Shadow Born: A Joseph Hunter Novel: Book 1 (Joseph Hunter Series)

by Alex Gates

  I couldn’t help it. “Bullshit,” I said, chuckling on the ground. That hurt my ribs, and my laughter turned to groaning. A wad of chewed gum lay stuck to the cement near my face. “You think this is still good?”

  Teletubby decided to ignore me. “He must have waited outside for us to leave. Jumped me immediately, and—and he did this.” The man pointed at his bouldered head. “Fuck, I think I need stitches.”

  “Sir,” Xander said, stepping toward the bouncer. “That’s not the truth.”

  “Why’s he on the ground, then, getting kicked around by these three?” the bouncer asked Draco.

  “My friends… they had to pry him off of me,” the man said. “I swear. We were leaving, ready to go home. You know me, Mason. You know I’m not a fighter. Did you see him a few minutes ago, in the bar? The way he threatened me? He planned this. Waited for me.” The man pressed his hand against his cut forehead and grimaced.

  “He’s lying,” Xander said again. “Joey and I were sitting on the curb when these four surrounded us.” He glanced around the sidewalk, up at the roofs of the buildings. “There has to be a camera around here somewhere. I’m sure you could just watch what happened.”

  The bouncer—Mason, apparently—regarded one of the other men, a block-headed gentleman breathing heavily. “This man attack you, too?” he asked, gesturing toward Xander. Slowly, the bouncer shook his head, as if cueing Mr. Blockhead his lines.

  “No,” Blockhead said. “Just that one.” He pointed at me.

  I smiled at him, hoping my teeth were good and bloody.

  Flashing blue and red lights strobed around the corner, and a Sheriff’s squad car pulled up to the sidewalk. A man wearing a tan uniform stepped out of the vehicle and approached the scene. He had a blonde caterpillar mustache and looped his thumbs into his utility belt. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I received a call about a disturbance. Is everything okay?”

  “No,” Xander said, stepping in front of the bouncer. “These men attacked my friend.” He pointed at me.

  I waved at the deputy with my fingers. “Deputy,” I said, squinting to read his nametape, “Aarseth. I’m glad to see you’re keeping your lip warm on this cold night.”

  “The deputy glared at me before turning his attention to Xander. “You in charge here?”

  Xander licked his lips. “No,” he said.

  “Who is?”

  “I am, sir,” the bouncer said, stepping around Xander and making himself known to the deputy. “Mason Orson. I work security at the lounge.”

  The pain that coursed through my body ebbed a little, and a trickle of energy returned to my blood. I still didn’t have enough strength to stand, but my tongue felt loose and flappy. “Officer Mustache,” I said, “those men that attacked me—don’t tell them this, but it turned me on a little. Reminded me of my more aggressive sexual experiences. They make good women, those men. Resilient women.”

  Xander ran a hand over his face as I found my voice.

  The deputy shook his head and regarded Mason. “What happened here?”

  “He,” the bouncer said, gesturing toward me, “threatened these men inside the bar. There are multiple witnesses to that.” He stared right at me as he spoke, and swear that his eyes turned black for a second. “His friend here,” he pointed to Xander, “escorted him out, where they apparently waited for these gentlemen to exit the bar.”

  I coughed, interrupting the bouncer. “Sorry,” I said, rolling from my side to a sitting position. My entire body screamed with the effort. “I’m just allergic to bullshit. Here’s what happened. Dude here wanted a drink, couldn’t get it, cried about it like a baby-back bitch, insulted me.” I took a deep breath. “I walked over to him, said, ‘Say that to my face, bee-atch.’ Well, scratch that last part. I didn’t say those exact words, and you can’t hold me to them in a court of law. Strike it from the record. I told him to grow some sweaty balls, or something weird like that. I am a little drunk.”

  “That’s enough,” the deputy said, turning to Mason again. “You saw what happened?”

  The bouncer nodded.

  “Can we resolve this peacefully, or are you pressing charges?”

