Midnight Hunter

“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

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.