping directly in the middle of her feather-down pillow. The gargantuan tomcat didn’t take any notice when she flopped down on the bed beside him.

“I’m angry at myself, Binks.”

Binks cracked open one lazy yellow eye to glare at her before closing it again.

She frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to do my bidding, you big lug? Isn’t that what a familiar is for?”

Binks opened both eyes this time and crouched into a long cat stretch, his large belly swaying against the pillowcase. He turned in a circle, his tail held high in the air, then flopped back down again with narrowed eyes that clearly said, Don’t interrupt my sleep, infernal human.

She covered her face with her hands. Binks had never been any good at doing her bidding. Black-magic familiars were said to be a gift from the devil, a means for a witch to enhance her power. Binks had showed up on her doorstep several years earlier at the height of her past forays into the dark arts. At the time she’d wondered why of all the animals Satan could have sent her, she’d ended up with an overweight white-and-orange tomcat. Binks was supposed to be a part of her, a reflection of her magical abilities. She often wondered what it said about her abilities that Binksy’s most stunning accomplishments were finishing off an entire Sam’s Club pallet of Fancy Feast in a week and spending copious hours attempting to lick his own balls.

Speaking of accomplishments, she had really hit it out of the ballpark in the I’m-a-freaking-idiot competition tonight. There was no reason in the world for her to have taken such offense to Dr. Grey’s assumptions she might know something about black-magic covens in the area, because, well...she did. When she’d exploded with anger, she’d known very well that her anger wasn’t directed at him. Anger at herself bubbled inside her for being so fucking weak, for being an addict, for doing things she knew she shouldn’t be doing and not caring about the consequences. She wasn’t certain what it was, but something about Shane—no, Dr. Grey, she needed to call him Dr. Grey if she were to have any semblance of hope of maintaining her distance—made her feel like she was better, like she was worth more than that.

Of all the things about him—his obviously superior intelligence, the fact that he was a hunter, his badass combat skills—it was the feeling he inspired in her that scared her the most.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b29e5cea-7a94-5b12-aaaa-3720fa9a03cc)

INTERRUPTIONS IN THE middle of a good lecture were the bane of Shane’s existence. He was fairly certain of that. He nearly swore as his thoughts jumbled. His words fell apart midsentence while the most gorgeous distraction he’d ever laid eyes on slipped into the back of his classroom. The door to the lecture hall thumped closed behind her in the relative silence of her fellow students scribbling notes. Vera slid into the back row, not bothering to look up at him.

He wasn’t normally one to call out students on being late, as much as their behavior frustrated him. He was easygoing by nature, but something about the casual way she strolled in, despite how she had basically cussed him out last night, bugged him. That, on top of the fact that he knew she had failed to turn in her midterm despite the leniency and extra time he’d given her, served to compound his anger until he couldn’t help himself.

“Ms. Sanders, thank you for finally gracing us with your presence.”

She glanced up from her notebook, her eyes wide with alarm at being called out on her tardiness. A pale pink blush crossed her cheeks, and he forced himself to look away and return to his lecture.

Yep, that was it. That building pressure beneath the fly of his jeans was the exact reason why, after last night, he’d decided that asking her for help had been an idiotic decision. Sure, if she did have any information on the local covens, getting that information would save him a ton of time compared to acquiring it on his own, but he could and would complete the job without her. The inclusion of a witch in a witch hunt—a witch who was his student and had a past history of run-ins with the Execution Underground, at that—was a no-go.

He had been thinking too much with the wrong head. He didn’t need Vera’s help. With only one murder, there was no indication he was battling time constraints or that the coven—or even a single witch—behind it would strike again, or at all. He pushed the case from his mind and refocused on his lecture. Crowley’s writings weren’t going to teach themselves.

As class ended, he waved a stack of freshly graded papers in the air. “Come get your midterms.”

A swarm of human bodies surrounded him, arms reaching to grab at the papers he handed out as he called his students’ names. When he’d nearly reached the bottom of the stack, he glanced up, only to find himself face-to-face with his favorite vice.

“Dr. Grey, I wanted to talk with you about last...”

