Stalker (The Hunt Book 3)

by Liz Meldon

  Stalker

  The Hunt, #3

  Liz Meldon

  Copyright 2018 Liz Meldon

  Published by Liz Meldon, Amazon Edition. All rights reserved.

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. References to persons and places are for fictional purposes only, and are not linked to anyone outside of the author’s fictitious world. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Reader Warning

  Stalker (The Hunt, #3)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Stay Connected with Liz Meldon’s Newsletter

  Thanks for reading!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Phoenix, my amazing proofreader, who even went editorial goddess on this draft. Thank you for catching my errors with poise and tact. As always, much love to my author besties group, my sun and stars, and my parents for being incredibly supportive of this journey. A huge shout-out to the amazing #bookstagram community for all your love and support! Last, and certainly not least, a great many thanks to my readers. Without you, there’s nothing but me and my imagination.

  Cover art courtesy of the amazing Daqri at Covers by Combs.

  Reader Warning

  Please note that as with all the books in THE HUNT, this book has a rating of EXPLICIT. STALKER contains scenes of graphic violence, sexual content, and coarse language. It may not be suitable for all readers.

  Stalker (The Hunt, #3)

  To Hell and Back Again

  Chapter One

  “Is this a joke?”

  Just up the street from the Inferno, Ella Thomas crossed her arms and cocked a hip as she stared at a very empty alleyway—the exact location Moira had given her only two hours earlier. At first she’d thought the text alert from her best friend had been a part of her dream: Moira had been MIA for roughly three weeks without a word. She had missed her final exams. She hadn’t turned in any of her term papers. She hadn’t come home and she had stopped answering her phone.

  Just as Ella had been about to file a missing persons report, their roommate Hannah had come home with news from Moira’s advisor: she had applied for compassionate leave and put her semester on hold. Apparently she would be able to resume working on her degree when she was ready, but that didn’t matter to Ella. Moira wasn’t the type to bail on schoolwork. She had always been diligent. Professional, even. It had been that way since elementary school—until now. Now, she was secretive and distant. Ella had barely seen her in the last two months. They’d had fewer and fewer movie nights together, and barely any dinner dates. She couldn’t remember the last time they had sat alone in one of their bedrooms, door closed, serenaded by nineties pop ballads, and just talked.

  When all this had started, she’d hoped Moira had maybe found a guy worth dating, but the jerk who showed up to collect her things that one time hadn’t seemed remotely Moira’s type. Still, with everything that had happened over the last two years, her best friend deserved to be with someone who made her happy—even if Ella thought the guy was an ass.

  Moira had been all over the place emotionally for months now. Upbeat one minute, down the next. Ella hadn’t blamed her. The woman’s mom had died. Her hair had fallen out. Her eyes had changed colour, for goodness sake, and none of the doctors she had seen had been very helpful. Ella had even reamed one out when she tagged along for an appointment; the guy had heavily insinuated that Moira was a junkie, and therefore he could do nothing for her.

  Moira was the last person to take drugs. Alcohol—sure. They were in university. Alcohol came with the territory. But drugs? The guy was off his rocker, even if Moira’s cheeks were gaunt. Even if she was losing weight faster than Ella thought healthy. And even if she had abandoned much of her former social life to mope around her room. The girl had been going through some heavy shit. People needed to cut her some slack—it was what Ella had done the moment she found out Lara Aurelia was dying. She’d loved Moira’s mom more than her own mother, and her death had hit them both hard.

  Still, through her grief, Ella had continued to stand by her, biting her tongue as Moira steadily retreated from the rest of the world. She offered fashion advice, hair tips, and positive reinforcement whenever possible, hoping that one day Moira would just snap out of it, that Ella would finally get her best friend back—but was more than willing to ride this out in the meantime. Because that’s what sisters did. They stuck it out, through thick and thin, and Ella had always thought of Moira as her sister—the sister she had chosen, and who had chosen her right back.

  Then Moira had disappeared.

  And it just wasn’t like Ella to be this upset with her best friend. This wasn’t who they were. They didn’t disappear on each other. They didn’t keep secrets. And they definitely didn’t vanish for three weeks after some cryptic text about meeting on campus for coffee and details, which, in the end, Moira had flaked out on too.

  So, when she had discovered the text message this morning, Ella thought that she had to be dreaming.

  But no, it had been real. Moira wanted to meet. She promised to explain everything.

  I’m so sorry.

  Bitter tears had sprung to her eyes as Ella read that text message, her hands trembling and her body prickling with a storm of jumbled emotion. Not wanting to say something that would send Moira running again, she had opted to take a shower first, drink a strong cup of black coffee, and wait. Wait for her emotions to settle. Wait for her tears to stop. And wait for her hands to steady.

  Her reply had been succinct: When and where?

  So, here she was. Just where Moira had told her to be—on time as always. It was something they had always shared: punctuality.

