Hunter's Fall

by Shiloh Walker

  Jazzy slung an arm around her shoulders. “Why do you look so nervous? Why are you so upset?”

  “Probably because I just killed somebody.”

  Oh, dear God, please forgive me. What have I done?

  Jazzy stared at her. “Morgan, he was a fucking pimp. He beat his girls on a regular basis. He cheated them out of their money. He ran a fucking whorehouse. Hell, a couple of the girls he had working for him aren’t any older than me. The world doesn’t need another man like him around. We did the world a favor.”

  Morgan looked down. Although the blood had been washed away she could still see it. She could still feel it, the hot, wet slickness of it. She’d killed him.

  She could live with that.

  But she was having a hard time accepting why she’d killed him.

  For all the wrong reasons, she knew.

  The right thing . . . for the wrong reason. It was entirely possible, she knew.

  Quietly, she murmured, “But we didn’t do it to do the world a favor. We did it for the blood. For the blood, and for his money.”

  “You’re probably just all rattled from the high. Getting the energy fix always leaves you rattled.” Jazzy shrugged. “You’ll settle down and you’ll feel all better.”

  No. She wouldn’t. Stopping in her tracks, she waited until Jazzy slowed and looked back at her. Once her sister’s eyes locked with hers, Morgan folded her arms over her chest. It did nothing to ease the chill inside of her.

  “I didn’t take his energy.”

  Jazzy gaped at her. “What?”

  “I didn’t take it. I don’t need his energy and I . . .” I can’t live with that evil inside me. She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. “I didn’t take it.”

  Then she started to walk. When Jazzy reached out to grab her arm, Morgan shrugged her away. She needed a shower. No, she needed a bath, scalding hot and laced with Clorox. Maybe then she could feel clean again.

  But somehow she doubted it.

  Morgan didn’t think she’d ever feel clean again.

  She stumbled, and almost fell. Weakness flooded her and it took everything she had just to keep walking.

  “You should’ve taken the energy. You need it. You’re still weak. How can you take care of her when you’re still weak?”

  “No.”

  Morgan still didn’t understand who she was. She still felt utterly lost inside. But she knew if she tapped into the energy she’d get from spilling blood, she’d remain lost—she’d never find herself again and she would fall into madness.

  I can’t fall. I can’t.

  But somewhere deep inside, she feared she’d already done just that.

  CHAPTER 12

  HE dreamed of blood.

  Of pain.

  Of madness, confusion and loss.

  He dreamed of her.

  Dominic came awake with the bitter taste of blood lying in the back of his throat. His hand ached as though he’d held something too tight, and for too long.

  The dream came to him in a rush.

  She had been holding a knife, and there had been somebody dying at her feet. A man. He had tried to hurt her, but he hadn’t realized what a mistake it would be. Nessa had killed him. She’d taken his life, but she almost hadn’t stopped with just that.

  There had been a hunger inside of her—Dominic had felt it, and it terrified him. He understood hunger—he craved blood, dreamed of it—needed it to survive.

  But this was something different. This was something dark.

  He didn’t need to kill when he took blood. He only took enough to sate the hunger. This hunger he felt from her . . . only death would slake that hunger. He had felt her magic, curling from someplace inside of her and reaching for that blood, reaching for some power within it . . . reaching for the death.

  It was getting worse.

  It had been two weeks since he left Excelsior, and every day when he lay down to sleep, he dreamed of her.

  The dreams were awful . . . the sort that made nightmares look pleasant.

  Dark, ugly dreams where she walked the streets like a predator.

  Sad, heartbreaking dreams where he shared her pain and awoke to find bloody tears on his face.

  He no longer questioned whether they were real or not—whether she was real.

  She was . . . and she was slipping. Falling into a darkness so deep, so complete she’d never be able to find her way back.

  It almost happened this time.

  Dominic didn’t understand much about magic or witches, but in his gut, he knew that if she had reached for that blood power, it would have been too late.

