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

by Alex Gates

  “And you saw her?” Xander asked. “The Scylla.” He reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded a printed black-and-white image, setting it atop her notebook. “Was this her?”

  She lifted the picture, studying it for a moment, and slid her notebook to Xander. Since I sat on the floor and couldn’t see what she’d showed him, I had to stand, pot of broth in my hand—which had actually started to taste a little better the more I ate.

  Annie showed Xander a sketch of a beautiful woman. Here was the real kick in the nut sack, though—beautiful from the waist up. For legs, instead of normal human limbs, Annie had sketched twelve tentacles. So, this river lady had a beautiful torso with beautiful taters and tots, along with a beautiful face, but she had snake tentacles for legs. Wait, snakes don’t have tentacles. Gasp! Snake are tentacles! That explosion, dear reader, is the sound of your mind being blown. You’re welcome. Anyway, the picture she had drawn was pretty similar to the image that Xander had printed and showed to Annie.

  Xander removed his phone from his pocket. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this?” he asked. “For my records?”

  “If it helps,” Annie said.

  After snapping the photograph, Xander pocketed his phone and asked, “Could you describe to me, in as much detail as you remember, what happened that day?”

  Annie lifted her attention to the cot once again, but she didn’t say anything to it. “He splashed in and dove underwater when it was deep enough, coming back up with a sharp inhale from the cold. ‘Come on,’ he said, waving me toward him. I remember the current pushing on him, and he had to keep swimming upstream to stay in place. I told him it was too cold for me, that the stream would carry me away. Before he had the chance to convince me, the woman appeared from the depths and stood behind him.” Annie kept staring at the cot. “She had scales on her skin—and gills along her torso. That’s not in the drawing, but I’m sure she did. Four of her tentacles rose out of the water. They shot forward and bit into Andy’s legs and ribs. He screamed and tried to swim away. He made it into the shallower water and started to run up the bank. A fifth and sixth tentacle rose from the water. One latched onto his neck, the other onto his groin. That took the fight out of him. He staggered and fell face-first into the stream, his head cracking against a rock. That’s what I remember the clearest—the sound of his skull slamming against stone.” Annie fell into a trance for a second, probably reliving the nightmare. “She dragged him back underwater with her.”

  I hated awkward silences. They made me uncomfortable and usually forced me into an inappropriate joke. Just as I was about to say something about another building fart, Xander saved the day. “Did the creature say anything before attacking?”

  “No,” Annabel said.

  “But she had a mouth—a human mouth?”

  “She was human from the waist up—other than the scales and gills.” With physical effort, Annie tore her attention from the cot and focused on Xander.

  “You said you had a few theories about where we could find her. Are they theories based on any evidence?”

  Annie pulled her notebook back toward her and began flipping through the pages again, this time stopping nearer to the end. She pointed to a list of names. “These are the people reported through different news outlets to have gone missing along the American River. I’m sure there are more. I marked their last known locations along the river map.” Annie turned a page in the notebook. A map was taped to it. She peeled it free and unfolded it. “She—the Scylla, I guess—only hunts along these stretches. Authorities chalk the disappearances up to stronger currents, to alcohol, to whatever. But I’ve been living out here for years now, and I know differently. I’ve stalked those dotted areas. And you know what I found?”

  “What?” Xander asked, staring at the map.

  “They’re the most popular spots for experienced fishermen. Secret spots. The people on that list,” Annie turned the page, “all fished, and quite often. My brother’s attack was an anomaly, I think. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You see, I believe she lives right around this area and goes out and fishes the fishing spots when she’s hungry. If no one is there, she resorts to more populated locations.”

  “That’s why you live here,” Xander said. “You want to see her again. To kill her. And your best chance is where you think she lives. That’s why you had a gun on us.”

  “Well,” Annie said, leaning back in her chair and grinning, “Andy says it’s mostly to protect those walking along the river. He doesn’t want anyone else hurt by her. Better for them to be run off by a crazy lady than to be eaten by a murderous monster.”

  Xander nodded and stood from his chair, the wood creaking with relief. “Annie,” he said, his voice calm and polite, “would you excuse Joey and me for a few minutes? I expected for you to nudge us in the right direction, but I didn’t think you’d lead us there. We have a few things we need to sort out… privately.”

  “Please,” she said, jumping from her chair. Her opaque eyes darted around the room. “Please.”

  Before Xander and I made toward the exit, a hollow banging sounded on the front door. I startled, dropping the pot. The broth spread across the floor in a massive, mucky pile.

  Don’t judge my fear. You already know how I feel about cabins, and there I was cooped up in one. Also, the past couple of days were chock-full of knocking on doors. I’d somehow wound up in an Edgar Allan Poe story. It was tapping, tapping, tapping, and rapping, rapping, rapping all on my door, only that and nothing more—just the tap, tap, tapping, rap, rap, rapping, snap, snap, snapping on the cabin door. Can you see how it would drive a man crazy? That tapping and that rapping and that snapping and stamping and clapping on the fucking door!

