Midnight Hunter (The Execution Underground Book 3)

by Kait Ballenger

  Grandma Grey reached inside the mixing bowl and removed the slipper. “Now, who put this here? Ooh,” she grumbled, “it must have been that Betsy. She’s always putting things in the oddest places.”

  Shane shot a helpless glance toward Vera, who clearly understood that poor Mae, aka Betsy, was apparently always being blamed for the odd places his grandmother found things she herself had put there.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to fix Betsy’s mistake, Grandma,” he reassured the one family member who had always made him feel at home in a way both his parents had failed to do.

  Before Shane could stop her, Vera stepped forward and gently took the slipper from Grandma Grey’s hand. “Well, this just won’t do with our brownies, will it? Why don’t I help you fix them?” She flashed a gorgeous smile at his grandmother, and he could practically see as Grandma Grey’s heart melt. She loved anyone who would help her bake.

  “Of course, dear, that would be wonderful.” She clasped both sides of Vera’s face in her hands before kissing her on the cheek.

  Shane cleared his throat. “You really don’t have to do that.”

  Vera waved him away. “I insist. It will make both of us feel a lot better after the events of this evening. Plus, I’m a surprisingly good baker, even if I don’t exactly look like Suzy Homemaker. Why don’t you go shower and change clothes, and leave us to our brownies?”

  He thought about protesting but couldn’t find it in himself to do it. A shower sounded like pure heavenly bliss. His aching muscles cried out for the warm heat, and the thought of washing himself clean of all the dried blood was enough to make him practically moan in ecstasy. “Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

  Vera grinned. “Sure you can. You can thank me by cleaning up your handsome face so I don’t have to keep looking at someone who looks like an extra from one of the Saw movies. I mean, seriously, Doc Grey, you look like hell warmed over.”

  He laughed. There she was again, making him laugh, as if he didn’t feel like shit, as if he hadn’t just done terrible things he would regret for the rest of his life. Lingering for a moment while Vera aided his grandmother in beginning to bake a real batch of brownies instead of a pink-fuzzy-slipper-filled concoction, he allowed himself one moment to revel in the brightness this gorgeous, sexy, phenomenal woman exuded and the way her black-painted nails were digging deep into his heart in a way that he couldn’t allow. Dangerous. So damn dangerous.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, once the brownies sat safely on the cooling rack and the gas had been turned off again for Mrs. Grey’s safety, Vera stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the dirty dishes. In general, domesticity wasn’t her thing, but once in a while, when she found herself really upset, usually after a particularly shitty day at the bar filled with overly grabby male patrons who didn’t tip worth jack shit, she found herself baking in a way that would’ve shocked her quaalude-popping, country-club mother.

  As she rinsed the last soapy dish, Mrs. Grey let out a low whistle behind her. “Goodness gracious, me. The soldiers are home from the war, Betsy, and boy, they sure have grown into fine young men.” Mrs. Grey let out a girlish giggle that sounded as if it belonged to someone a quarter of her age.

  Vera turned to see what in the world Mrs. Grey was hooting about, only to instantly regret it. Oh, boy, did she instantly regret it. The soldiers were standing at attention all right, because she was certain her nipples had never hardened so fast in her life, and they had to be proudly displayed through her thin shirt for any discerning eye to see. Shane was standing in the doorway, still dripping wet from the shower, completely naked save for the white towel wrapped around his lean hips. A bead of water dripped from his hair, the first time she’d ever seen it free from his usual ponytail. The lucky bead of water trailed down onto his substantial pectoral muscles before taking a wild ride across a set of washboard abs she could spend days licking like a dog.

