Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel)

by Stephanie Rowe

  Granted, the entire point of Eric asking for her help was for her to use her local influences to assist him, but the moment she'd driven her rental car across the town border, something inside of her had shriveled up, creating the same hard knot in her chest that she'd had when she'd lived there. She wasn't ready to reveal her presence to the town. Not yet. So, she'd simply posed as a stranger from out of town in each bar she'd entered, and the result had been educational, to say the least.

  Tonight, the men in the bars had noticed only her breasts, and they'd seen her as only a possible chance to get laid. If she'd walked in the door in jeans and sneakers, with her hair in a ponytail, she was pretty sure everyone would have known who she was. But clad as she still was in her narrow work skirt and her silk tank top, no one was looking past her boobs to her face...which was why she'd chosen not to change her clothes after she'd arrived here. She wasn't ready to be the Jordyn Leahy she used to be. And quite frankly, it was somewhat illuminating to see how the men in her town treated a woman they thought was a stranger. They weren't very helpful, and they had an annoying fascination with her breasts. Was this really what the men she'd grown up with had become? Or maybe she was just bitter and suspicious?

  She laughed to herself as she walked further into the bar. Yes, it was probably the latter. She definitely carried enough baggage when it came to men to justify keeping even the nicest guy at a distance. They were just being guys reacting to a single woman waltzing into seedy bars at one in the morning. She knew this world, and she knew her way around it.

  With a weary sigh, she shook out her shoulders as she walked up to the bar and eased onto a stool beside a guy she didn't recognize. He was tall, with wide shoulders, and a face that looked gaunt and gray, as if he'd been sick for a long while.

  He turned his head as she sat down, and she was struck by the anguish in his gray eyes. Instinctively, she touched his shoulder to offer comfort. The moment her fingers brushed over his shirt, a sharp tingle of pain shot through her. She jerked her hand back, a chill of fear rippling down her spine.

  She stared at him, her heart pounding. "Are you okay?" she blurted out.

  One dark eyebrow went up, and he shrugged. "I might be," he said in that Cajun drawl she hadn't heard since she'd moved away. He flashed a smile that showcased a dimple and perfect white teeth, but no warmth. "Evenin'."

  She managed a smile. "Hi." She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to move away from him. Instead, she stayed where she was and scanned the bar, even though she knew there was no chance she'd find Tristan sitting there, sprawled on a bench, waiting for her to march up to him.

  "Can I get you a drink?" the bartender asked.

  She swiveled around on the stool to answer him, and then her heart lifted when she saw deep blue eyes studying her, azure eyes she knew so well. "David?"

  His dark eyebrows went up, and he narrowed his eyes. "Yes?" His reddish-brown hair was cut short, and he had a half-grown beard on his jaw, making him look so much older and more masculine than the last time she'd seen him, almost ten years ago. His bright orange tee shirt was more flamboyant than the David she knew, but the quirk to his eyebrows, as if he were about to laugh at a joke, was the same. The same black and red cross was even dangling from his left earlobe, as if he'd never taken it out after all those years.

  She knew it was him, the gangly boy who had pulled her out of hell the night her father had almost killed her. Unable to stop the smile building inside her, she leaned forward and grinned at him. "Yes?" she teased. "That's all I get is a 'yes?'"

  He stared at her blankly. "What?"

  She hesitated. Did he really not remember her? How could he not know who she was? Yes, it had been a decade, but she hadn't changed that much...had she? He had once been her best friend. "David—"

  A warm grin lit up his face in sudden recognition. "Jordyn Leahy? No shit? It's you?" He didn't even wait for an answer. He just reached across the bar and wrapped her up in a huge hug that had a lot more muscle than the last time she'd seen him. For a brief moment, she wanted to cry, it felt so good to be hugged. Just hugged, not fondled or harassed, or anything. Just hugged.

  But then, quickly, too quickly, that good feeling fled, and a rising sense of tension gripped her. He was holding too tight, and she suddenly felt trapped. She pushed at his chest, and he let her go.

