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

by Alex Gates

  Dakota snaked out her free hand and gripped my wrist. “I’m new in the department, having transferred over after learning about your supposed location. I don’t have a lot of influence, and as a woman, I don’t have much of a voice. If they arrested you earlier, and you escaped, well… I can’t halt their search for you. But only I know about your connection to the Andersons, and I don’t think Gross has the drive to find it himself.”

  “What is this we’re doing here? This a threat? A suggestion?”

  “Find Mel,” she said. “Then you help me find the thing that murdered my family. If you refuse, I know people who can reach a Nephil. And I know how to find you.”

  A threat. If I didn’t help her, she would get in contact with Hephaestus and reveal my whereabouts to him. Perfect. I sure know how to pick them.

  I tossed her phone at her. She flinched, pulling the gun away from my head and giving me a window to attack. I pushed open the door instead. “His name is Hephaestus. You can contact him directly at 1-800-FUCK-OFF.” I slammed the door and approached the Priestess’ dark house amidst the street of colorful lights.

  12

  Though it was only late November, Lizzie’s neighbors had a museum of Christmas decorations in their yards and on their roofs. Lights were strewn around the gutters and window trims and columns and over the plants. Not only lights, but inflatable figurines of holiday characters—Baby Jesus in the manger, Santa Clause and his reindeer, the Grinch and his mangy dog. The scenes reminded me of something from a postcard—something that exists, but only far away and never anywhere near me.

  I stepped off the asphalt and onto Lizzie’s driveway, avoiding a Lexus parked in the middle of it. The porch light beamed like a spotlight and the Priestess stood under it, wearing a red kimono that exposed her long, slender, tattooed legs. The neckline plunged to into one of the deepest V’s I had ever had the pleasure of witnessing. The single light from the porch highlighted her scant outfit and considerable features.

  Two thoughts instantly ran through my mind. Where was Xander? And why did Lizzie greet me alone?

  Had she known that Xander had sent me her address and I was on my way? After observing my suave demeanor with the attractive women at the bar, did she now wait for me in that skimpy outfit to throw me off my rhythm? Maybe… but I had strong suspicion that she meant to feed on me—which sounded lovely, as she stood with her arms akimbo and her feet crossed and the kimono hugging her curves.

  Yup, you guessed it. ‘Feed on me’ translates to sex. For the sake of time, I will quickly go over enthrallment and vampire feeding schedules. Hecate, the mother of vampires—or Empousa, in her case—had most likely turned Lizzie into one of her devilish servants. Part of that curse is an insatiable hunger, as we went over with the Ravens. Blood isn’t the most satisfying way they feed—it’s more of a temporary solution. Think serial killers. Most of their atrocities are sexual in nature, right? For a reason. For a vampire to become filled, they must feed physically and emotionally. And what act drives stronger emotions than sex? There’s passion, lust, love, fear, confusion, frustration, anger, joy, hate, disgust, ecstasy, jealousy, all tied up in that one act. Sex also bonds two people together. If a vampire can achieve sex with their victim—be it forced or consensual—they can feed on that person for a long time after.

  So, you see now? The Priestess stood on her front porch and waited for me to arrive so she could seduce and feast on me. For me, even sex has to be of the life-threatening variety.

  Xander flitted through my mind again. Had she enthralled and snapped him off his chastity belt? If he—the cross-bearing disciple—had fallen victim to her tasty hips, then I had no chance in hell against her. I decided to the play the game slow, like a boxer feeling out his opponent.

  Standing ten feet away from her and staring at her neighbor’s yard, I asked, “How long did it take him?”

  “Him? What makes you think it wasn’t a her?” She bit her lip and took one barefoot step forward.

  I shook my head, remembering our feminist conversation earlier in the lounge and debating whether or not I wanted to go there again. It might be worth it. If she really had a deep-rooted opinion on the subject, I might be able to distract her from trying to tear off my clothes for a second, while I thought of another strategy. “Just using simple language, I guess.”