Oh, no, not here. He shot Vera a look that said, Close your mouth now, if you know what’s good for you. “Ms. Sanders, my office. Now.” He dropped the rest of the papers on the desk and left the remaining students to fend for themselves. He threw his computer bag over his shoulder and strode toward the door, not bothering to look behind him to see if Vera was following. When he reached his office, he pulled the key from the back pocket of his jeans, unlocked the old wooden door and turned the worn brass knob.

Once he reached his desk, he tossed his computer bag down and turned toward the door.

Vera stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She twisted her hands together and bit her lower lip before she finally looked up at him. “If this is about my midterm, I...”

“What do you think you’re doing, bringing up last night in front of the other students?” he hissed.

Her eyes widened. “It’s not like I was planning to say, �Hey, Dr. Grey, remember that black magic you were asking me about at my apartment last night?’ I was trying to be discreet.”

He shook his head and ran a hand over his ponytail. “Not discreet enough. I can’t have anyone getting the idea that there’s something going on between us.” He waved his hand in the air between them to emphasize his words. It was especially vital considering he did want her, despite all logic telling him that was a bad idea. How many times had he fantasized about taking her on top of this very desk? It didn’t matter that there was only a few years’ age difference between them, since he’d finished his dissertation at Yale by the time he was twenty-three. A relationship, even a fabricated one, with a student would get him canned. And damn it, he loved his job and had always been a good, objective professor who would have shuddered at the idea of being involved with one of his students—until she came along.

Her jaw hardened. “Why? Because everyone on this campus thinks I’m easy, because of the way I dress and the fact that I work in a strip club?”

He frowned. What the hell was she talking about? “The reason why is because I’m your professor and you’re my student, so regardless of what you look like, how you dress or where you work, accusations of a relationship or even favoritism outside normal professional interactions would be the end of my career.” He slammed his hand on his desk and tried to keep his voice low. “And yes, your midterm is late, and you’ll be lucky if I even accept it now. I told you to have it in by the beginning of class.”

When he met her gaze, his breath and pulse stopped. Just stopped. As if he’d died for a moment, because he swore he saw a hint of hurt in her eyes, and fuck if he could have that. The mere thought that she might want him, too, killed him. He tore his eyes away. Damn, he was a fool. He was imagining things.

She unzipped her plaid backpack, reached inside and removed a paper, then slammed it onto the wooden surface in front of him. When she spoke, her words dripped with venom. “That’s the midterm you so graciously gave me extra time on, Dr. Grey. I’m sorry it wasn’t in by the beginning of class and that I was late to your lecture, but I thought I was doing something that would be of particular interest to you. But you know, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m attracted to you or your hunky nerd charm or anything, like every other female in your classes. I wouldn’t want to feed your enormous ego.”

For a long moment he was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure which surprised him the most. The fact that she had just called him a “hunky nerd,” that she was clearly implying a good chunk of the female student body was attracted to him—both of which were certainly news to him—or the fact that she had the balls to tell him he had a big ego. Did he have a big ego? He supposed most academics did like to hear the sound of their own voices, but he’d never really thought of himself like that.

She reached into her backpack again and pulled out a large mason jar. It landed on his desk with an audible thump. A large tarantula flexed its legs against the walls of the glass. “I’ll go ahead and give this to you. Consider it a witch’s version of an apple, Professor.” She turned to leave.

“What is this?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door. “If I have to spell it out for you, maybe you’re not as good a hunter as I thought.”

His eyes widened as he examined the spider. “Is this your familiar?”

She closed the door again and turned back around. “Don’t you think that’s a little too personal a question, Dr. Grey? You wouldn’t want to cross a professional line, but for your information, no, that is not my familiar. My familiar is a massive, overweight ball of fur who likes to lick his own balls.”

He stared at her. He wasn’t sure what the hell she meant by that.

“This is someone else’s familiar,” she continued. “I don’t know whose, but I was rudely awakened by the feeling of its legs trying to pry open my mouth last night.” She shivered. “So I thought it might interest you that someone was trying to use me as a receptacle for their black magic.”

