Shadow Hunter: A Joseph Hunter Novel: Book 2 (Joseph Hunter Series)

by Alex Gates

  Shadow Hunter

  Alex Gates

  Copyright © 2020 by Alex C. Gates

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Luminescence Covers

  Editor: Walker Kornfeld

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Join the Hunt

  Shadow Hunter

  Warning!

  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

  Shadow magic

  What did you think?

  Join the Hunt

  ALSO BY ALEX GATES

  Acknowledgements

  Join the Hunt

  Want a free monthly short story? Subscribe to Alex’s newsletter.

  FOLLOW and LIKE

  Alex’s Facebook Page. I respond to every message, since there’s nothing better than interacting with a reader. Don’t hesitate to say hi.

  Shadow Hunter

  by Alex Gates

  Warning!

  Hi.

  Little disclaimer about me, Joseph Labrador Hunter—no, that’s not my real middle name, but yes, I think it sounds pretty badass.

  And let’s get one thing straight. This is the second book in a four-book series. If you think you can just jump into the story now, without having read the first book, you’ll be sourly… sorely?… disappointed.

  This story isn’t not for the faint of heart. It’s not for the sensitive.

  I know what you’re thinking, reader. You’ve handled the daring Harry Dresden, the foul-mouthed Nate Temple, the pulpy violence of James Stark. Well, let me tell you something right now…

  You’re dead wrong if you think you can handle Joseph Labrador Hunter. I’m more of the third, forgotten Winchester brother.

  In the words of my old pal, Lemony Snicket, “If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.” He’s not really a pal of mine, more a hero, but the sentiment rings true. My story isn’t one of happiness.

  It has a sad beginning…

  In the middle, there’s a lot of violent, sad things that happen…

  And the end, well, that’s the saddest part.

  I’m not a hero. I’m not a wizard. I’m not Superman with a wand. If you’re looking for light-hearted fun, go sniff up someone else’s magical staff.

  I’m a nightmare to my best friends and a death wish to my worst enemies. And I’m also very melodramatic, and I’ll sometimes break into a running commentary with my reader… because, it’s the only time anyone will ever listen to me!

  Grab your favorite drink. You’ll need it if you ever want to forget this story.

  1

  Apparently, it’s bad literary form to begin a story with a dream—which sucks, because now you have to suffer through my snore-fest of a morning routine before reaching the actual beginning of this story—which, if you haven’t already guessed, is a nightmare.

  So, in my best Mario voice…

  Here we go!

  I lay on Xander’s couch, wearing nothing but a split-open robe and bandages from my fight with Medea. My left arm, where I’d cut myself open with the ritual dagger, looked like an amateur mummy had tried to wrap me in cloth as practice—as did my lower back and abdomen, where Medea had thrown her magical spike straight through me. One tattooed leg curled over the sofa’s back, and the other sprawled over the edge with my foot resting flat on the hardwood floor. In my left hand, I held a chilled lager. A massive bowl of popcorn rested on my chest—the breakfast of champions. The fingers on my right hand were thick with butter, and my lips burned a little from the salt.

  I watched television courtesy of one of Xander’s many streaming options. The guy spent a fortune on subscription services that he never used. Thank the Lord Jesus and Buddha for rich friends. Serendipity played for the second time that morning. I don’t give two howling shits what you say. I love Kate Beckinsale. I love John Cusack. I love romantic comedies. Does that make me less of a man? Maybe. But also, where does America get off dictating what masculinity and femininity look like? And, for that matter, why in the blazing heck does it matter so much?

  Don’t give me that look, like you’re already tired of my ranting. You started this by calling me a wuss for liking romantic comedies. Sorry I’m sensitive and in-tune with my feelings.

  Anywho, by now you’re probably wondering how long I’ve been moping on Xander’s couch since the end of the first book. A full day is the answer. I know it ended with me a little amped about hunting and killing some Nephil. But let me tell you something right here and right now—surges of excitement have a brief shelf life when you’re depressed. Believe you me when I say I wanted nothing more than to peel myself from that cloud-like couch and start kicking doors and taking names, but that also sounded like a lot. And I didn’t really have a lot in me. Please, don’t take that the wrong way. It’s just that I barely had the energy to throat-laugh through the movie, let alone keep my eyes open for short stretches at a time.

  Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning—however your nerdy brain calculates time after midnight—Xander and I had found and killed Elizabeth Medea “The Priestess” Bathory. Lizzie for short. Yeah, I think her name was super obnoxious, too. If she hadn’t kidnapped and murdered my daughter, I would have found justification in ending her life just for having that stupid-ass name.

  After taking Thursday—now yesterday—off from work, Xander had to rejoin his pack of butt-sniffing hounds. That’s code for detectives, because they sniff out stinky stuff to solve crimes.

