Midnight Hunter (The Execution Underground Book 3)

by Kait Ballenger

  “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 b
roke 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.