  She was pretty certain someone needed to grab the paddles, because her heartbeat slammed to a screeching halt. Whoa, Nelly. She thanked her lucky stars Mrs. Grey was there or else she might have jumped Doc Grey where he stood and begun riding him like a bucking bronco. She’d known from the way his arms filled the material of his dress shirts that he had been packing some muscle under there, but she had never expected anything of quite these proportions. Greek god, anyone? The slightly nerdy professor she’d crushed on disappeared from her mind’s eye, replaced by one large hunk of lethally built male. Dear Lord, she was an idiot. How had she expected anything less from an Execution Underground hunter? Their physiques put Navy SEALs to shame.

  Opening her mouth, she attempted to say something, only to find a pathetic-sounding gurgle escaping her lips. What in the hell was that? Pull yourself together, Vera.

  Shane saved her from another pathetic attempt at speaking when he walked toward her. She gripped the edge of the sink behind her. She couldn’t help but pray that all her wildest dreams were about to come true. If it was up to the wetness and heat between her legs, she would have hopped right up on the countertop, ready and raring to go. Jeez, where was a bucket of cold water when a girl needed it?

  He ducked past her, only to steal a brownie from the cooling rack. He popped the delicious treat into his mouth and let out a groan the likes of which made the space between her legs even more of a hot mess. And dear sweet baby Jesus, the tribal tattoo that ran up his side, marking him as an Execution Underground member, was enough to make her bite her lower lip in sheer wonderful agony.

  “These brownies are great, Grandma,” he called over his shoulder. He winked at Vera and whispered, “Thanks for baking these with her. They’re soooo good, like an orgasm in my mouth.”

  Holy shit! Did he really just say that? Because she was pretty sure that she wanted to orgasm in his mouth. Man, she needed to pull herself together.

  “Welcome,” she finally managed to squeak.

  He raised a single brow. “Are you okay?”

  She tried to smile, but it turned into more of a pained half grimace. “Peachy.”

  “I think I’m going to go to bed, Henry. I’m just so tired after all that baking,” Grandma Grey announced before slowly rising to her feet and pushing her walker into the bedroom.

  Why did the sweet little old woman have to choose now of all times to make her exit?

  As soon as Grandma Grey rounded the corner, and they had both wished her good-night and sweet dreams, Shane started in on her again. “So what’s up? You’re not acting normal.”

  Not acting normal? That was when her brain lost all ability to function just as her mouth opened like a floodgate. “Of course I’m not acting normal. Maybe I could act normal and think straight if you’d put some damn clothes on. It’s...it’s distracting.” Deep down, though, she hoped the white towel precariously perched on his hips would come off, rather than him putting something else on.

  He set the brownie he’d been eating back down on the cooling rack with a frown. “Sorry, I wouldn’t have thought it would bother you, considering how little clothing you wear on a daily basis.”

  Her jaw dropped. He did not just say that. “Excuse me? Are you calling me a slut?” Anger bubbled beneath her skin, mixing with her already-hot desire into a dangerous and explosive mash-up.

  Shaking his head, he stepped a foot closer. His large, lean frame towered over her. “No, I’m not, but I’m saying that you’d be surprised how hard it is to concentrate when you come waltzing into my classroom wearing one of your skirts that’s meant to fit a Barbie doll.” He reached out and tugged on the short hem of her plaid miniskirt. “So you of all people finding my bare skin distracting after I’ve showered in my own home is a bit laughable.”

  The weight of his fist still pulled against her skirt. One good yank and the plaid mini-skirt would be around her ankles. She imagined him ripping it from her body, only to lift
her onto the countertop, then strip off the towel around his hips, allowing the length of him to spring free before he tore off her panties and shoved deep into her right there in the kitchen.

  Gripping the edge of his towel in the same way he held her skirt, she met his gaze in a silent standoff. They glared at each other, daring each other to make the first move. An electric pulsating heat buzzed between them, and somehow she knew that if either one of them allowed their hand to slip, they would be done for.

  Shane growled deep in his throat. A pained expression crossed his face. He let go of the hem of her skirt. Damn, just like that, the electricity was gone, replaced by an awkward tension. She let go of the towel.

