Hunted
Page 1
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Lyrical Press, Inc.
www.lyricalpress.com
Copyright ©2009 by S.W. Vaughn
First published in 2009, 2009
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Hunted
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
About S. W. Vaughn
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Back Cover Copy
Some angels do not suffer their children to live.
Grace Carrington has never been normal—she's a Nephilim, half human and half angel. The same psychic powers that make her a freak also make her a target, and she's on the run from an exploitive mother and two enemy beings whose powers far exceed her own.
One of them controls the Stalker, an inhuman killer no Nephilim has ever outrun. How long can a woman survive when angels want her dead?
Highlight
"Kayla? What's wrong? Are you all right ... Kayla!"
Grace finally realized Megan was talking to her. She'd forgotten the name she gave the girl. “I..."
You're dead, Nephil.
The woman's voice ricocheted in her head. Grace tore her gaze from the awful grin and tensed, searching for an escape route.
You can't run. I'll find you.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Megan.” Her lips barely moved. “You have to get your ticket. Go—” She gasped. Pain tore through her head like a fishhook plunged into her brain. Thoughts and images flowed without her permission from the phantom rip: her mother, her first experience with power, her casino rip-off tour. The cop at the motel. Comp Roberts. No! She held on to that one, and felt the other woman attempt to pry it from her mind.
The tugging sensation stopped.
Fear me. I am your end.
She opened her eyes. They were gone.
Hunted
By S.W. Vaughn
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Lyrical Press, Incorporated
Hunted
Copyright © 2009, S.W. Vaughn
Edited by Warren Richardson
Book design by Emma Wayne Porter and Renee Rocco
Cover Art by Renee Rocco
Lyrical Press, Incorporated
17 Ludlow Street
Staten Island, New York 10312
www.lyricalpress.com eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher's permission.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated
First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: June, 2009
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Dedication
To my W, the greatest partner in the world ... in every way imaginable.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 1
Sometimes being able to read minds was a pain in the ass.
Grace heard the words bouncing between the security chief's ears. She preferred the words coming out of his mouth.
"You can leave just as soon as we finish checking your identification and reviewing the tapes. It's standard procedure whenever a ... guest wins such a large amount,” he said. And thought: No way you're twenty-one. If you're twenty-one, then I'm Elvis Presley. And I know you cheated, you smug bitch. I'll catch you, and I'm gonna laugh when they haul your pretty ass off to jail.
Unfortunately, he was right on both counts. She wasn't twenty-one, and she had cheated. Sort of. She also knew he couldn't prove it. The knowledge provided little comfort. She tried not to hate him, knew he was just doing his job ... but he didn't have to be such a jerk about it.
Maybe she shouldn't have taken the slots and the blackjack table. If she'd stuck with one or the other, they wouldn't have been suspicious. But she wanted to stay out of the casinos for as long as possible this time, and the slots jackpot hadn't been enough. If the place wasn't so damned stingy on the payouts, she would have stopped there.
"Ms. Donovan, are you sure there isn't anything you want to tell me?” Confess, damn it. My shift was supposed to end half an hour ago.
Tough shit, Grace thought. She'd already been in this sweltering office for two hours, breathing in body odor and bitterness from a man who watched people make and lose fortunes every night, while he inched along on his casino salary and cleaned up the messes gamblers made. She did feel sorry for him, but this wasn't any easier on her. She had no choice—it was this or starve.
"No,” she said at last. She'd learned the less she said, the better.
He glowered at her. Before he could think of a smart-ass reply, and say something bland to cover it, his desk phone rang. He picked it up with a gruff, “Lauder, security.” He paused. “Yes, she's still here.” His eyes narrowed. “You sure? You ran it twice?” A beat. “What about the tape?” After a longer pause, he frowned and hung up. “You check out, Ms. Donovan. I'll just ask you to fill out a form, and then you're free to go, with our apologies.” And if you ever step foot in here again, I'll be watching you. Closely.
Grace kept her features blank. She'd almost gotten the hang of tuning out other people's thoughts, but the emotionally charged ones still insisted on coming through. The form he slid across the desk was standard: name, reason for visiting Las Vegas, address of the hotel, a yes/no checkbox for felony convictions with space to explain a positive reply. She gripped the pen, envisioned her current alias before she filled in the blanks. Susan Donovan, visiting for pleasure, staying at the fabulously cockroach-infested, off-the-strip Three Sailors Motel. No convictions.
It wasn't exactly a lie. Being a freak wasn't a crime, and she'd been a minor when everyone found out. Her court records had been sealed.