  “I’m not here to tell you how to do your job, sir,” Mason said. “But from what I saw, I believe this man,” he nodded at me, “needs to at least sit in the tank tonight. He’s drunk, and he waited on the curb for these men to exit, then assaulted them.” Mason motioned toward our Teletubby friend. “He might need stitches.”

  “I’d like to press charges,” Draco said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Despite the stiffness screaming through my body, I stood and stumbled toward the deputy. “If you’re going to arrest me, can I beat this man’s ass right now, to make it worth it?” Fire burned through me. These idiots were going to get me arrested for nothing. Could I tell the officer about Mel? About Hecate and the Empousa? I glanced at Xander. “Do something,” I said. Tears stung my eyes and a sour lump formed in my throat. “You have fucking connections.”

  Xander shook head and glanced at his feet. “You did this to yourself,” he muttered.

  I lunged forward, not at Mason or the Backstreet Boys, but at Xander. I swung at him, and my fist clipped him across the chin, probably hurting my knuckle more than anything. The deputy grabbed me from behind and threw me to the ground. He shoved a knee into my back and cranked my arms behind me, handcuffing me.

  I lifted my head and stared at Xander. “Fuck you. Fuck you.”

  The deputy assisted me to my feet and escorted me to his squad car. He kindly placed a hand on my head as he guided me into the backseat, ensuring I didn’t suffer my seventh concussion of the night. After he closed the door, I saw him turn and speak to Xander, the bouncer, the other men, but their voices were muffled.

  Xander kept glancing at me and shaking his head like a disappointed parent. I propped my elbow on the window’s ledge and waved my middle finger at him. The four men carried on down the sidewalk. The bouncer turned around and headed toward the lounge. Xander stood in place, staring at me with heavy eyes. The driver’s door opened to the squad car, and the deputy climbed into the cab.

  He glanced back at me through the mesh barrier and grimaced, pointing at his nose. “Doesn’t look good,” he said.

  “It doesn’t feel good, either.” It throbbed behind my eyes, threading together a killer migraine. “Neither do my ribs or my stomach. But, shit, what do you expect after getting jumped? Oh, wait. I forgot. I was the one who jumped those four morons. Right? You’re as fucking stupid and petty as the news makes you out to be.” I craned my neck, stretching the knotted muscles.

  Deputy Asshat—I believe that was his name—smirked, turning around to adjust the rearview mirror. He started his car, and the dispatch radio chirped—a muffling, static-filled bark that I didn’t begin to comprehend. He ignored it, turned the radio dial down, and typed something on the computer built into the dash. When he finished, he asked, “You hate cops?”

  “Mostly the beefy ones with blonde hair and blue eyes that pick on weaker, more oppressed citizens of society. Not quite Nazis, but, you know.” I smirked right back at him. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, was built like a tank from 1843—all box and no curves.

  Deputy Aarseth shifted his vehicle into drive, and we rolled away. “You think I’m racist because of the way I look?” he asked after we had driven for a few minutes. “Or because I wear the badge?”

  “I never said racist. I said you’re a power-hungry piece of shit who picks fights with people who can’t fight back.” I licked my teeth and sighed, knowing I didn’t quite mean that. It’s just… people pissed me off, and I always went for what hurt the most—their pride.

  “You think this about all cops?”

  “No. Most cops are soldiers fighting a war they can’t win—their own government. They’re thrown on the front lines with no resources, no reinforcements, nothing, and they are expected to flourish, to make level-headed decisions in the face of consta
nt threat, when they have a family back home they’re always thinking about. They’re told to enforce, not to protect. Trained to suspect, not to serve. On the other side of that dirty coin, the majority of people you deal with are good people trying to survive a desperate situation.” I shrugged. “Again, it’s not an officer’s fault that the government can’t do more to help communities, that they beg you to shoulder that load.” I cleared my throat and caught my breath. He asked for my opinion, so I gave it to him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate you—a man who thrives off the power culture of the blue uniform.”

  Aarseth chuckled, staring at me from the rearview mirror.

  I leaned against the passenger window. The cold glass slowed the trucking headache headed my way.