  He frowned at her. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "You lie." He set an empty glass down on the bar in front of her, and poured her favorite drink into it. Raspberry-lime flavored water, with fresh strawberries. After all these years, he hadn't forgotten. "I've known you since you were four," he said. "You can't lie to me. What's wrong?"

  She wrapped her hands around the cold glass. "I haven't seen you in ten years, and the first thing you do is harass me? What about asking me how life has been? Or what I've been up to?" But even as she said it, she felt herself tighten up. She didn't want him to ask how her life had been. How could she possibly explain to him what she'd been through?

  He shrugged, apparently blissfully oblivious to the ugliness of the images in her mind. "What life has been like for the last ten years doesn't matter, because something's wrong right now, so that's what I care about. What's going on?"

  Her throat tightened at his reply. He was so David, exactly as he'd been for all the years that he'd been her best friend. It felt like no time had passed between them. God, she'd missed the feeling of belonging, of having someone in her life who knew every flaw she had and loved her anyway. For a moment, she was tempted to pour everything out to him, but then she shook her head. She wanted to be different from the woman she'd been when she'd grown up here. She didn't want to be a victim. She wanted to be strong and together. "It's nothing," she lied, "but I do have something you could help me with."

  "It is something, but I'll let it go for now." He raised his brows as he grabbed another glass and began to fill it from the tap. "What's up?"

  "Did a man named Tristan Hunter ever come in here?" She held up the picture on her phone, showing him the blond-haired man who had done the unthinkable and brought her back from the dead eight times, at an unspeakable cost to himself. Although Eric had said that he and Tristan were twins, the brothers didn't look at all alike. Tristan was blond and fair, while Eric was dark and penetrating.

  David peered at the picture. "Nope. Never seen him. He live around here?"

  "No. He was in the area for a while doing research. He seems to have vanished, and this was the last place he was seen." What would she have done if she hadn't met Tristan that night so long ago? Her life would have gone in such a different direction. Well, she'd be dead, for one thing, but there were so many other ramifications of their brief time together. He was the one who'd taught her exactly how strong she could be.

  "Recently?" David asked.

  She shook her head. "A year or so ago." She'd been back in town then, but she'd stayed low profile that time, not talking to anyone. Tonight, she'd been forced to get out and immerse herself in the town, and it had been more difficult than she'd expected. It felt weird, both reassuring and isolating at the same time.

  Now that she had reconnected with David, however, she felt the loss of having kept herself isolated for so long, yet another cost of her relationship with Walter, the Calydon warrior she'd been bold enough, foolish enough, weak enough, and strong enough to fall in love with.

  "That long ago?" David finished filling the beer. "I wasn't around back then. I was traveling."

  She frowned at his evasiveness. "Traveling? Traveling where?" As far as she knew, David was a lifer in this town. He was part of the fabric of this community all the way back for six generations. Where would he go?

  He shrugged. "Around." Someone called for his attention, and he nodded at her. "Don't take off. There's something I want to talk to you about. Can you stay around?"

  "Yes, sure." But as she watched David head off to deal with customers, she regretted agreeing to it. Her pleasure at seeing
him again faded, and the familiar sense of isolation settled over her. She didn't belong here anymore. What did she and David have to talk about? She was tired, so tired. She was weary from life, not just from being on the run for the last month. Not that the last four weeks had been easy, of course. It had been a time of insane rushing around getting organized so she could leave town, fueled by the frenzied anticipation of getting down to Louisiana to help Eric find Tristan.

  She didn't know what she'd thought would happen when she finally arrived, but suddenly, she felt drained. No Eric. No Tristan. Besieged by a past she'd walked away from so completely. She had no idea where to turn or how to help Tristan. What was she doing here? It had felt good to see David at first, but now, she just wanted to leave and return to Boston, to the world that she'd carved out for herself. In Boston, she felt safe, confident, and connected, so different from this place of her past that reminded her of who she used to be.