  Her honey-brown gaze wandered between the two buildings on either side of the alley. She glanced up, wondering if Moira might be staring back from one of the windows. Nothing. With a huff, Ella dug her phone out of her slouchy brown purse, the pleather sticking to her underarms in the midday heat. As May hurtled toward June, the heat had become merciless. Sweat starting the gather along her hairline, Ella fired off an annoyed text letting Moira know that she was here, and she found herself missing the blissful air-conditioning of the city bus she had taken downtown.

  She’d barely slipped her phone back in the little pocket of her purse when she heard the creaking door hinges. Instinct told her to look left, toward the noise, but as she did, she happened upon a sight directly in front of her that made her heart drop into her stomach. Ella stumbled back with a gasp: Moira—she had materialized out of nowhere. There, in the vacant alley, a rectangular opening roughly the size of a large door revealed her best friend, and behind her…the interior of a house?

  Ella blinked hard. Had someone slipped her something on the bus? This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

  “Hi.” Moira stood before her, fiddling with her fingers, a nervous habit she’d had since they were kids. While she looked almost the same as she had a month ago, subtle changes caught Ella’s eye as she studied her best friend. For one thing, she no longer looked so sickly-thin. Her cheeks had filled out to nearly pre-illness fullness, and her collarbones were no longer pro
truding sharply over the neckline of whatever she was wearing.

  Wait—what was she wearing? Ella’s frown deepened. Moira hadn’t been a dress girl since before her mom died. This past year, she had been a sweatpants-and-grubby-T-shirt girl, unless she had to do a presentation in class. Even then, she had usually styled herself to disappear into the background.

  Today, she wore a pinstriped white dress, the dotted vertical stripes a faded navy blue. It was almost…fashionable. Moira hadn’t cared about fashion in a long time. Square neckline, bodice flush to her figure, and a skirt that flared slightly down to her knees. Shoulders with some edge to them. Little cap sleeves. This was fashionable. Her toenails were painted to match the stripes of the dress, and—

  “Oh my god, your hair.” The first thing Ella should have noticed was that Moira wasn’t hiding her stark white hair under some god-awful wool hat. Instead, she wore it in a fishtail braid—Moira doesn’t know how to braid her own hair—and even with it thrown over her shoulder, it trailed down to her hips. Had she been missing for three weeks—or three years? There was no way her hair had even been close to that length. Ella would have noticed.

  Right?

  Ella pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging them firmly as a little headache started to blossom behind her eyes.

  “Moira, what the hell is going on?” She met and held her best friend’s haunting blue gaze with some difficulty. Ella had put on a brave face when Moira’s eyes changed last year, but, honestly, they scared her. Moira had always had such warm eyes, eyes she could trust implicitly. The blue—sometimes cold, sometimes otherworldly… Well, she didn’t know how to handle the blue just yet.

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Moira said, her chin quivering when she pressed her lips together and took a quick breath. “I’m so sorry, Ella. I… I’ve wanted to tell you, but it was just too crazy. I should have told you from the first day.”

  Ella hesitantly approached the opening, unable to resist peeking in.

  There was a whole fucking room behind her. Stairs leading up.

  “Moira, I don’t get it. Is this…?” What, exactly? Ella had no idea what to even ask.

  “Take my hand.” Moira offered it, palm up. It shook slightly. “I’ll show you everything.”

  She could have walked away. As Ella stared down at that hand, she knew she could have reveled in her anger, in her disappointment—but when it came down to it, she just missed her best friend. That was all that mattered.

  Eyes welling with tears, Ella batted Moira’s hand aside and jumped on her instead, engulfing her in a hug. In an instant, Moira’s arms wrapped around her, and she hugged Ella right back as they stumbled into the room. While her feet tripped over a small step, and she could feel the difference between the sidewalk and what now felt like hardwood, Ella kept herself buried against Moira’s neck and shoulder, holding her tighter. They both trembled, propping one another up for what felt like hours.

  When she finally did risk a look up, Ella discovered they were indeed in a room—a room that hadn’t been there before. Her gaze drifted toward an upscale kitchen, a wall-mounted herb garden, a dining table, then up the thin, steep stairs directly behind Moira. Black, white, grey—it wasn’t an aesthetic Moira would have chosen willingly. This had to be someone else’s house.

  Someone’s…invisible…secret…magical house.

  “Moira?” she croaked, her throat tight and voice thick. Her knees wanted to give out, but she held firm, fighting the freak-out. “Are we in Narnia?”

  “Kind of.” Her best friend giggled, then eased back, her hands resting on Ella’s shoulders as she sniffled. Tears glistened in those blue eyes—blue eyes that were warm, just as her green ones had been. Warm and open. Raw, maybe just a little bit broken. Ella brushed away the tears as they fell, and Moira did the same for her.

  “Missed you,” she murmured, and Moira’s smile quickly matched her own.

  “Missed you more.”