Adjusting his glasses so they sat correctly on the bridge of his nose, he examined the familiar writhing inside the glass. The last time he’d seen one of these so-called “gifts” from the devil, he’d been in the middle of his training with the Execution Underground just after he’d finished his PhD. That particular familiar was a toad, and the warlock it belonged to had been detained for allegedly using black magic to evade the cops in order to continue running a successful drug business. The warlock’s drug trade had resulted in loads of humans becoming addicted to a type of cheap cocaine, which had been mixed with something that caused a flesh-eating virus. The Execution Underground refused to tolerate any supernaturals that hurt humans.

He extended his hand. “Will you sit down, please?” He continued to examine the familiar as she sat in the chair in front of his desk. “Do you have any idea who sent this to you or why?”

“No,” she said. “Not a clue.”

He looked up from the familiar then to watch her face. Damn, she was gorgeous. Hunky nerd? He couldn’t get past the fact that she really thought of him that way. He always thought of himself as just a nerd, plain and simple. God help him. “I’ll help you, if you help me.” He said it before he could stop himself. He had decided working with her was stupid, yet here he was, making the offer, anyway. That was exactly what the problem was: she muddled his decision making. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away when she so clearly needed protection. He wasn’t the type of man to do that. She may have been a witch and he a witch hunter, but regardless, he would not stand by while any woman, witch or not, was attacked. He would figure out how to control his inappropriate feelings.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Who says I need your help?”

“Why else would you bring this to me? Last night you wanted nothing to do with helping me, but I figure from the way you shivered at the thought of this tarantula possessing you that you’re either extremely afraid of spiders or afraid of someone using you for black magic against your will, and that seems like something that a normal person would want help from a witch hunter for.”

“You’re intuitive. It’s kind of disgusting.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But you’re right. It’s both. I just don’t like admitting I’m afraid of anything.”

One side of his mouth lifted into a half grin. He wasn’t surprised by that. She didn’t seem like the type to want to flaunt any weakness. Everything about her, even down to her sexy punk-rock appearance, screamed strength and resilience, and an assurance in her own self that only came from a person owning up to who they really were and not giving a shit what anyone thought. That was part of what drew him to her. “Arachnophobia is common, and as for someone trying to possess you with their familiar, I would be scared, too, and I’m not easily scared.” He smiled fully this time. “I’ll help protect you from whoever is after you, if you help me with my case.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”

She stared at his hand but didn’t take it. “I don’t know, Dr. Grey. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career by getting too personal.”

As intuitive as she seemed to think he was, he couldn’t quite understand the emotion behind her voice. “We’ll be professional colleagues outside of the classroom, but when we’re here on campus, you’re still my student and I’m still your professor. We can maintain a distance we’re both comfortable with. You can call me Shane when we’re alone and Dr. Grey otherwise, if that makes you feel better.”

“And you’ll stop calling me Ms. Sanders when other students aren’t around, right?”

He nodded.

She reached out and took his hand. The feel of the soft skin of her palm against his jolted electric desire through him until he was certain his cock would break free of his jeans and push against the underside of his desk at any moment.

“We’ll have to experiment with different distances to determine what we’re comfortable with, Shane,” she said, emphasizing his name.

He gave a single nod. If he moved another muscle, he might pull her across his desk until she straddled him in his executive chair. Experiment with different distances? That sounded like some sort of naughty invitation, but he knew better. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested when she’d said he had a big ego.

Hadn’t she?

* * *

VERA RELEASED DR. GREY’S, er, Shane’s hand like it was on fire. Never in her life would she have said a handshake could be sexy, but somehow that one managed to be. And really? Had she really said that cheesy-ass line about experimenting with distance? Gosh, she hoped it hadn’t sounded as desperately horny out loud as it did now in her head.

It was bad enough that she was as stereotypically attracted to him as any other girl in his classes, but even worse that she continued to be even after he had made it clear he wanted to maintain a professional distance from her. Besides, they couldn’t be more opposite. Handsome business-casual professor. Gothed-out strip-club bartender. Professor. Student. Hunter. Witch. Intelligent PhD. Barely passing grades for a bachelor’s she would probably never earn if she kept going at this rate. The list went on and on.