She slid the form across the desk and waited. The security chief's gaze skated over the paper. He huffed, stowed the form in a drawer, and stood. Her bag sat near his
feet. He scooped it up and placed it on the desk, as though it contained ten pounds of dog shit instead of a change of clothing and a stack of cashier's checks—five grand apiece, fifty thousand altogether. The casinos never liked paying out that way, but she couldn't risk anything as traceable as a bank account, nor could she carry around that much cash. “I assume you can find your way out,” the security chief said.
He must have calmed down. Grace couldn't hear his thoughts any more.
"Yes. Thank you.” She picked up the single-strap backpack, slung it over a shoulder, and headed out. Down the access stairs, through the steel door, into the frenetic and blistering atmosphere of the casino floor. Hundreds of voices blended in a thick soup of conversation, good-luck prayers, muttered dissatisfaction and the occasional jubilant victory cry. Other sounds punctuated the human hubbub: the clatter-click-rattle of the roulette wheel, beeps and bells and cheery mocking jingles from the banks of slots and video poker machines, dice clacking in cupped hands and tumbling over felt.
Grace moved with piston purpose through the crowd, ignoring the inevitable drink offers and requests for lucky dice-blows. From the moment she'd entered this neon nightmare, she'd felt a disturbing electric undercurrent that whispered impending disaster. Casino security had thwarted her get-in, get-out strategy, and intuition—or whatever she had—screamed foul.
The guards at the front door glared but they let her pass without question. She stepped outside expecting the panic to ease.
It didn't.
The motel. She'd feel better once she returned to her room, and the few possessions that represented her portable home. Her contacts—blue today—had dried relentlessly during her stint in the security room and a burning itch consumed her eyes. She couldn't take them out until she reached the safety of the motel. She'd left her wraparounds in her briefcase.
Where were the cabs? A few of them always idled at the casinos, hoping to score fares giddy with takes, and in generous moods. But the street was practically deserted. She heard engines zipping in the distance, and turned right on the crowded sidewalk.
A brisk night wind kicked up and brought tears to her parched eyes. Her right contact shifted. Damn it! Squeezing her eye shut, she edged away from the crowd and leaned against the building beside the casino, a sagging shanty tacked on to the neighboring abandoned high-rise. She went for casual: ho hum, just another disillusioned gambler bemoaning my fate, leave me alone, thanks. A cigarette would have helped, but she'd left those in the room too.
She turned her head, right side away from the crowd, still thinking bland thoughts. Oh, look at this interesting door. She surreptitiously pushed the contact back into place and stared. The door actually was interesting. Faded, cracked and splintering, warped in the frame, but fitted with a gleaming brass knob and fresh hinges. Above the door, a single wide brushstroke of deep red paint had hardened on the lintel like dried blood.
The door called to her. She reached for the knob, watched her fingers brush the brass surface as though they belonged to someone else. They met pulsating warmth instead of cold metal. The electric undercurrent surged, became raw power hammering her nerves.
In the next instant, an unfamiliar voice shrilled through her head: Get back!
Grace obeyed the mental command instantly. The door burst open and missed her by a breath. A disheveled young woman flew out, into her. They both went down.
Flew. She'd been flying. Her feet hadn't touched the ground.
The assailant jerked her head back. Her eyes met Grace's. Her bright green, glowing eyes.
Shock rendered Grace speechless. She'd never seen another with eyes like that. Was this why she'd been drawn here? For six years Grace had known her mysterious affliction to be unique. But here was this girl with glowing eyes. Flying. And looking like the Devil would burst out the door after her and drag her into the flames of Hell.
The girl scrambled off and righted herself. Grace struggled to her feet. The girl stood spring-loaded, glancing behind her, left, right. Grace had to talk to her. She opened her mouth.
A man appeared beside the young woman. Just appeared from empty air. Heartbreak-beautiful, muscled as sin. Covered in streaks of blood and splashes of gore. The man clamped crimson-coated hands on either side of the girl's skull and forced her to her knees. Moving to stand on her shins, the bloodied apparition twisted hard—and ripped her head from her shoulders.
The world stopped. Someone screamed.
Grace stumbled back and pressed into the shadow of the high-rise. The killer's eyes followed her. He still held the head, oblivious to the grotesque and dripping spectacle. More screams rent the air. Someone vomited. Grace heard retching, a thick splash.
With her gaze locked on the killer, she watched a flame-haired woman wink into existence beside him. The woman's furious expression moved from the severed head to the killer's blank face. “You idiot! Put that down. Now."