  Deputy Aarseth ushered me into an interrogation room. White brick walls absent of any decoration or windows stretched around a singular table, which was pushed against the wall opposite the only door. Three chairs were set around the table—one on each end and one in the center, facing the wall. Two half-sphere security cameras clung to the ceiling on each side of the small space.

  I sat at one end of the table, my hands cuffed together in front of me. Fatigue had taken over my pride. I lay my cheek on the sticky surface and closed my eyes, hoping to catch a quick snooze before they decided to come in and interrogate me about the bar fight. I must have drifted into some sort of slumber, because I jumped awake when someone slammed the door. Drool dangled off my lip and down my chin. I wiped it away, then used Xander’s sleeve to scrub it off the table.

  “I was having the best dream,” I said, turning to face the intruder.

  A plain-clothes detective stood alone against the door. He had a receding hairline that started well behind his ears, and brown eyes with more baggage than a tri-state hooker. His stomach bulged over his waistline, and he wore his suit loose and unfitted.

  “You want to hear about it?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, shuffling through the room and sitting across the table from me.

  “Well, it was me and your sister in Cancun. We sat on a private beach, drinking something cold, and we wore nothing at all. You woke me up when things were heating up beyond the weather.”

  The detective folded his hands under his chin and listened to me.

  “She looks a lot like you. I mean, you have more hair and bigger tits and less facial hair than her… but, I mean, she’s a sweet girl. Great personality.” I gave him two thumbs up.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “I do,” I said. “Dimwit something or other arrested me. Apparently, getting jumped by four men is illegal. So, I’m here to do my time.” I held up my hands and jangled the handcuffs to prove my point.

  The detective licked his lips, then leaned back in the chair. “My name is Detective Jeremiah Gross. Could you state your name for the record?”

  “Joseph Hunter,” I said.

  “And Joseph, what were you doing on the date of November 27, 2019?”

  “I’m terrible with dates. Was that tomorrow? Or last week?”

  He shifted enough to reach into his back pocket and draw out a can of Copenhagen. He packed it against the palm of his hand, and then placed a hefty pinch in his mouth. “What were you doing today, November 27, 2019?”

  “Well, I started the morning in bed, beside your sister. And that excited me, if you know what I mean. Do you want me to continue?”

  “Did you call in a fire tonight from… “ he pulled out a small notebook from his front pocket, flipped it open, then read my address in a bored tone.

  “I did not,” I said. Not a lie, either. Xander had called it in.

  “Do you live at the stated address?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know that your premises caught fire tonight? That emergency services were called to your property?”

  “I do,” I said, my stomach tightening. I scraped my teeth over my lip and waited for him to state my charges.

  “As evidence to the origin of the fire was investigated on the said date at the said address, we stumbled upon six humanoid remains. We checked the records to confirm any home burials, and we found no such confirmation. You aren’t here for a bar fight, Mr. Hunter. I am detaining you on five counts of murder.

  “No, you’re not,” I said, nearly whispering it. After a pregnant second of silence passed, I slammed my fists onto the table and screamed, “No, you’re fucking not! How do you know those shit-heads didn’t break into my home and burn the place down, killing themselves in the process?”

  “Mr. Hunter,” the detective said, flipping through his little notebook, then reading, “‘you have the right to retain and instruct Counsel in private, without delay. You may call any lawyer you want. There is a 24-hour telephone service available which provides—‘”

  “Fuck you,” I said again. “You can’t hold me here. You can’t fucking arrest me.”

  “‘—is given without charge and the lawyer can explain the Legal Aid Plan to you. If you wish to contact—‘”

  “I’ll contact your fucking supervisor. This is a mistake.” The energy coursing through my body masked my lingering pain and allowed a fresh current of magic to swell. I reached for it, ready to melt the handcuffs and explode my way out of the jail. Mel was gone. She needed me. I had found Elizabeth. I had been so close, and now, I needed to get back to her to find my daughter. I couldn’t sit here and listen to this burnt-out detective read me my rights.