  The cabin narrowed as my vision tunneled. I saw nothing but the door, only that and nothing more.

  The knocking started again, this time with more urgency, like someone was banging for their life.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stepping over the spilled broth. “I made a promise to murder the next person that knocked on a door, a simple promise and nothing more. And there they are, knocking and rapping and tapping and it’s time to see what the fuck for.”

  12

  I stormed toward the door, trying not to have a mental breakdown. In my mind, I’d created a beautiful, flawless plan to counter the knocking. You see, the door swung inward, so whoever pounded on it probably expected it to fold away from them. Well, I decided I would kick it off its hinges, outward, to surprise the person driving me insane. In their shocked state, I would pull the Beretta from my waistband and mark off two rounds from my inventory.

  Rearing back and finding a solid base on my left foot, I used a front kick and drove my right heel near the keyhole where the door was the weakest. All of my strength went into that stomping motion, along with a leonine scream. The heavy wood stopped me cold, sending a jolt of pain up my leg and into my knee. Actually, in total transparency, I lost my balance and hopped backward on one leg, barely avoiding an embarrassing fall. At least I didn’t fart again.

  Not that I kept score, either, but to help with those of you who are—that’s zero points for me on attempted kicks, and two points for the bad guys that I have tried to kick. Maybe I should’ve practiced my martial arts a little more often, instead of drinking beer and watching sad movies. Fine! I’ll admit it. And eating ice cream. But only the kind with crunchies in it—like coffee chips or mint chips… I’ll even settle for cookie dough every now and again. No rocky road, though, and definitely no single flavors like vanilla or chocolate. I might be a killer, but I’m no serial killer.

  On a happier note, I succeeded in responding to the tap, tap, tapping with a single knock of my own, most likely intimidating whoever waited on the other side—the knocking had silenced. I glanced back at Xander and Annie to make sure they hadn’t witnessed the door not breaking apart. I would hate for them to think even less of me than they already did.

  “What are you two clowns loo
king at?” I asked. “I’m just nervous. This never happens to me. I swear. It’s the cabin—Xander, tell her about me and cabins. And I might have eaten too much stew. Just give me a minute, okay? I’ll figure this out.”

  “Why don’t you just… this sounds ridiculous, I know, but why don’t you just… open it?” Xander asked.

  “Because that’s exactly what they expect me to do.” Exhausted of Xander, I returned my attention to the door, reaching out with my bad right hand and gripping the knob. With my left hand, I wrapped my arm around my waist and held the Beretta. In one motion, I pulled open the door and drew the gun. “Prepare to die, nerd!” I screamed at… nothing.

  No perpetrator stood outside. The bright afternoon sky had aged, growing dim with a few gray clouds covering the sun. A cold wind brushed through the tree branches and swept across my face. The river, a few dozen yards away, streamed over the rocks and on its way to Sacramento.

  I attempted to tap into my newfound powers and scan the area for magical forces. Maybe someone stood invisible off to the side, or they had shape-shifted into a bird now perching on a branch, or they had used a distance spell to thump on the door and get someone to open it to expose themselves. That thought made me uneasy, as I stood a step outside the cabin. The power that had crested within me earlier had fallen into a trough. I could no more perceive any magic-wielders than I could see a shark beneath the dark surface of a stormy sea.

  I know that’s a lot of ocean metaphors, but I’m thinking about heading out on a beach vacation, actually—when all the dust has settled. Something all-inclusive, either to Mexico or the Bahamas. What do you think?

  I glanced back to Xander and shrugged. “I don’t see anything out—”

  The cold kiss of a gun barrel pressing against my temple cut me off. The metal held tight against my head, keeping my chin situated over my shoulder, facing Xander and Annie. A firm, cold hand disarmed me of my weapon.

  “Get back in the cabin,” a grizzled voice said.

  “Are you some kind of witch—like the Blair Witch? Please, don’t kill me. I have so much to live for—I haven’t even finished the last season of Friends. Do Ross and Rachel get back together?” I mocked sobbing, my shoulders trembling. “They were just on a break. I don’t understand why they could never work it out.”

  “Get in the cabin,” the guttural voice said again, slow and steady, “or I’ll shoot you.”

  I wanted to test that threat, figuring if he, maybe she—the voice was very gender vague—wanted to shoot, they would have pulled the trigger by now.

  “Some people call me stubborn, others just call me stupid. Most of my friends call me Joey, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that I have a hard time following orders when there’s a gun shoved to the side of my head. More so when I’m prevented from seeing the idiot who’s threatening me. So, if you want me in the cabin, you’ll have to ask a little nicer than that.”

  In the time it usually took me to unclasp a bra… no, that’s a terrible example.

  Hold on.

  Okay, I got it.

  In the time it took me to fall asleep during one of Xander’s stories, the man slid the barrel off the side of my head and fired a round into the cabin, creating a pinprick of sunlight through the opposite wall. He hugged the metal back against my sideburn. My ear rang from the shot, and my ebbing headache returned with a vengeful anger.