Reminding herself that if it weren’t for the familiar sitting on his desktop, she wouldn’t be here, she sighed. “So what happens next?”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the edge of his desk, thinking. “First, I need to know about your involvement with the black-magic covens in the area. Since you’re helping me, you have my word that I won’t report any of your activities to the Execution Underground, but I need to know.”

She frowned and lied straight through her teeth. “I told you already—I’m not involved with them.” Considering his clear opinion of her already, she couldn’t bring herself to admit she had a problem, that she had fallen back into old habits just before he showed up on her doorstep and had been itching to go back again ever since he’d left. He wouldn’t understand. No one ever did.

He nodded. “Okay, so despite not being involved with them—and good for you for staying away from them. I know how hard it can be to break an addiction...” He smiled at her.

She nearly cringed. The kindness in his eyes, as if he truly was happy for her, killed her. But how could he possibly know how hard it was?

“Despite that...do you know anything at all about any of them? Heard anything through the magical grapevine, maybe?”

“Magical grapevine?” She chuckled. “Damn, you really are a nerd.”

He laughed. “Unapologetically.” He held his hand up, fingers separated in the sign of a true Trekkie.

She snorted. “Wow. Yeah, supernerd. Better not show that to your adoring fans in your classroom, though. You might break their hearts and crush their girlish dreams.”

He shook his head. “I still can’t wrap my head around that.”

She shrugged. “Of course you can’t. You may be smart, but like all other nerds before you, you’re some kind of idiot savant, completely oblivious to the hordes of big-boobed sorority girls who take your class because they think you’re cute. The fact that you haven’t realized their intention is to stare longingly at your tight little ass instead of caring about the subject matter would be unbelievable if it weren’t completely predictable.”

He stared at her as if she’d grown three heads. “I’m glad I’ve been blissfully ignorant until now. But, that aside, we have two orders of business—figure out where that familiar came from and who’s targeting you, and start digging deeper into this case.” He reached inside his black computer bag and removed a manila envelope. He pushed it across the desk toward her.

She picked it up, slid out a folder and flipped to the first page just as David Bowie’s “Fame” sounded from inside his shirt pocket.

“Bowie, huh?” Not a bad choice. Probably one of the most influential artists still alive.

He reached for his phone. “It’s one of my fellow hunters and I swear he has more David Bowie T-shirts in his wardrobe than Bowie’s had tours, and considering Bowie’s been famous since the seventies, that’s saying something.” He answered the phone. “Hey, Ash.”

She returned her attention to the folder. Inside lay an article from the Democrat and Chronicle. She scanned the headline and read through the brief paragraphs. She shuffled through the other papers—a toxicology report, lab results and a coroner’s report on the murder victim discussed in the article.

When Shane pocketed his phone again, she set the papers down on the desk in front of him. “So a guy goes cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs crazy and thinks his dead wife is haunting him just before he’s murdered? I don’t get what this has to do with black magic.”

Shane slid everything back into the manila envelope and slipped it back inside his bag. “I didn’t, either, at first. I thought maybe he was actually being haunted, so I brought it to the attention of our ghost hunter. We went to the cemetery where Mrs. Foley was buried to ensure she had fully been put to rest, but when we dug up her casket, her corpse, along with any other indication that she’d once been laid to rest there, was gone.”

Vera’s eyes widened. “So what are you insinuating?”

Shane shook his head. “I’m not really sure at this point, but it seems too bizarre to be coincidental. My theory is that a black-magic coven is using Mrs. Foley’s corpse, probably for some kind of spell. I’m wondering if maybe they used scare tactics on Mr. Foley before his death that made him think his wife was haunting him. Maybe they had a vendetta against him for some reason. This is all just speculation, though. Until now, I haven’t been able to gain access to the scene of the husband’s murder. I asked my division leader for the photos, but he asked Ash to set up an actual visit to the scene, which was what Ash was just calling about. Do you think you can handle it?”

She pursed her lips together as she considered. A murder scene that was less than a week old, quite possibly complete with bloodstains? She didn’t have a weak stomach, but that didn’t exactly sound like a stroll through the park. “As long as the body isn’t there, I should be fine. I need more mental preparation time for a dead body, though.”