  He sat up, shifting in the bed until he could prop his back against the headboard. Although his hotel room had no windows, he knew the sun was still up. It was probably a good hour before sunset. Every day, it seemed he woke a little bit earlier.

  Heaving out a sigh, he reached for the phone. He might as well order room service. He placed an order for a steak, medium-well, salad and a baked potato. The smells would torment him. He missed eating food. He just hoped whoever delivered the room service had decent hygiene.

  After placing the order for food he wouldn’t eat, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. He was checking out tonight. Heading farther south. Maybe Georgia. Maybe Florida.

  ROOM service arrived about ten minutes after he finished in the shower. He paused long enough to check the air—a man. Figures. When he had the choice, Dominic preferred to feed from a woman—to him, they tasted better—but he didn’t plan on lingering around town, so he couldn’t be picky.

  Without even opening the door, Dominic knew the guy was clean enough, even though he had gone a little heavy on the AXE. That garbage ought to be illegal, he thought. It stank to high heaven, and being a vampire only made it worse.

  He opened the door, caught the man’s eyes and smiled. All it took was one look, and his flimsy mental shields collapsed, allowing Dominic to lead him.

  “Why don’t you come in and set it down for me?”

  Ten minutes later, Dominic sent the man away, with a fat tip and minus half a pint of blood, but none the wiser. After he had fed, Dominic had planted a suggestion about taking a break and getting some food. After all, he didn’t want the man collapsing later. He hadn’t taken enough to do any harm, but it might make him a little dizzy if he skipped a meal.

  It took another ten minutes before Dominic had all his stuff packed up. By the time he checked out the sun had set and he had most of the night left ahead of him. If he drove straight through, he could probably make it across the Florida state line before dawn.

  Florida. He needed to be there. Could feel it pulling at him. He wanted to think it was her pulling at him, but he was afraid to hope.

  God, please. Let her be there.

  ROADKILL would’ve looked more appetizing.

  Morgan eyed the tray in front of her, and then forced a smile for Jazzy. “Thanks, honey. It looks delicious.”

  Jazzy cocked a brow. “If it looks so yummy, then prove it. Eat all of it.”

  All of it? Morgan eyed the sandwich and a steaming bowl of soup. She would start with the soup. It was more likely to stay down. Giving Jazzy a game smile, she grabbed the spoon. Her hand shook so badly, some of it spilled as she took the first bite.

  Next to her, Jazzy watched with a concerned look on her face. “You’re getting weaker.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Don’t give me that. I might be a kid, but I can tell when somebody’s losing weight. You hardly eat. You don’t sleep much. And if you do sleep, you have nightmares. You’re getting weaker, and every time you use your magic, it gets worse. The one thing that could help you, you won’t do. What’s going on? Why aren’t you using the blood?”

  Because I can’t. But she almost had. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night. Something had drawn her out of the house—some unseen summons. She had followed it and ended up stumbling onto a drug deal.

  She should’ve walked a
way. She wanted to believe she could walk away. Generally, the only time drug deals interested her was when they could benefit her.

  That one could have proven beneficial, she supposed. After all, the drug dealer had a big fat wad of bills shoved in his pocket.

  But she hadn’t taken it. Even though the dead man would’ve had no use for it, she had left it. Just as she left his blood alone. Dirty bastard—he’d been out to double-cross the kid working for him, too. Manda. The kid’s name was Manda. She was all of fifteen.

  Why had she gotten involved? She didn’t understand . . . didn’t understand.

  But she did. Because when she’d touched the dealer, she’d felt what he’d been planning. He’d owed money to one of his “business” partners, and that “partner” had his eye on this particular employee, Manda.

  That was why Morgan had cared. The dealer’s partner had been lurking, lying in wait. The partner got Manda, and the dealer didn’t get his legs broken.

  That was why Morgan had gotten involved. But she didn’t understand why she cared, why she had to care. Thinking about it, trying to understand was a fucking mistake, too, because when she thought about it, she remembered the call of his blood.