  “Simple language? As in patriarchal, misogynistic pronouns?” she asked, crossing her arms over her nearly-exposed breasts. Holy shit-wad on a pancake. Had my plan worked? I guess there is a first time for everything. “Just because the work required to dangle lights from a gutter is physical, you assume a man for the job?”

  I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I don’t know.” I glanced over her lawn and regarded her dark home, illuminated by the single beam of light shining over her. “I actually prefer women over men to do shit because they get shit done. I actually wish my parents had made me female. Unfortunately, they were jerks who not only abandoned me like a pit-mutt puppy, but they also gave me an overly small penis. Micro. So, I can’t even man correctly—if you know what I mean.” I cringed a little as the words flew off my tongue. I had either reminded her of her initial goal, which would suck. Or I had made myself less desirable. Go big or go home, I guess.

  “What’s that mean?” she asked, cocking her hips. “To man correctly?”

  I glanced across her roofline. “You’re a woman. Doesn’t look like you’ve dangled any bulbs from a gutter. Why’s that? Don’t want to break a dainty nail while climbing the dirty ladder?”

  She flinched as if electrocuted and stepped back with flat, slapping feet. I had sucked all the sexy right out of the air. Just doing what I’m good at. “Are you serious?” she asked, lips pursed.

  I raised my eyebrows. I still stood at the edge of her sidewalk, wrapped in the night and the glow of Christmas all around.

  “I’ll dig through my storage right now, hang every single light I own around this house,” she said, tempting me.

  “I’m sure,” I said, nodding my whole-hearted agreement. “I’m sure you will.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I do,” I said. “I believe you will do like every other woman would do and say you’ll do something, but then you’ll order some man to do it, and take credit for his work.”

  She gasped and started to speak, but I cut her off and walked toward her.

  “You might want to ring on a neighbor’s doorbell, though, because I’m not hanging Christmas lights for you… not even if you flaunt sex.”

  And that was the real kick to her private parts. Lizzie even jerked, as if I had struck her. I didn’t really care, though. I had cornered her. Now, if she flaunted sex in front of me, my words would hang over her actions. Not that it mattered in the long run, but… the whole pride thing does go a long way. She would still invite me into her house for a drink, and there, she would probably try to kill me. So, why not fluster her? Why not get in her head? Since Hephaestus had stripped my power, I only had one ability remaining—the gift of infuriating whomever I was around.

  Her hands clenched and unclenched. Her lips quivered. And she couldn’t form a single word in response. But I waited. I didn’t have much else to say, even though it was getting chilly outside, and one can only stare at colorful lights for so long.

  I wiped my nose and suppressed a yawn. It was getting close to the time I often found myself wide awake in bed, staring at the ceiling fan, wondering if my life was nothing more than moving in circles. I cleared the distance between us. “Mind if we head inside and put this whole thing behind us?” I reached around her and grabbed the door handle.

  Lizzie sighed. She shouldered past me and opened the front door on her own, as if to prove a point. She stepped into the darkness of her home without bothering to flick on a light.

  I waited outside, daring not to enter without her invitation. Entering homes uninvited had a lot of heavy consequences for us supernatural types. A light mist filled the night.
A brisk wind cut through my damp clothes and skin. I thought of warming my body with some magic, and realized I didn’t have any at the moment. Crossing my arms and trying not to shiver—because I had to at least appear manly after my rant—I glanced over my shoulder as headlights drenched over me. Dakota had decided to prattle off somewhere else.

  Finally, a light clicked on and showered the interior entryway in a white radiance. “Are you coming in?” she asked, her voice calling from deep within the house.

  I glanced around the doorframe, looking for runes. I couldn’t feel or sense any magic, so I had to stay vigilant in my observations. When I didn’t see markings of the Nephilim script, I stepped through the threshold and tensed, waiting for an attack.

  Nothing happened.

  A stairwell stood before me. It went up two steps and veered right along a balcony with a window and a door. It shot back to the left, up to the second floor. To my right, a piano was built into the wall. The wall’s bougie, dark wood matched the stairwell bannisters and the railing and the steps, along with the baseboard and trim. To my left was an open-concept area that flowed into a sitting room.