Shane stood and grabbed his computer bag off the desk. “No dead bodies. Mr. Foley has long since been moved to the morgue, and Mrs. Foley died two years ago. I can’t promise it won’t be eerie, though.” He shrugged the bag onto his shoulder.

Following his cue, she grabbed her backpack and swung it over her own shoulder. She waited for him to exit, but he just stood there.

He gestured toward the door. “You go first. Head to the edge of campus—I’ll pick you up there. Look for the Chevy Volt.”

She laughed. It figured he would drive a Volt. She admired how environmentally conscious it was, but a Volt was like the Rolls-Royce of yuppie cars. “I can’t just walk out to the parking lot with you now? That would be a lot easier.”

Shane ran a hand over his ponytail again. She recognized it now as his nervous tic. Damn, how she would love to free that ponytail and watch his hair, just long enough so it framed his jawline, cascade forward, then run her fingers through it.

“I don’t want anyone to see you getting into my car in the employee parking lot.”

Fantasy officially destroyed. Vera rolled her eyes. Seriously? Did he have to be so adamant that she not be seen with him? He could at least let her dream of the things she could do with him for a few minutes without ruining it with his disdain. A girl needed a good fantasy once in a while. With a huff, she exited his office, very aware of the fact that he was still there as she walked away.

Behind the closed door.

She smirked. How appropriate.

* * *

SHANE BREATHED A sigh of relief once Vera was sitting safely in the passenger seat of his car, hidden behind the darkness of the Volt’s tinted windows. The last thing he needed was suspicion they were fraternizing, because guilt would be written all over his face if anyone asked him about it. They drove to the northwest side of town in silence. Mr. and Mrs. Foley’s building sat nestled in between a brick apartment complex and a vacant lot filled with shredded tires, the occasional fast-food wrapper and various other pieces of garbage.

Shane parallel parked on the street before reaching into the backseat and removing his weapons bag, where he stored all his normal Execution Underground gear while on campus. He couldn’t exactly be seen with a gun on his belt in the middle of a lecture. He unloaded his new Walther PPK from the bag. Jace had insisted he needed something more “interesting” than a standard nine-millimeter issue and had nagged Shane until he picked out the PPK. He had to admit, the gun had style. He secured the magazine, clipped his holster over his belt and tucked the gun inside. He left the massive textbook-size occult reference filled with all his notes inside the bag.

“Do you expect to need the gun?” Vera nodded toward the weapon on his belt.

Shane replaced his weapons bag in the back of the car before he opened his door. “No, I’m not expecting to, but I’ve learned during my time with the Execution Underground that you can never be too prepared.”

They both exited the vehicle. Yellow police tape distinguished the correct door when they reached the third-floor landing.

Shane tried the handle, unsurprised to find it locked. He sighed. “Shit. I forgot my lock pick in the car.”

Vera waved her hand in dismissal. “Step aside.” Placing her palm over the keyhole, she muttered a few words under her breath as purple light flashed from her hand. A small click sounded and the door popped open. Vera stepped aside, clearing the way for Shane to go first.

He raised an eyebrow. “A spell for breaking and entering?”

She shrugged. “What? You really thought black magic was the only slightly felonious activity I’ve participated in during my lifetime?”

Shane ducked underneath the tape. “Honestly, the extent of what I know about your file is that the Execution Underground detained you for black-magic use. I’ve never looked any further than that.”

She followed him underneath the tape, then stopped behind him. “Well, don’t bother looking. It was a stupid decision I’d rather keep buried.” She closed the door.

Shane surveyed the room in front of him. A slightly overstuffed Lay-Z-Boy and a small side table with a lamp sat facing a large flat-screen television. A small love seat, which appeared to have seen little use and looked as if it had been purchased straight out of a newspaper circular, stood against one wall. Hanging on another wall was a photo, presumably of the happy couple, showing a round-bellied Mr. Foley sitting with his feet propped up in the chair, the TV remote in one hand and a can of Budweiser in the other, his slender wife perched across the arm of the chair with her arms around his neck. She smiled toward the camera. He didn’t.