  “I’m going to get dressed,” he ground out before storming angrily from the room. She allowed her weight to collapse against the countertop. Without looking, she reached over, snagged a brownie and popped it into her mouth, then realized that it was the same one that had passed over his lips moments early.

  He’s your professor and a witch hunter. He’s off-limits, and he already made it clear the feelings are one-sided. She repeated the mantra over and over again in her head, hoping that one of these times her libido would get the memo.

  * * *

  ONCE SHANE FINISHED DRESSING, he stormed out of his bedroom and back down the hall to the kitchen, stomping as if he had the temper of a five-year-old—or Jace. Yep, it was official. His fellow hunters had warned him of this. He’d passed over into the anger zone.

  Ash and the other hunters of the Rochester division had assured him that following his first major kill, the remorse over what he’d done would pass, followed by acceptance that he’d done the right thing, which had sunk in while he had been in the shower when he realized that if he hadn’t rekilled Mrs. Foley, she would have hurt or killed someone else—which itself would be followed by anger at anything and everything that involved the perpetrator in question.

  He hadn’t really expected to run the gamut of emotions this quickly, but here he was. Vera calling him a distraction had ignited the change in him like a match on already-hot coals soaked in lighter fluid. Now all he could think of, aside from his frustration at the way he had wanted to bone one of his students on his grandmother’s fucking kitchen countertop—what was wrong with him?—was finding the son of a bitch responsible for the necromancy that had brought Mrs. Foley back to life in order to murder her seemingly innocent husband and murder the responsible SOB himself.

  When he entered the kitchen he found Vera stuffing a huge chunk of brownie in her already-overstuffed mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed around a mouthful of brownie. “I eat when I’m stressed.”

  His frustration built even further as he watched her struggle to swallow. From her gorgeous curvy-in-all-the-right-places figure, she certainly didn’t look like she ate when she was stressed. Damn, did he feel like a jerk for being pissy with her when she looked so sexy or what? Besides, he’d been the one to drag her into this mess. It wasn’t her fault that she made him want to act like Horny McHard-on.

  He curbed his frustration, pulling out a chair across the table from her and sitting down. “There’s a lot to be stressed about.” He picked up a brownie from the blue-flowered plate where she’d arranged them and popped it in his mouth. He continued once he swallowed. “I wouldn’t have asked you to join me on this case if I’d known we were dealing with necromancy, but now that I know, time is of the essence. We need to find the necromancer behind this and stop him before he and his coven resurrect anyone else.”

  “How do you know they’re going to resurrect another person?” She shoved another brownie into her mouth.

  “I suppose I don’t, but you of all people know how addicting black magic is, and necromancy is the darkest type of black magic out there. Now that this coven has had a taste of power, I don’t think it’s likely they’ll be able to stop at just one. The real questions at this point are how do we infiltrate their ranks and how are they choosing their targets so we can stop them?”

  “Neither of those answers will be pretty.” She pushed the plate of brownies away from her and closer to him. “And we also need to figure out what to do about the familiar that showed up at my apartment.”

  He nodded. Though not as pressing a matter as the use of necromancy, the familiar situation was troubling, to say the least. “You’re certain there’s no one in the black-magic community you’ve angered, maybe someone you accidentally crossed?”

  A frown twisted her lips. “I told you. I haven’t been involved in black magic in a long time.”

  He met her gaze, searching for a hint of the truth. He wanted to believe that was true. He really did, especially considering the last thing he wanted to know was that the one woman who made his blood boil was similar in any way, shape or form to his mother, and being addicted, whether to drugs or black magic, would make her just that. “I believe you,” he said, though he wasn’t quite sure he meant it. “I just have to be certain we cover all our bases. That’s all.”

  The glare she’d mustered at his insinuation she was involved in black magic faded, replaced by a hint of sadness he didn’t quite understand.