  Listen. I’m not even close to a hundred percent right now—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, sexually, nutritionally—and part of my healing process is telling jokes. I don’t have the headspace to create well-thought-out, well-constructed witticisms, though. This imperfect me is who you get right now, like it or not.

  And I ’m not even sorry about it.

  Back to the exposition.

  Xander took yesterday off. Today—Friday for those who can’t follow the sequence of days in a week—he returned to saving the world one prayer at a time. He had asked me to head into the old nine-to-five with him… no, he had all but pleaded for me to go with him.

  “Joey,” he had said, “I don’t think it’s the best idea for you to be alone right now. Not after Mel. I think structure will keep you… sane. Besides, you can use our resources to start looking into different leads regarding Hecate’s location.”

  I adamantly refused his advances. Spending the day with him during my time of mourning would do everything but keep me sane. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to… like finishing my fourth beer before ten in the morning.

  Hey! No judgement from you. I’m grieving the death of my daughter. What would you do in my place? Go to work with Xander and listen to him hum Amazing Grace all day while finger-banging his hemorrhoids and insisting on praying over your agonized soul? Or would you wander aimlessly down the streets of Sacramento in the sunny
, brisk temperatures of late November, in the blind hope of finding a lead pointing you to Hecate? Or would you sit on the couch and watch your favorite rom-com while drinking a six-pack of cheap lager and eating movie theatre popcorn?

  That’s what I thought.

  My back ached from Medea’s attack, and my recent lack of movement had done nothing to help stretch the tight muscles. And let me clear any confusion from the air—not tight from being in shape and fit, just tight from injury and lack of movement. I adjusted my position on the couch, forgetting about the popcorn bowl resting on my chest. The buttered kernels toppled, spilling onto Xander’s pristine hardwood floor.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  There went my breakfast. I would have to make more, but that meant getting off my life raft. Was food worth it? I leaned over the couch and reached for the ice chest right below me. Opening it, I counted two more beers. Liquid calories. I didn’t need any more popcorn. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  And before you put your judgment goggles back on, Xander only had scotch in his cupboard. Should I have made a cocktail for breakfast? Psh. I’m not an alcoholic. Despite Xander forbidding me from leaving his condo until he returned home, I’d crossed the street to buy beer this morning, risking law enforcement or a Nephil or their Acolytes or a Cursed noticing me. So, not quite an alcoholic, but also not the sober person at a party for one.

  I lifted the half-empty can to my lips, finishing it in two gulps. I crushed it and tossed it across the room. It landed near the three other dead soldiers—all who had sacrificed their life’s blood to help me forget for a few hours.

  Reaching into the cooler, I cracked my fifth feel-good juice. “Thank you for your service,” I said to it. “Your work is appreciated by many, and your name will live on forever.”

  At the mention of the word work, I dropped my feet to the floor and sat upright, sending a jolt of pain through my lower back. I grimaced, scouring the couch for the remote control, finding it wedged between two cushions. I rewound the film about thirty seconds before pausing it and making sure Kate Beckinsale’s beautiful face remained frozen on the screen.

  Since my personal cell phone was stowed away in an evidence locker at the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, I had to use Xander’s tablet. I fished around the floor for a minute, trying to find where the device had fallen. Once I found it, I video-called my employer—the owner of a demolition company in Lodi. He was expecting me back at work this morning.

  His face showed on the screen—a giant red balloon of a head with a swollen nose and tight lips. After a second, he answered, “Hello?”

  “Perkins,” I said, “can you see me?”

  “Hunter,” he answered. He had one of those voices that made you wonder if he gargled with whiskey morning and night. “Where the fuck are you, and why is your face on my screen?”

  “Well, good morning to you, too. And happy Friday. I’m currently in Sacramento, watching Serendipity, and thinking about you.” I leaned over and picked up a few kernels of popcorn from the floor, tossing them into my mouth.

  “Hunter,” he said, sighing, “I hope to God you’re joking.”

  The ironic part about that statement was that I usually was joking. I shook my head, though I didn’t vocalize the fact that I was as serious as a librarian in a middle school.

  Perkins sighed again. “You’re putting me in bad spot. You helped me out in a big way a few years back, and I haven’t forgotten that. But I have a business to run and a reputation to uphold. I can’t create a culture where absence is accepted.”

  Despite Perkins sounding like he swallowed shattered glass for the hell of it, he could have been Santa Claus’s twin brother. No, not for his girth—though, that wasn’t out of the question. Perkins had to be the nicest human to ever live. So nice in fact, it would probably break his heart to fire me.