“This doesn’t look much like a crime scene,” Vera said. “Just an unoccupied living room.”

Shane nodded toward the hall. “That’s because Mr. Foley was found stabbed to death in his bed with a cheap kitchen knife. The only prints they found on the knife were his own and, oddly enough, Mrs. Foley’s.”

Vera shivered. “That’s so fucking creepy. How could her prints be on the knife?”

Shane walked toward the semi-dark hallway. “Mr. Foley didn’t exactly appear to be the type of man who would bother to cook himself a nice homemade dinner after his wife died. I could be wrong, but my guess was that whoever killed him wore gloves, and the knives just hadn’t been cleaned since his wife died.”

Vera frowned. “Gross.”

Shane stepped slowly through the hall, examining the floor for any stray fibers, herbs or possible leftovers from a black-magic ritual, signs the Rochester CSU wouldn’t have noticed or had otherwise written off as too unimportant to include in their report. When he reached the room at the end of the hall—which, based on its placement directly next to the bathroom, was likely the master bedroom—he paused. Light crept out from underneath the door, as if one of the policemen who had previously scoured the scene had left a lamp on. He pushed open the door.

The “Holy fuck!” that escaped his lips didn’t even begin to cover it.

He drew the Walther PPK and aimed. Atop the bloody mattress sat a woman who he immediately recognized as Mrs. Foley, and by Mrs. Foley he didn’t mean the corpse she should have been. Oh, no. Mrs. Foley looked exactly like she had in life, only with no color to her face and a flat dead look in her eyes because, well...she was fucking dead.

Her head snapped toward them. Vera let out a string of screamed profanities that would have impressed a sailor. Shane didn’t think. He squeezed the trigger off several times, aiming directly at Mrs. Foley’s head. His shots hit the dead woman point-blank in the forehead. Her body jerked with each impact. Blood and brain matter spattered onto the already-blood-soaked bed behind her. She fell back onto the mattress, twitching.

Shane released a long breath. Adrenaline filled his veins like a live wire. Holy shit. This was...

Mrs. Foley sat upright again, looking even more gruesome and disturbing than before. “This is for all the times you sat on your ass, Ted.” She lunged toward Shane as she spoke.

Shane repositioned his gun and fired. The bullet sailed straight into her chest, but that didn’t deter her. She tackled him full-on, with the power only someone who wasn’t concerned about pain was capable of. He toppled to the ground with Mrs. Foley on top of him as she attempted to claw his face with her fingernails.

“Every time I cooked you dinner, you never appreciated it, Ted!” she shrieked into Shane’s face. Her breath smelled like death warmed over.

Shane punched her in the jaw. It popped out of its socket, only to correct itself a moment later. Shit. He was fighting a battle he just couldn’t win. Using all his weight, he flipped the two of them over until he was on top. He slammed his fist into her face over and over again. Blood spattered onto his shirt from Mrs. Foley’s nose. The bones of her face broke as he hit her with blow after blow, then healed moments later.

“Vera,” he grunted through the hits. “Get me a...” He looked up, only to find Vera had disappeared. Shit.

That brief moment gave dead Mrs. Foley the advantage she needed. She popped him in the jaw with her small fist as she writhed out from underneath him. Not a strong enough punch that he saw stars, but enough to give him pause. Mrs. Foley scrambled to her feet.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Shane kicked the monster’s legs out from underneath her, and she toppled to the ground again. Diving behind her, Shane wrapped his right arm around her neck in a choke hold. She struggled and bucked against him.

“I hate you, Ted. I hate you!” she screeched. “You never gave me everything you promised. You lied to me.” She kicked and flailed, fighting against his hold.

Vera burst into the room, a large carving knife clutched in her hand.

Thatta girl.

“Try her heart,” Shane ground out through clenched teeth. The dead woman bucked against him.

Vera stepped forward, positioning herself over the woman. “I don’t think I can do it, Shane.” Her hands shook.

“Give me... Shit,” he swore as the back of Mrs. Foley’s head collided with his nose. A warm trickle of blood poured from his left nostril. He extended his free hand. Vera held out the carving knife, and he snatched it from her. He stabbed the blade straight into Mrs. Foley’s chest with a resounding roar. Bright red arterial blood squirted onto the wall, but the corpse continued fighting.