  “Do you understand?” he asked, lowering his notebook and regarding me with curiosity.

  “I understand one thing,” I said, leaning over the table. “I understand I need to get out of here.” If I mentioned Mel, that wouldn’t solve anything. They didn’t have the resources to fight common criminals. How would they find my daughter who was taken through supernatural means? I had to trust Xander. I had to trust that beautiful, infuriating asshole to save me again—even though that cock-face was the reason I was in this position.

  The detective tilted his head. “You understand what I read about finding legal counsel?”

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  He glanced back down at his notebook. “‘During the interrogation, you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence.’” He turned his head and coughed into the crook of his arm. “Joseph Hunter, you are detained with respect to the five bodies found burned on your property. If you have spoken to any police officer, including myself, with respect to this matter, who has offered you any hope of advantage or suggested…”

  Detective Gross droned on for another minute. I wondered if he was the same detective who had called before the four derelicts decided to surround me. Did it matter? It did. What had Xander told him? How had the other officer… Deputy Aarseth, responded so quickly? And why was he so willing to ignore my story, but listen to everyone else’s?

  “Do you understand?” he asked, closing his notebook and placing it back in his shirt pocket.

  “Ask your questions,” I said. “I don’t need a lawyer. I need to get this over with, and I need to get out of here, now.”

  Detective Gross rubbed his palms on his khaki slacks and then leaned forward on his chair. “Well,” he said, “before we begin, are you thirsty?”

  I shook my head and glared at him, willing him to keep his flabby ass on the chair and ask his questions. “Not thirsty. Not hungry. Don’t need to shit or take a nap. I’m as right as rain, as ready as a college coed.”

  He sucked on the tobacco wedged in his mouth. “I’m pretty thirsty. Tired, too. Think some coffee will serve us both well.” He stood, using the table between us for assistance. Before walking away, he stretched his back, rotating to the left and right. “You sure you don’t want one?” he asked.

  I shrugged, rattling the handcuffs. The steel had started to chafe my wrists. “Fuck it,” I said. “If you’re getting up anyway, I’ll take one, too.”

  He poked out his lizard tongue and licked his lizard lips. Without
a word, he pivoted, exiting the small room and leaving me alone. The detective wanted me alone, wanted me angry and uncomfortable, wanted me antsy and on edge. As I grew more impatient and frustrated, my chances of making a mistake increased—and the detective was betting on that, I was sure of it. He moved and spoke slowly to show me how much time he had—and to emphasize how little time I had. His method was nothing less than a legal form of torture. He didn’t cause gross physical pain, but he did cause great mental torment and emotional distress, and he would use those advantages in his favor to garner pertinent information. Lucky for the bastard, I was about as desperate as they came. If he offered me a night of freedom, I would confess to anything he put in front of me.

  I stood from the plastic chair and stretched. I paced the ten-by-ten room, my torso aching from the beating, but movement helped push blood through my veins and alleviate some of the stagnant pain. My magic trickled through my body. I thought of accessing the power to help me escape. If I used it, though, I risked overexerting myself and losing consciousness. A headache already throbbed behind my eyes, and my hands trembled with fatigue. A bout of chills racked my body every couple of minutes, and an exhausted weakness coursed through my limbs. Not to mention the way-too-much alcohol I had consumed. The effects had probably numbed me, so whatever pain I did feel was only the tip of the penis. Is that the saying? I’m still drunk, so who knows.

  After five years of doing the equivalent of sitting on the couch playing video games and eating hot pockets all day, I now felt like a man who had never exercised in his life trying to complete wind sprints with professional athletes.

  Why hadn’t I kept up with the basics, at least?

  Because even the basics left a trackable aura for any Cursed or Acolyte to follow.

  What the hell did it matter? Before, I could have protected Mel from any danger. I had weapons and magic that didn’t wipe out my energy after a few light uses. Now, I barely had the strength to access enough magic to enhance my senses, and Mel was gone. So, all in all, I was in no better shape than if I had kept practicing my magic.