  “Should I take off my shoes?” I asked, unsure of where to go or what to do. I had never entered a dwelling so… upscale. Not even Xander’s prim condo compared to the sheer luxury of Lizzie’s home. Her decor had been shipped straight from a medieval castle.

  Lizzie didn’t answer my shoes question.

  Where had she gone?

  Well, if a fight broke out, I preferred the comfort of my boots. So, I kept them on and ventured further into her mansion. “Lizzie,” I called, going left and ambling into the sitting area.

  A brick fireplace burned and crackled in the center of the wall. A three-cushioned sofa and two love seats surrounded it. A door leading to a hallway stood near the fireplace, and another on the other side of the room moved into the kitchen. I heard glass clink against the countertop, and I figured Lizzie was concocting a powerful cocktail for us—maybe one that would shut me up indefinitely. In anticipation of the drink, I sat on the loveseat, avoiding the sofa so she wouldn’t be able to sit beside me. I glanced over my shoulder and through the glass of three massive windows that overlooked the front yard, but I couldn’t see into the blackness. A golden frame that took up most of the sidewall held a portrait of a woman with dark hair held in a bun. I stood from my seat and approached the painting. The woman had a sad look to her eyes. They were dark on her pale face, drawn downward. Her lips formed a frown. She resembled… Lizzie, even though she wore a dress from the medieval times.

  “What do you think?” Lizzie asked.

  I nearly screamed at her voice. I turned to find her standing behind me. I hadn’t even heard her approach. She held a tumbler in each hand, both filled halfway with an amber liquid—scotch, I assumed. She didn’t strike me as a bourbon girl.

  “It’s about time you did a woman’s God-given task,” I said, grinning. I couldn’t help myself, not after our previous kerfuffles. “Serve a man.”

  Lizzie frowned. “You know it’s not working, right?” she asked. “Your game? Your ignorance?”

  “It’s a tic, like someone who picks their nails when nervous. But instead of dropping disgusting bone fragments all over the place, I just leave verbal detritus everywhere.”

  Lizzie’s frown lifted into a smirk. “There is something quite charming about a person not afraid to speak their mind. Which,” she said, handing me the tumbler, “I think is an entirely different thing than speaking an opinion. Most opinions are shared with at least one other person. But thoughts, those are individualized and fleeting. It’s refreshing to hear an original thought.”

  I glanced at the contents inside the tumbler. Hephaestus was a real asshole for stripping me of my magic. I could have used it to identify anything strange about the cocktail. Instead, I had my gut and blind trust in a woman at least partly responsible for murdering my wife and kidnapping my daughter. Also, what the heck did she do with Xander? I hadn’t seen any trace of him since entering her house.

  Notice, for his sake, that I avoided foul language. Call me a man of God… and I will strangle you.

  “Cheers,” she said, lifting her glass. “To new friends.”

  “Cheers,” I said, clinking my glass to hers. “To old enemies.”

  Then, we both drank.

  I didn’t immediately foam at the mouth after that first drink and lose my ability to breathe, and nor did I wake up handcuffed to her bed. With my time window to find Mel and to figure out a way to disappear forever from the Nephil quickly closing, I didn’t have the patience for this foreplay much longer. I needed to accelerate the process.

  I changed my tactic to fluster her. “Where’s Xander?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t act stupid.” I sipped from the tumbler again. The scotch was quite tasty. “You didn’t even ask how I found your house, which means you expected me. So, did Xander tell you I was coming? Or did you figure it out on your own?”

  She lifted her glass to her lips and drank. She stood in profile to the medieval painting, and the two women were nearly identical. “I recognized you at the bar the moment you sat down. If that dumb bitch hadn’t interfered—well, we wouldn’t be going through all this now. Then your friend and that cop had to disrupt our secondary plan.”

  “It’s just Plan B. And what?” I asked. “Teletubby and his minions belonged to you?”

  Lizzie shrugged. “To Mason, the bouncer.” She sipped her bourbon. “He paid them to make a scene with you. With you distracted, he would have taken you out when you least expected it. But Xander was there, as he has been all night. So, when he followed me home after your arrest, I made sure to have a surprise gift waiting for him. Don’t worry. He’s safe for now. How you decide to move forward from here will determine his fate, though.”