  Remembered how much she’d wanted it—how much she’d craved the power she could siphon away from him as he lay dying.

  Because she wanted it so badly, she’d made herself walk away. She’d spared only a few minutes to seek out the partner’s hiding spot and conceal herself under illusion as she whispered, “Run away. And do not speak of this, unless you want me to come after you as well.”

  He’d run screaming into the night . . . and she’d stumbled off into it, trying not to sob.

  She’d slept the day away, and now, she was even weaker than she’d been before. Weak, too weak. Too tired. No amount of rest, no amount of food was helping. Her power supply was dangerously low. At this rate, she would burn herself out in another week or two at the most.

  She needed her magic, because without it she couldn’t protect Jazzy. Couldn’t take care of her sister. Jazzy needed her. The kid was still so young.

  It was more than that, though. She couldn’t explain it but somewhere inside, she knew Jazzy was vulnerable. Too vulnerable, and it was her weak gift for magic that made her so.

  Had to protect her . . .

  That knowledge circled inside her head, even as part of her asked, Protect her from who?

  Her hand continued to shake as she ate more of the soup. When she got half of it inside her belly, she laid the spoon down and focused on the sandwich. “As delicious as this looks, I might not be able to eat all of it, sister.”

  “That’s a shocker.” Jazzy rolled her eyes. “Considering how little you eat anymore, your stomach is probably shrunk down to the size of a hummingbird’s.” She settled on the foot of Morgan’s bed and brought her knees to her chest. “So where did you go last night?”

  Morgan paused. She gave her sister a puzzled smile and asked, “What do you mean?”

  Jazzy made a face at her. “Come on, Morgan. I’m not stupid. And maybe I’m not as strong with the magic as you are, but I can tell when you’re not there—I feel it.”

  “I just needed some air. I thought maybe a little bit of exercise might help me sleep better.” The lie rolled off her tongue without hesitation. She wasn’t about to explain to her sister that it felt as though she had been drawn away—that she’d felt compelled to leave.

  “Did you run into anybody?”

  Flicking a glance at her sister, Morgan pretended to think. “No, nobody I know . . . at least, I don’t think I knew any of them. I saw a few people, but I’m still not remembering names.”

  “Did you talk to anybody?”

  Morgan shrugged. She didn’t think she had said anything to the drug dealer. But she had spoken to the girl. Morgan was pretty sure that her exact words had been Get the hell out of here. And get your act together.

  She had laughed at her first. But then she’d seen what Morgan did with the dealer—she’d gone white as a ghost, and Morgan wasn’t sure, but she thought the girl might have pissed her pants.

  “You notice anything weird?”

  Hearing the persistent note in her sister’s voice, Morgan sat her sandwich down. Focusing on Jazzy’s face, she folded her arms across her chest and asked, “So what’s with the Spanish Inquisition? Is there something going on?”

  “Well . . . yeah.” Jazzy shifted on the bed. Even though they were alone in the house, the younger woman looked around, as though expecting to see somebody pop out from behind a door. “Do you remember Lamar Hedges?”

  Morgan stared at her sister balefully. Then she tapped her brow. “Amnesia, remember? I don’t remember much of anything.”

  Jazzy wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I guess I keep hoping something will stir your memory. Anyway, Hedges was a small-time punk—liked to talk big, about how he had all these contacts and how you didn’t want to cross him.”

  “So, is this going to be a new mark?” Jazzy was always looking for new marks.

  “Hell, no.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and then shot Morgan a nervous look. “I didn’t like him. He always freaked me out. Mama used him some—for drugs, for sex, or if there was somebody she wanted roughed up. Hedges liked to hurt people. I always stayed away from him.”

  “Smart girl.” Even though the name wasn’t at all familiar, a cold chill danced down Morgan’s spine. The man she’d killed last night—he’d liked to hurt people. She had seen it in his eyes. “So what’s this about, if he’s not a new mark? Although, he sounds rather ideal to me.”

