Page 2 of Immortal Hunter
Bones popped and cracked, and the man held out his hand—or…what used to be a hand. Ewan stared at the wolf’s paw, wondering if he was supposed to shake it. After a snort, the shifter pulled the furry appendage back to his side. “Leave, Hunter. Now. There’s a ship leaving in an hour from the docks headed for St. John’s. Look for the Abbey Gale. And don’t tell nobody about me.”
Trusting a shifter? He shouldn’t. All his years of training warned him against it. But Montreal didn’t feel…right to him. Maybe St. John’s would. And if not…he’d find somewhere else. Or…
Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he tried not to think about what would happen if the Hunters tracked him down. “I’m Ewan,” he whispered to the shifter as he stood.
“I’ll forget that name, boy. But you’d best remember mine. It’s Merrick. You might need it one day.”
* * *
Kára
She woke with a snarl, the dream so real, so vivid, her hand closed around the bedside lamp, ripping it off the table as if it were her sword. Only when the electrical cable caught on the nightstand did she realize her mistake, and the heavy, brass luminary fell to the floor with a crash.
“För fan i helvete!”Kára scrambled out of bed, stumbled for the bathroom, and turned the faucet to hot, full blast. Ducking her whole head under the flow, she waited until her skin prickled, burned, and blistered.
Just a dream.
Grabbing a towel, she wrapped her shoulder-length blond hair. Times like these, she wished she still had a reflection. Exploring her cheeks and forehead with trembling fingers, she blew out a breath as the welts disappeared beneath her touch.
Stalking out to her small kitchen, she yanked open the cabinet next to the sink and withdrew a bottle of twenty-year-old whiskey. “Get yourself together, Kára.”
A generous pour spilled into her glass, and she downed it in a single swallow. The alcohol warmed her from the inside. Not much, of course, for her body perpetually ran cold now. Ever since the night she’d lost everything…
“No. I amnotthat young waif Hagen lured to his castle to torture for two centuries. I am a shield maiden. Protector of this town. And a badass.”
She loved that word. Badass. Twenty years ago, she’d saved a group of children from something dark and dangerous. Something that never should have existed. And the oldest, a young girl of thirteen, had thrown her arms around Kára and used that word. And from then on, Kára called herself a badass whenever she felt…unsure.
Which wasn’t often. After all, she was a four-hundred-and-fifty-three-year-old vampire. Stronger and faster than all but a handful of the world’s vampires, she could handle herself easily.
A quick peek at the clock confirmed she’d at least managed to sleep most of the day away. Her stomach rumbled, fangs tingling as she showered and dressed in black leather pants, a black tank top, and then shrugged into her long, black coat. Total cliché, but she figured if she were going to hunt evil, she might as well look the part.
Tucking a short lock of hair behind her ear, she checked her email. One of the best inventions of the modern age, the laptop allowed her to correspond with her sisters, and though the dark memories came hard and fast when they were together, she missed them.
Herja was somewhere in Iceland, and Mist…Mist had gone south. To Louisiana. Kára couldn’t understand why her younger sister would want to live somewhere so…humid. And hot. Even in the dark of night. But Mist always had been stubborn. And perhaps…a little broken, even before Hagen had gotten a hold of her.
Kára’s fingers skimmed the back of her neck, feathering over the brand her maker had given her. One of many scars—both inside and out—she carried from her days in northern Sweden.
If Kára’s heart hadn’t stopped the night she was turned, it would have skipped a beat seeing Mist’s name in her inbox.
Kára,
There is a dark wind blowing, sister. The shamans speak in whispers; the voodoo priestesses do not speak at all. Most of the clan members I have allied myself with have fled the city. The Hunters have gone after them, which affords me more freedom. I have even been able to secure an invitation to the Witches’ Ball. Though if the rumors are to be trusted, the Ball itself may be the beginning of the end.
Stay safe, sister. And warn Herja. She thinks me daft, but she will listen to you.
Yours,
Mist
Kára sighed. Her sister always spoke in riddles. She supposed her association with the darker side of New Orleans did not help. Mist’s closest friends were the voodoo priestesses and tarot readers on Bourbon Street.
Dashing off a quick reply, she promised Mist she’d contact the local coven and added a final,“I miss you.”Not that Mist would ever say it back.
Buttoning her coat, Kára headed out into the night. “Time to go to work.”
* * *
Her walkto town was quiet. Peaceful, even. St. John’s didn’t have a lot of crime. In part, because Kára kept the various supernatural creatures living here in line. Those who didn’t respecther,respected the local coven. The witches, thirteen of them at Kára’s last count, weren’t among Kára’s favorite people. Like Mist, they spoke in riddles and half-truths, but the few times she’d needed to call upon them, they’d helped her.