The killer dropped the head. It landed on the girl's crumpled body, bounced, and rolled a few feet to stop in front of Grace. She whimpered, held her breath. The woman's gaze sought the shadows. Her eyes narrowed.
I've marked you, Nephilim scum. Your time is up.
Once again, the voice that filled Grace's head was not her own. Instinct commanded her to run. Before she could move, the woman gripped the killer's wrist and they vanished.
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Chapter 2
Silver shifted them to the ravine, right in front of his crypt. At least he'd done something right. Lorin released his wrist, stepped away, and backhanded him. He flinched and dropped his gaze.
"Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
"I..."
"Shut up. Your voice sickens me.” Lorin touched the base of her throat. She felt the raised outline of the inverted triangle there, burned into her flesh. She'd been marked. Branded like a cow. The hunters had been too close in Vegas.
"Look at me,” she demanded. Silver raised his head. She pulled the collar of her shirt down to expose the blackened mark. “If I'm destroyed, I can't come back. That means you'll stay locked up forever. Do you understand that?"
Silver didn't reply. Lorin remembered she'd told him not to speak.
"Answer."
"Yes, Lorin."
"Go and wash up. You reek of Nephilim."
Lorin watched him walk along the floor of the ravine. Her monster, her burden. Her son. She'd been unable to kill him at birth, and so had been compelled to keep his existence secret. For six centuries. And his power only increased, even when she left him chained inside his crypt for decades at a time.
At least he was useful for killing mules. The ten he'd slaughtered tonight represented the most Nephilim she'd found in one place since Sri Lanka. Still, discovering another outside the nest had stained her victory. She would've had Silver kill it there in the open since he'd already screwed up once, if she hadn't felt the Presence saturating the air like an oil slick—and simultaneously experienced the burn of the Mark. Now the Bright Host hunters had her scent and she'd be pursued relentlessly.
She would not let Silver bring about her destruction.
Damn him. Silver wasn't equipped to make decisions. She'd never let him. She controlled his every move, his every thought. If he were allowed to do as he pleased, Lorin suspected he could destroy all of Creation—and he just might. Without a tight leash, he could quickly become a death machine. It was all he knew; how to kill. And he did it spectacularly.
She smiled, remembering the way he'd ripped off a mule's arm and used it to bludgeon another's skull. She'd never taught him that. He was getting creative.
The chill of night air saturated the ravine, a comforting cloak. Lorin knew the hunters would have trouble finding her in upstate New York. After all, Silver had remained undiscovered in his living tomb for centuries now. But she wouldn't stay long. She wanted to find that stray they'd left behind in Vegas and watch Silver tear it apart. No sense wasting her own power when her son had so much more
.
First, though, she wanted to hurt something. Like Silver.
As though responding to her unspoken desires, Silver slid down the embankment wall at the far end of the ravine and started toward her. She glanced around at the brush and detritus, and considered throwing rocks at him for a while. Ultimately, though, stoning him would not satisfy. The rocks only struck once, and he'd heal too quickly.
No matter what she did, he would heal. The bastard always healed. At least she could make him scream, make him suffer.
She spotted a stout oak limb, freshly broken. Nice and straight, a good two inches around at its widest. She picked it up and began breaking the smaller twigs that sprouted from it, leaving jagged nubs to inflict more damage.
Silver stopped before her and stared at the branch. He shuddered once. Something that resembled fear flickered in his eyes and left. Good.
Lorin pointed to the ground. “On your knees."
Silver obeyed. Lorin circled him and stared at his back. Blast him for being so powerful, so perfect. For living so long. “You missed one,” she said. “You'll pay for that. Tomorrow, we go back to find it. Today, you suffer."
Please don't...
His voice in her head. Lorin gripped the branch with both hands and swung hard. The impact echoed down the ravine, tore his shirt. “Don't speak to me. Don't Reach for me. Your existence disgusts me, miserable freak."
She drew back again and halted. Waste not. What she had in mind required considerable power. She'd make him do it. She circled him and held the branch out. “Take it. Impale yourself with it. Understand?” She almost felt sorry for him. If he would just obey her unconditionally, she wouldn't have to hurt him so often. But he was too powerful. Even the slightest act of free will made him a threat.
She didn't feel sorry enough to stop.
Silver shuddered again. He accepted the limb, hesitated, and plunged it into his abdomen. A groan left him. His repulsive, unnatural blood poured on the ground.
"All the way through."