  But she owed Tristan.

  She couldn't leave until she found him.

  With a sigh, she spun her stool toward the room. She propped her elbows on the bar and leaned back against the battered wood. Slowly, she examined every person in the room, going through the same process she'd used at every other bar she'd visited to see if the man she was looking for was present.

  Even as she did it, she was aware of the low odds of success. Did she really think she'd find Tristan this way? No, she didn't, but he'd lived here for a while, and he had to have had an impact, right? Somewhere in this town, he'd left a clue before he'd disappeared.

  Her gaze wandered to the Gaston brothers, and then the door to the bar swung open, drawing her attention. The screen door slammed against the wall, and a dark shadow filled the doorframe. The man who stepped inside was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair. His presence was so powerful that the energy in the room actually shifted, rippling as it tried to accommodate the sheer force of his being. She sucked in her breath and sat up, chills racing down her spine.

  Eric.

  He'd arrived.

  She stared at him, her fingers clenching the seat of her stool. He was so much bigger than she remembered. Taller, wider shoulders, a more dominating presence. He seemed to loom over the entire bar, an unstoppable force of power. He scanned the room slowly, starting with the Gaston brothers.

  A part of her wanted to leap up, race over to him, and throw herself into his arms. She was riveted by the raw strength of his body, and she knew exactly how powerful he was. He'd been wild and untamed in the jungle, but here, it was as if he were part predator, a feral beast constrained by no one and nothing, stalking through civilization in search of prey to conquer. She recalled his claim that he wasn't a man, and she suddenly believed him. Yes, he was a man, but there was something else as well. Something more visceral and dangerous. Something so graceful and lethal, physicality far beyond that of an ordinary human.

  His hair was longer now, disheveled and ragged. His eyes were blazing and dark, his jaw taut, his muscles flexed. The man standing in the doorway was nothing like the flirtatious, irreverent man she'd met a month ago. This man was moody, dark, and pulsing with sensual energy that slid down her spine and settled right in her lower belly. This man was a warrior, and he was pure, unbound male.

  Her heart started to hammer, thundering against her ribs, as she watched his gaze slide over the inhabitants, moving inexorably toward her. She knew then why she was still wearing her business suit. It hadn't been to prove herself to the town that had once been her home. It had been for Eric.

  The only time she'd met him, they'd been deep in the Brazilian jungle, and she'd been wearing boots, jeans, and a ponytail. He'd overpowered her with the sheer force of his being, and she'd wanted to reinforce her shields this time by putting on her work persona, the one that was about the power and strength of a woman.

  It wasn't working.

  She felt sucked into the vortex of his power, every cell in her body tightening with each passing second as she waited for him to notice her. In the jungle, she'd been so worried about finding her friend that she'd had no emotional space to really let Eric affect her, but now it was different.

  Now, she was so deeply aware of him that she couldn't stop thinking about how it had felt those two brief moments when he'd kissed her in the jungle. Fast. Passionate. Sexual.

  His gaze penetrated the darkest corner of the bar, his brown eyes alert and vibrant. He'd looked rugged and athletic before, but now, he looked rougher, like he'd been spawned by the earth itself. His jeans sat low on his hips, dripping wet, as if he'd been submerged in the bayou for hours. His boots were thick with mud, and there was dirt streaked across his face. His dark hair was damp and tangled, shoved ruthlessly off his face so it was spiked and messy. Droplets slid in a wet sheen across his forehead, the sweat of a man who'd been working hard at something, even though it was the middle of the night. Whiskers were heavy on his jaw, and she had a sudden ridiculous urge to run her fingers over them.

  So much for thinking that four weeks in Boston was going to make her immune to the effect he had on her. It had gotten worse, exponentially more intense since they'd parted ways.

  She wasn't ready for this.

  She wasn't ready for him.

  She wasn't ready for any of it.