  “Let me interrupt you, boss man. I quit. Listen, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity. You know me, I love breaking shit, and you allowed me to live that dream for five years. But I think it’s time for both of us to move on, to try something new, to grow as individuals. And Tony, please, don’t blame yourself. This is about me and my shit. It has nothing to do with you. It’s never been about you.” Serendipity had really struck a romantic chord with me that morning. “Can we still be friends? Maybe… on those nights when we drink way too much and want to try something stupid… maybe we can be, I don’t know, special friends.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.

  I swiped a few more kernels from the floor and sucked the butter until they became soggy in my mouth. “I think the world will remember us as we were. Young and on fire. Not as we are now. Burnt by age and—”

  He coughed, interrupting me. “Listen, Hunter, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I’ll pray for you. Like I said, you’re a good man, and you helped me through an impossible time. I’ll always have a job for you.”

  I choked on tears—not really, but for theatre. “You do love me. You really do. Oh, Tony, maybe we should rethink this. Maybe we can give us another shot. What do you say? Take me back?”

  “I say find the help you need. Learn how to process your emotions like a healthy adult.” With that, he disconnected the call and his chubby, beautiful face left my screen.

  I cracked my neck. Seven years ago, my wife had died. Two nights ago, I’d lost my house, all the freedoms of a law-abiding citizen, and my magical powers—and then, my daughter was murdered. Now, I’d lost my job.

  Dropping the phone into my lap, I rubbed my eyes.

  All I had left was one-and-a-half beers, a spilled bowl of popcorn, and forty-five minutes of Serendipity.

  I finished my sixth beer by the time the movie ended. A few pieces of popcorn remained on the floor, out of reach, and unless I mustered the gumption to get up and restock my forget-everything juice, I wasn’t going to take the initiative to clean the floor.

  The hardest decision presented itself as the credits to Serendipity rolled. Did I spend thirty-seven minutes deciding on my next movie, or did I replay the one I’d just watched? Let me rephrase that. Did I want to watch another actress other than Kate Beckinsale? No. No I didn’t. I started the movie over.

  Brace yourself, because the nightmare part of this beginning starts… now.

  As the movie played and the beers settled into my system, a grogginess enveloped me. I struggled to keep my eyes open and absorb the romanticism of chance encounters—I wanted to know for the third time that morning if John Cusack and my girl would ever find each other again. As he scribbled his phone number onto a dollar bill and she used it to pay for mints, someone pounded on Xander’s door. Like a drowning victim swimming for air, I surfaced with intensity—sweating and panting—through the black ocean of sleep that had tried to suffocate me.

  The knuckle-on-door assault continued. Picture frames trembled on the walls from the percussive force. The popcorn kernels that littered the floor bounced as if about to pop for a second time. Okay, maybe those descriptions are a little dramatic and untrue, but that’s what I believe happened.

  I groaned and stood, adjusting my robe to cover myself—because sometimes, I am a decent person. “Shut up! I’m coming!” I shuffled across the living room to the front door, taking my candy-ass time. No one, no matter how aggressively they knocked, hurried Joseph Labrador—especially when their knocking expelled me from the comfort of the couch and a romantic comedy.

  Peeping through the peephole, I saw…

  “What the fuck?” I whispered, backing up a step. I did one of the things that people do in books and movies, but never in real life, where you rub your eyes and shake your cheeks and blink really fast before double-checking to confirm what you’d just seen. Believe it or not, I confirmed it.

  My hands shook, fumbling with the security chain and deadbolt. I couldn’t open the door fast enough. I swung it inward, and the person I knew I saw in the hallway—because I’d cleare
d the fog from my eyes and made damn sure of it—had vanished. My heart echoed the pounding the door had taken. Chills broke across my skin.

  “Callie,” I said in soft voice. I glanced to the left and right, but no one remained in the flickering hallway that reminded me of a low-budget horror movie. Strange, since Xander lived in a high-end complex with a motivated maintenance crew. “Holy Batmobile,” I whispered, trying to control my labored breathing.

  Had I really just seen my dead wife through the peephole? I rubbed my face with open palms and slapped my cheeks. Serendipity had really jacked me up on pent emotion—well, that or recent events. Maybe both.

  Deciding that I needed to turn the movie off, I pivoted, facing Xander’s neat apartment. Gasping from pure shock, I backed away again, this time into the hallway. My throat tightened to the size of a straw, making it hard to breath, and my eyes stung with tears.

  “Callie,” I whispered again, disbelieving—but also hoping beyond hope—that my dead wife was really before me.

  She stood in the entryway to Xander’s apartment. Her dark-brown hair fell over her shoulders in gentle curls, and her dark eyes beamed at me like moonlight reflecting off the ocean. The tip of her tongue rested on her upper lip, a nervous tic she had acquired at some point in her life. She used to poke it out whenever we hunted monsters, and when she aimed down the sights of her firearm. She made the same facial expression the first time we… well, you know. And now, back from the dead, she stared at me with that same, anxious look.