Vera screamed. Shane wrenched the knife out of Mrs. Foley’s chest and plunged the blade in again, only vaguely aware of the pulsating purple light emanating from Vera’s palms. A moment later Mrs. Foley’s body seized. Then her dead weight slumped against his chest.

Shane looked up, clothes and face covered in blood. Vera was standing completely still, the light from her palms dimming to a slow burn. “I...I...only stunned her,” she gasped.

Shit. That meant Mrs. Foley would sit up again any minute now. Shane swore. Only one sure way to kill any supernatural.

“Vera, look away.”

Her eyes widened until she looked like a cartoon character while she stared down at him. “Wh-what?”

“Look away! Leave the fucking room, goddamn it!”

She scrambled for the door and out into the hallway. Lifting the carving knife to Mrs. Foley’s throat, he sawed the blade against her neck. Dead or not, the sight of the blood and the sounds of her gurgling seared their way into his memory like a blazing-hot brand. When he had finished, he dropped the knife to his side and collapsed in a tired heap on the floor.

He’d just decapitated an innocent woman who had clearly been spelled, brought back from the dead and turned into a veritable killing machine that had orchestrated the death of her husband—and nearly him—all by means of the worst type of black magic possible: necromancy. As he lay on the floor, soaked in blood that wasn’t his own, he swore to himself that he would personally destroy the monsters responsible for this.

* * *

ASH DEVEREAUX GAPED like a wide-mouth bass at the sight of Dr. Shane Grey. Drenched nearly from head to toe in dried blood, which clearly wasn’t his own, Shane sat in his usual position in the control room with deep furrows cutting across his normally smooth brow. What the hell had happened?

Ash let out a low, long whistle. “What the blazin’ hell happened to you, Doc?”

Shane looked up at him with glazed-over eyes that Ash knew all too well. “Necromancy. Necromancy happened.” The words tumbled from Shane’s mouth as if they were detached from him somehow, as if he spoke without really knowing what he was saying.

Ash dared a glance at his fellow hunters. Jace sat beside Shane, the front of his trench coat also blood-soaked. “You, too?” Ash drawled.

Jace shrugged. “Me, too. Shane called me to help him dispose of the zombie’s body.”

Zombie? Ash stood silent for a moment, attempting to process Jace’s words. His brain tried to connect the clear reality that somehow Shane had needed someone to clean up a body for him. In all their time working together, he’d never once seen Shane covered in blood, let alone leave a trail of corpses, supernatural or not, behind him. For a moment he wondered if he’d taken one too many shots of Crown Royal and was drunker than Cooter Brown.

“That’s why we’re here,” Damon said, interrupting Ash’s thoughts.

David Aronowitz, their resident exorcist, stepped into the room. “What did I mis—fuck me. What happened?”

Ash shrugged. “That’s what we’re all tryin’ to find out.”

Shane slammed a fist onto the desk beside him. “I told you all already. Necromancy. Necromancy happened.”

The look burning in Shane’s eyes sent a shiver down Ash’s spine, and that was damn well saying something, considering he spent most of his time dealing with angry ghosts. Seeing a bloodbath the likes of which Shane had clearly just experienced—especially when it was your first—made any sane man madder than a soaking-wet hen, which was pretty fucking angry if you’d ever actually seen a hen soaking wet.

Jace clapped Shane on the shoulder. “Settle down there, kid. Here.” He pulled a flask from his jacket, unscrewed the cap and passed it to Shane.

Shane took a swig of what Ash knew was Jace’s regular Bushmills Irish whiskey, swallowing the liquid fire down like a champ. He handed the flask back.

Jace slipped the flask into his jacket pocket. “All right. That’ll calm your nerves some. Now, tell us what the fuck happened.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kait-ballenger/midnight-hunter/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.



Если текст книги отсутствует, перейдите по ссылке

Возможные причины отсутствия книги:
1. Книга снята с продаж по просьбе правообладателя
2. Книга ещё не поступила в продажу и пока недоступна для чтения