  Jordyn swallowed, her heart almost leaping out of her chest as he finally turned his head toward her. His eyes met hers, and she knew instantly that, unlike the town that had known her for the first sixteen years of her life, he didn't have any trouble recognizing her. The flash of awareness was instant, and she felt like her skin was on fire. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and her fingers tightened around her stool, as if she could keep herself from tumbling off it and into his arms.

  Instantly, he shoved away from the doorway and headed straight toward her. His jaw was tense, and his stride was long and purposeful, rippling with languid strength. His gaze was fixed on her so intently that she wanted to look away...except she couldn't take her eyes off him.

  She tensed as he neared, sitting up straighter and trying to get a cool expression on her face. "Where have you been—?"

  He gave her no time to finish her sentence. He just swung his arm behind her lower back, hauled her up against him, and kissed her.

  Chapter 3

  Jordyn knew that she should stop Eric from kissing her. She knew it in every cell of her body, and yet the moment Eric's mouth descended upon hers, all thought fled her mind. She was instantly overwhelmed by the taste of his mouth, by the decadent softness of his lips, and by the white-hot yearning that gripped her with ruthless intensity.

  She froze, too shocked by the kiss to react, to stop him, or to pull away.

  In her brief lapse of self-discipline, Eric took over. He slid his hand through her hair, angled his head, and consumed her. His kiss was sinfully hard and rough, penetrating all her defenses. He locked his other arm around her back, and hauled her against him until her breasts were crushed against his chest. She could feel the wetness from his clothes saturating her thin blouse, and the heat from his body was like an inferno blazing through her.

  Desire leapt through her, an irrational need for him. Instinctively, her hands went to his shoulders, gripping him tightly even as she fought to keep her senses. But his kiss was devastating, an assault on her senses that she couldn't begin to fathom. It was as if every part of her soul had ignited, burning for his touch and his kiss.

  Their bodies were plastered against each other, and it still wasn't close enough. With a low growl, he deepened the kiss, and suddenly, his tongue was dancing with hers, stoking fires within her that were so vibrant she felt like she would catch fire right there. Her fingers dug into his muscles, and suddenly, she was kissing him back. The moment she began to respond, he growled low in the back of his throat, and broke the kiss, severing the connection between them so abruptly she felt as if he'd cut off her oxygen.

  She stared at him, barely able to breathe, her hands still clenching his shoulders. Hi
s arm was still wrapped around her lower back, pinning her against his chest as he stared at her.

  For a moment, he said nothing, and silence coiled between them, becoming more and more tense. What was she supposed to say after that kiss? More, please, more?

  God, no. No. She wrenched her hands off him and pushed at his chest, demanding space.

  He didn't give it to her.

  He just kept staring at her, his brown eyes searching her face as if he would find the answer to humanity's greatest questions in her cheekbones. She swallowed. "You weren't there."

  A slow grin spread across his face, and for a moment, she thought she might melt right then. Damn the man. His smile hadn't lost its high-voltage charm. "No, I wasn't. Sorry about that." He studied her more closely. "You're alive."

  There was an edge to his voice that stifled the smart remark that she was going to shoot at him. She frowned, her hands softening against his chest. "You thought I was dead?"

  "I think a woman got murdered in the bayou tonight. I thought it might be you." His gaze went to her hair, and he brushed it back from her face in a gesture that was more intimate and tender than she was ready for.

  She tried to push back from him, and this time, he let her, his hand sliding over her hip as she stepped back. "Murdered? You're serious?" His words sank in, filtering through the flush of attraction still ringing through her.

  "Yeah." He brushed his fingers over her cheek, and she had a sudden feeling that he was checking to make sure she was really there. It was as if he couldn't keep his hands off her, not because of pure, bold lust, but because he needed to connect with her. "I couldn't find anything, but something happened out there in the swamp."

  An involuntary shiver rippled over her. She'd seen and heard too many strange things in the bayou at night not to realize that he might be right about what he'd heard. "Something probably did happen," she agreed, barely resisting the urge to run her hand over his chest, as if she could quiet the tension radiating through him. "This place is like that. Did you call the police?"