  “He’s dead.” Jazzy came off the bed and started to pace the room. She shot Morgan a look over her shoulder. “I saw it on the news not that long ago. So far nobody is saying what happened, but I got a funny feeling about it.”

  “Did they mention how he died?”

  Jazzy shook her head. “They’re not saying anything.” Nervous, she toyed with her hair, twisting one thick lock around and around her finger. “They haven’t even given his name. I guess they’re waiting for next of kin.”

  “If they haven’t released his name, then how do you know it’s him?”

  Jazzy stopped pacing. She turned to look at her sister. With a jerky shrug, she said, “I just know. They flashed something about a murder victim across the screen during the morning news and I just knew.”

  Jazzy looked incredibly young as she stared at her sister. Her blue green eyes were turbulent with worry and her face was pale. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Why would you think that?” Morgan folded her arms across her chest. “And sweetie, don’t take this wrong, but why are you so upset that he’s dead? Aren’t you the one telling me how we’re doing the world a favor by getting rid of some of these marks?”

  A stubborn look settled on Jazzy’s face. “The world ain’t gonna cry over the likes of Lamar Hedges. He’s dead, and whoever killed him, let’s give him a round of applause. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this—a really bad feeling. Now can you answer me? Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Before Morgan could answer, Jazzy’s phone rang.

  ANOTHER day. Another hotel.

  This one didn’t have any interior rooms, so instead of sleeping on a bed, he was sleeping on the couch inside the “sitting” area. There weren’t any windows and that was good enough for him. Although the couch opened into a queen-size bed, he’d bypassed that torture device. His feet hung over the edge, but, in and of itself, it was fairly comfortable.

  Once he’d stretched out, he was out to the world.

  He’d had a few hours of solid, blank sleep before tumbling into a deep, troublesome dream. One of those that he really didn’t want to dream.

  Dominic was trapped on the sidelines, forced to watch and listen while she fell further and further away from him.

  Nessa faced a man who watched her with greed and avarice.

  “I saw you. I saw what you did to th
e boy.”

  Fear made her voice shake as she replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But she did. She knew. It was there in her eyes, on her face.

  Dominic could taste the lie on her. But he wasn’t the one she had to worry about. Locked in his dream, forced into a spectator’s seat, he could do nothing but watch as she faced a man who reeked with evil. Just as he could taste the lie, Dominic could taste the evil. The greed.

  “Now don’t lie to me. I’m not going to tell anybody. I just thought . . . that perhaps you and I should get to know each other better. We could both benefit from such a relationship.”

  Dominic muttered under his breath, “Walk away. Just walk away.”

  As though she’d heard him, she turned on her heel and walked. But before she reached the door the man spoke again.

  “It’s so nice to know that little Jazzy has somebody around who cares for her, to protect her, is willing to do anything to make sure she stays safe. You want that, don’t you—for your sister to be safe?”

  The dream faded—reformed.

  Dominic was no longer stuck in his spectator seat. He sat on the beach, staring out at the water as the sun beat down overhead. It was high noon, but in his dream the heat of the sun was no threat to him.

  She could be, though. She could be an awful threat.

  For the first time in more than a year, he could touch her. She lay next to him on a towel, wearing nothing but a brightly colored triangle that barely covered her butt.

  “You’re getting into too much trouble,” he murmured. He held a bottle of sunscreen in his hand. As he spoke, he opened it and squeezed some of it into his hand. He slicked it over her back and she arched into his touch, making a soft sound, almost like a kitten purring. “You have to stop before it’s too late.”

  One eye opened lazily and she peered up at him. “I can handle it. I’ll be fine.”

  “No.” His lotion-slicked hands went lower, trailing over her hips, over the curve of her butt, then down to her thighs. He kneaded the muscles in her legs. “I don’t think you can handle this. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”