  “Not possible.” Ella let out a long sigh, a rush of weariness settling over her, then gestured to the room around them. “Okay, girl… What the actual fuck?”

  Pain radiated up his arm when his fist collided with Kurron’s jaw. Something in the demon’s face cracked, bone and sinew giving way at last. He slumped over, viscous red liquid dribbling from his mouth, and Severus glanced down at his fist, annoyed to have split the last of his knuckles already.

  Yesterday he’d been able to work over three demons before he reached this point, the skin having healed overnight. Perhaps he was being a little rougher on Kurron: the bastard had broken Alaric’s nose the night they rescued Moira, and then boasted about it when they hauled him in for questioning. Typical demon bravado: bound in chains, surrounded by enemies, and still sneering about something petty.

  “You know, the other idiots in Diriel’s employ also haven’t squealed yet,” he mused, grabbing a fresh white towel to clean his hands. “They’re currently headless and rotting in the basement, but I’m sure you’d happily die for Diriel. I’m sure he’s like family to you.”

  Kurron groaned again, the sound long and drawn out, before lifting his head with some effort. Then he grinned, his smile full of broken teeth and blood, his sneering arrogance intact. Severus rolled his eyes and tossed the towel back on the nearby table, then turned to the wide assortment of torture devices available to him. Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he worked his way through the lot before settling on the nails.

  “All I want is his current location,” he insisted, keeping his voice even. He had learned to swallow his rage weeks ago; letting demons see how they affected him, how nothing more than their arrogance riled him, got him nowhere. After rescuing Moira, Severus had been wrathful. Had he the ability, he would have leveled this whole damn city to find Diriel. Unfortunately, if he wanted to do it right, once more he needed to be smart. Calculating. Use his strengths, even if it would have been easier to fall back on his rage.

  He had been steadily working his way through Diriel’s minions, the few still hiding out around Farrow’s Hollow. Kurron was fourth in line from the top—one of Diriel’s semi-major players. He’d been found lurking in the warehouse district, which made transporting him to Verrier’s inventory facility a breeze.

  With Alaric’s bottomless line of credit at his disposal, plus his own substantial fortune, Severus had hired a pair of renowned bounty hunters from Emerson, another hell-gate adjacent city, to seek out Diriel.

  When a week passed and they’d found nothing on the demon himself, the hunters expanded their search, tracking and apprehending his moronic lackeys instead. Severus had been torturing them for two straight weeks, drawing out snippets of intel on Diriel, but nothing concrete enough to pinpoint an exact location. Both Severus and Alaric had agreed that he wouldn’t leave Farrow’s Hollow; the farther a demon traveled from a hell-gate, the weaker their abilities. Beyond that, Diriel only had pull in Farrow’s Hollow. Not only was he a nobody in Hell, but his arrogance, his flash, and his lower-class status had alienated him from the demon mob families. He had no allies. He was alone.

  And Severus would root him out, one minion at a time.

  The bastard was going to pay for what he’d done to her.

  The bastard was going to suffer.

  “Who knew a leech could,” Kurron’s voice hitched, a fresh blob of blood pluming from the corner of his mouth, “throw a-a punch like that? Colour me impressed.”

  “That’s what all you fools don’t understand. Incubi aren’t weaker—we’ve just got a high metabolism,” Severus said with a sigh, crouching in front of the bound demon, nails in hand. The chair he tortured them all in smelled positively foul, blood and piss staining the wood. Still, the corpse rotting away in the corner of the windowless cement room—the body of the first demon he’d tortured and beheaded—smelled worse. The rest were on ice in the basement to minimize the smell, but he wanted all the new arrivals to see this body—just to let them know what they were in for if they opted n
ot to cooperate.

  If he simply tortured them and then let them live, they would all eventually heal from their injuries. All the trauma he’d inflicted—erased. They’d seek revenge, either on behalf of Diriel or for themselves. They’d go after Severus, and they would definitely go after Moira, maybe even force him to watch while they pulled her apart. Every last one of them needed to die, and, so far, all had met death at the end of Severus’s blade—which he had borrowed from the bounty hunters. Forged in Hell, the broadsword sat next to the rotting corpse, a pretty picture of his resolve—a solemn promise.

  A vow of vengeance for what their boss had done to Moira.

  “We’re not all that different, you and I,” Severus carried on lightly, smirking when Kurron spat at him. Blood peppered his face, but he merely lifted the demon’s index finger—and shoved the razor-sharp point under his nail. Kurron howled, struggling against the bindings around his wrists, ankles, and abdomen. Severus sat back on his heels, grinning, and held another two-inch nail up. “You see, this would hurt me too. We’re practically twins.”

  He shoved the next one under Kurron’s thumbnail. Then the middle finger, and on and on and on, until all ten fingers had a nail embedded at least an inch into them. Severus had stopped asking questions, preferring to finish up in a timely manner. After all, there were a dozen other torture devices he would put to use before he lopped the fucker’s head off.