  “I swear to every god in this universe, I’ll eat your heart and make you watch me do it if anything happens to him. With or without my powers.” I bit my lip, realizing my mistake too late.

  Medea frowned. “You’re right. I don’t feel it anymore,” she said after a second. “That’s… interesting. So, Hephaestus finally found you and took your magic?” She turned her back to me and sauntered away. “Why didn’t he just kill you?”

  Shit. If she knew I didn’t have my magic, I posed no threat to her. I had nothing except my impressive wit and undeniable charm now.

  Lizzie pivoted to face me. “Did he feel sorry for you? That man,” she said, “has always had the softest heart for a damsel in distress.”

  I frowned. “Am I the damsel in this scenario?”

  “Have you pieced the puzzle together?” she asked, ignoring my banter. “Who I am?”

  “You’re the Priestess,” I said, hoping that might throw her off a little.

  “Such an old name,” she said. “Did you hear that from another Empousa?”

  “I did, actually,” I said. “Great guy. We played torture for a minute, and then I blew his brains out.”

  She snickered. “I am the Priestess. But you may recognize my more infamous name… Elizabeth. Bathory.”

  I sipped my scotch, swished it around my mouth, and sprayed it in feigned shock. “The Elizabeth Bathory?” I asked. “Holy macaroni. Can you sign my tits?”

  Lizzie frowned, obviously not entertained by my flippant disregard for her name. “Maybe my real name will impress you more.”

  “You have a fourth name? How pretentious are you?”

  “Medea.”

  I raised my eyes and opened my mouth, covering it with a hand. “Flipping burger patties,” I said through my fingers. “If I only had more scotch to spray. I didn’t… no, I don’t know… yeah, I don’t know who Medea is.” Which, was the truth. I didn’t recognize her name. By the way she responded to my ignorance, you would think I had confessed to not knowing who Colonel Sanders, the Chicken God, was.

  “I am Hecate’s most loyal follower.”

  I stared at her for a second
before shaking my head. “I’m sorry. It’s not ringing a bell.” I set my empty scotch glass on a table. “Can we move on, though? Who you are doesn’t really concern me. It’s more what you know. What did you do with the bald wonder, Xan the Man, and where is my daughter?”

  Lizzie—or Medea—finished her scotch and set her empty glass beside mine.

  She grinned, showing her teeth. I hadn’t noticed before, but they were dangerous and many, like those of a shark. Actually, with each passing second, Medea turned less and less human. Her skin leathered and sagged. Her eyes glowed a brilliant pink, as if she had smoked more pot than mortally recommended. Her fingers shifted into talons. Shadow-dark hair grew from her shaved head and moved like living snakes around her shoulders. And in a blink, she shifted back into the gorgeous, mysterious woman in a sexy, red kimono—petite, shaved head, and rock star beautiful.

  I didn’t recognize her real name, nor did I recognize her Bathory name, but I’m sure she held some weight in some arenas. It was best for me to bite my tongue and stuff my fists in my pockets for now. “Well,” I said, glancing at the empty glasses of scotch, “can I at least have another?”

  Like an eager host, Medea set her palm over my tumbler. Amber liquid filled the glass. “Ice?”

  “Only if it’s warm,” I said, reaching for my freshly concocted drink and sniffing it. “Smoky,” I said. “With a hint of—” I swirled some more of it around my mouth, “brown sugar? It’s sweet.” I swallowed it and finished the rest in a shot. “Is it poisoned?”

  Medea leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. Her kimono fell off one shoulder, sending my survival instincts into a frenzy. That’s reproduction for those readers unable to catch my poorly-delivered jokes. I hate that my two heads are always at odds with each other.

  “You suspect me of such hideousness? I despise poison.” She looked me up and down. My body shivered and flushed with heat beneath her hungry gaze. She had spent the past few minutes warming me up to an enthrallment, and now she meant to deliver the final blow—pun very much intended. “You are… quite handsome.”