  Refusing to contemplate what that meant, he changed the subject. “What I need from you now is a list of the meeting places of all the black-magic covens in the area, along with the times of their next gatherings. Then I need you to educate me in how the etiquette of these meetings goes, because whenever the next meeting is, we’re going to it.”

  “The etiquette of those meetings?” She laughed. “I’d hardly call a bunch of twenty-somethings gathered in a circle, passing around a black-magic spell like it’s a toke of pot etiquette, but I guess necromancy is a bit more serious than that.” She pinched her lips together, clearly uncertain. “Normally, I would tell you a hunter walking into a black-magic coven would be detected faster than a hen walking into a den of wolves, but you just might blend in. After all, I couldn’t tell you were a hunter by appearance, well, except now that I’ve seen you with your shirt off.” A deep blush filled her face, and he found himself wanting to nibble on her adorable cheekbones.

  He was a perv.

  He meant to change the subject, but the words sprang from his mouth before he could stop them. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “Well, most hunters are really built, really obvious, but you’re pretty lean, at least until you take your shirt off. If your other students knew the muscle you were packing, Doc Grey, your bed would never be empty.”

  He couldn’t help but notice the spark that lit her eyes when she talked about his bed. He dug his nails into his palm until he stopped himself from jumping across the table and bedding her right then and there. “I don’t sleep with my students, so it wouldn’t matter, anyway.” He said the words more to reassure himself than her.

  She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t implying that you did, but you know, clearly the option’s there if you ever decide you want to.”

  His breath caught. Was she offering herself to him? Or was she simply implying there were other students in his classes who would jump at the chance? While he didn’t understand the sentiment—he was a nerd, so girls had never come his way easily when he was a teenager—he’d had his fair share of women once he reached his twenties. Even so, the thought of anyone willingly hopping into his bed based solely on his looks left him befuddled, to say the least, and if Vera was offering, well...she was making an offer he would have a hell of a hard time refusing.

  He forced himself to assume she wasn’t really offering and changed the subject. “As for the familiar situation, I figure if you stay with me while we’re in the midst of all this, that will keep you protected. If they send another familiar after you, I’ll be there to make certain it doesn’t possess you. Then, when we’ve stopped the necromancer, we can focus on who’s coming after you. That’s if you’re agreeable to that plan, of cou
rse.”

  “I don’t really have a choice, do I? Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll need to go back to my apartment to feed my own familiar, though, and I’ll need to make some calls to find out the information you want. What happens if the gathering isn’t for another few days? It’s not like people practice black magic on a daily basis.”

  “I suppose we wait, then.” He paused for a moment and glanced down at his hands before looking back up at her again. “You really have a familiar?”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “What’s so unbelievable about that?”

  “It’s just...everything I’ve ever learned about familiars indicate that only witches who are deeply dedicated to their craft, whether that be white or black magic, can claim one. I wouldn’t have expected the Execution Underground to release you from their holding facility if you were dedicated enough to black magic to have claimed a familiar.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she immediately switched to the defensive. “I’m not that dedicated to black magic, thank you very much.” She emphasized the last few words. “Which is probably why my familiar is a fat lazy tomcat who can eat his own weight in Fancy Feast.”

  Shane turned his head slightly. “You mean he doesn’t feed from you?”

  She looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “Feed from me? Of course not.”

  Shane’s brow furrowed. All black magic familiars fed from their witch masters. He repeated the thought aloud. “If he were a black magic familiar, he’d feed from you.” Maybe hers was a white magic familiar? Though, she certainly didn’t seem dedicated to white magic, either, at least to the best of his knowledge.

  “Sounds like just a cat to me.”

  Glaring at him, she pushed her chair back from the table. “Just a cat my ass. Don’t you dare insult Binks. He may be a lazy familiar, but he’s still smart enough to be one.”

  Shane chuckled. “Whatever you say. I just figured you’d be glad to know you never actually sold your soul to the devil for power, since whatever he is, he’s clearly not a black-magic familiar.”