  “Last time, stupid.” I think he was trying to make a joke by referencing back to what I’d said earlier, but his timing was way off and the delivery was just awful. All in all, not very funny. When I didn’t laugh, he said, “Get in the cabin.”

  “I can’t hear you,” I said, though I had heard him—I still had one ear that wasn’t numb with pain. “Some lunatic shot their gun directly beside my ear. I mean, everyone knows the first rule of gun safety is drink at least twelve beers—it makes you looser, less tense, less likely to make a mistake. But the second rule, and arguably the most important, is to wear protection—ear and otherwise. Now look what you done did, Billy Bob. I can’t hear a lick beyond the thoughts in my head. Actually, am I even saying words out loud right now? Or am I just thinking my thoughts?”

  If my assailant wanted me dead, he would have shot me without preamble, or at the very least, made good on his threat to shoot me. Instead, he smacked my forehead with the butt of the gun and shoved me into the cabin. Dizzy and disoriented, I lost my balance and fell onto my back. Agony shot throughout my entire battered body, curling me up like a damn fry. He followed me in, shutting the door behind him.

  “Xander, you moron, shoot him,” I said as blood spilled down my cracked forehead. I lay on the floor, wishing I could go a full three hours without hurting my head.

  Hopefully CTE was just a myth, like the NFL made it out to be. Xander didn’t say anything, so I glanced back to find that Annie was pointing her shotgun at his chest. I sighed, swearing to never open another door again, for anyone, no matter what. The ringing in my ear didn’t subside, but the fog cleared from my eyes and I detailed some important notes about the man wielding the gun.

  One, it—not he or she—had big, gray bat wings. Two, its skin had turned into gray-leather bat skin. Wait. Do bats even have skin? Or do they have fur? Feathers? And what color are they? Gray, brown, black? I actually can’t really recall what a bat looks like beyond Batman. How about this—it looked like a gray bat if bats were gray and had leathery skin and not fur… or feathers. Does that work? Just imagine something like a were-bat. It stood on two legs, and its hands were taloned, and its face looked like an inside-out asshole—but gray and with shark-like teeth and elven ears. Do bats have big ears? You know what? You have to forgive me. I’m not a zoologist, and remember, the bat monster had just fired a round beside my ear and punched my forehead with its gun.

  Let me simplify as much as possible.

  The bat thing was what Xander and I called a Raven—a starving vampire. Since Ravens aren’t known for their self-control, I suspected this particular Raven was one of Hecate’s Cursed. Her Empousa. Does that make sense? I already explained what Ravens and Empousa are in the first book. Do I need to do it again?

  All right. This is for that one guy (or gal) who bought this book and decided not to read the first one. Vampires integrate quite well into human society. They look and act exactly like humans, most of the time—except that they need human blood to remain human. Without the blood, they morph into the monster standing over me. That’s why most vampires are serial killers. Ted Bundy? Vampire. John Wayne Gacy? Fat clown vampire. Usually, these monsters—Ravens—don’t have any cognitive functioning beyond the need to eat. So, when a Raven has the self-control not to devour me on sight—especially when it sees and smells the blood dribbling from my forehead—that means a Nephil controls it. In this case, most likely Hecate.

  “Xander,” I said, scuttling toward the table, away from the Raven. “I think that trap we anticipated, I think it’s been sprung. So much for walking in with our eyes wide open, huh?”

  I sat on one of Annabel’s rickety chairs across the table from Xander and stared at his ugly mug. Annabel stood behind him, her double-barreled shotgun flush against the back of his neck. It would be a nasty kill shot. Since she stood over him, her gun sloped down a degree. If Xander pissed her off and she fired, the shot would shatter his spine before blowing out his chest and decorating my face with his innards.

  I shivered in revulsion just thinking about it.

  The Raven stood behind me. It held both its gun and the gun Xander had given me tight against my cheekbones, almost using them as clamps to hold my face still. If it decided to shoot, its two guns were aimed at each other. Ravens were notorious for stupidity, though, so I couldn’t blame the creature. It was trying its hardest, and that’s all anyone could ask for. But the metal grinding against my cheekbones actually hurt. And whenever I tried to slide away from it, the Raven just reaffixed them right back on the crests of my very high, pronounced cheekbones. In a g
rim way, it reminded me of when Callie had always wanted to pop my pimples, like a sadist. I’ve had many broken bones in my life. I’ve been shot multiple times. Twice, I was tortured pretty severely. On a few occasions, I’ve had to suffer through Xander’s singing. But I would gladly relive any of those experiences over having a zit popped by Callie. She took grotesque pleasure in causing as much pain as humanly possible.

  Tired of the stiff chair and the hard metal against my cheeks, I clicked my tongue. Misery loves company, and I didn’t want to be the only miserable one in the cabin. After about twenty seconds of no one saying anything, I decided to step up my game. “You’re obviously not going to kill us, so why not just aim the guns at our dicks or kneecaps?”

  Neither of our captors spoke.

  “Andy,” I said, referencing Annie’s dead, invisible brother. She stiffened at his name. “Can you tell your sister to lower her weapon?”