Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

  And the light faded from the room.

  “It is done,” Mama Matisse said.

  And it was.

  That evening, the kids headed out for a night on Bourbon Street.

  Angela and Jackson did not.

  They played in the rooftop pool for a while, and they enjoyed the carousel bar, and they dined on delicious room service. Jackson told Angela the story of his first strange encounter when he was a child, and he talked about taking her to Scotland. He talked about the guilt he couldn’t help but feel over the loss of the members of his previous team, and she felt that she’d shared more of him than anyone had before. He had shared his heart and soul, and he had done so much to mend hers.

  They teased, laughed, grew serious, made passionate love.

  And then, early in the morning, Jackson’s phone rang.

  He answered it. Angela listened lazily, half-awake.

  “Who was that?” she asked when Jackson hung up.

  “Adam Harrison,” he said slowly, looking over at her. “We’ve gotten our next assignment,” he said.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  But he took her into his arms.

  “We don’t start until tomorrow,” he said, and he gave her a dazzling smile. She grinned slowly in return, and then she kissed him. Today, they were going to exercise a few of the amazing joys that came with being alive.

  NEW ORLEANS RECIPES

  TO FEED THE BODY….

  Jambalaya

  First, according to every chef I know in Louisiana—it just can’t be real jambalaya if it isn’t prepared in a cast-iron pot or Dutch oven.

  4 large yellow onions chopped fine

  8 cups water

  4 cups rice

  1 bell pepper—chopped (Optional for spicy jambalaya, add 1 to 3 chopped banana peppers)

  4 crushed garlic cloves

  20 green onion straws, finely chopped

  2 lbs sausage (mild for non-Cajun spicy dish lovers, hot for the true experience!)

  2 pounds cooked chopped chicken and/or pork

  Salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, onion powder to taste

  Brown the meat and set it aside.

  Sauté the garlic, chopped onions, and bell pepper (and banana peppers, if you choose to use them).

  Return the meat to the mixture and add the water, and the seasoning to taste. Pork and chicken need to cook thoroughly, until completely tender.

  Add the green onions when the meat is cooked through, and then add the water and rice, bring to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer until the water is gone and the rice is cooked.

  Eat and enjoy!

  The more you create this dish, the more you’ll learn about your personal tastes—just how spicy is spicy? Many of my friends in Southern Louisiana must have Tabasco sauce in every dish, including jambalaya. (And on their eggs in the morning, come to think of it!) They carry tiny bottles of hot sauce on them, just in case they wind up in an establishment that is lacking the proper condiments!

  TO FEED THE NEED FOR LIBATION!

  In the 1940s, tavern owner Pat O’Brien was sold some pretty bad-tasting rum. He had to find a way to get rid of it. He created the first “hurricane,” with plentiful shots of rum, lime juice, and passion fruit syrup. Today, it remains one of New Orleans’ most popular drinks on Bourbon Street, and, naturally, they are still on the menu at Pat O’Brien’s!

  A good “hurricane,” sworn to kill whatever ails you….

  4 ounces of dark rum

  1 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice

  4 ounces passion fruit syrup

  Shake well with crushed ice; strain, serve over ice, or as is

  Garnish with a lemon slice, and/or orange slice, and add a maraschino cherry

  Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

  “An incredible storyteller.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  “Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A fast-paced and suspenseful read that will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon

  “If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest…Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

  —Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

  “Eerie and atmospheric, this is not late-night reading for the squeamish or sensitive.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Unhallowed Ground

  “The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

  —Booklist on Ghost Walk

  “Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal— all of it nail-biting.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Vision

  “Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end.”

  —Literary Times

  “Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

  —Kirkus on The Death Dealer

  Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

  PHANTOM EVIL

  NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

  THE KEEPERS

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  THE KILLING EDGE

  NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

  HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

  UNHALLOWED GROUND

  DUST TO DUST

  NIGHTWALKER

  DEADLY GIFT

  DEADLY HARVEST

  DEADLY NIGHT

  THE DEATH DEALER

  THE LAST NOEL

  THE SÉANCE

  BLOOD RED

  THE DEAD ROOM

  KISS OF DARKNESS

  THE VISION

  THE ISLAND

  GHOST WALK

  KILLING KELLY

  THE PRESENCE

  DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

  PICTURE ME DEAD

  HAUNTED

  HURRICANE BAY

  A SEASON OF MIRACLES

  NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

  NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

  EYES OF FIRE

  SLOW BURN

  NIGHT HEAT

  HEART OF EVIL

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  Dedicated with gratitude

  to the beautiful Myrtles plantation,

  and to Teeta LeBleu Moss, owner,

  Teresa David, the General Manager,

  Hester Eby, Director of Tours,

  Taryn Lowery, Tour Guide

  and to Scout and Sprout and

  The Peace River Ghost Trackers

  And to Dennis, Jason, Shayne,

  and Bryee-Annon Pozzessere;

  Teresa Davant, Kathy Pickering, Kathy DePalo,

  Juan Roca, Bridget LeVien, Matthew Green,

  Phinizy Percy Jr., and Connie Perry.

  Prologue

  Blood.

  She could see it, smell it.

  Hear it.

  Drip…drip…drip…

  The air was heavy with black powder, and the brilliant red color of the blood seemed to form a mist with the powder, and she was surrounded by a haze, a miasma of gray-tinged crimson. The day was dying, becoming red, red like the color of the blood seeping to the ground, making that terrible, distinctive noise. Drip, drip, drip…

  Ashley Donegal was there. She wasn’t even sure where there was, but she knew that she didn’t want to be there.

  Suddenly, the mist seemed to swirl in a violent gust, and then settle softly, closer to the ground. It parted as she walked through. She could see her surroundings, and, at that moment, she knew. She was in the cemetery. She had played here so often as a child—respectfully, of course. Her grandfather never would have had it any other way. Those elegant tombs, all constructed with such love, and an eye to
the priorities of the day. The finest craftsmen had been hired, artists and artisans, and the place was truly beautiful. Angels and archangels graced the various tombs, winged cherubs, saints and crosses. She had never been afraid.

  But now…

  From a distance, she could hear shouts. Soldiers. Ridiculous. Grown men playing as soldiers. But they did it so well. She might almost have been back in time. The powder came from the howitzer and the Enfield rifles. The shouts sounded as the men played out their roles, edging from the river road to the outbuildings and then the stables, to the final confrontation on the lawn and in the cemetery. The blood would come from stage packets within their uniforms, of course, but…

  This was real blood. She knew because it had a distinctive odor, and because, yes, damn it, she could smell it. Nothing smelled like real blood.

  She looked at the ground, and she could see the puddle where the blood was falling, but she was afraid to look up. If she looked up, she would see a dead man.

  But she did so anyway. She saw him. There was a hat pulled low over his face, but soon he would lift his head.

  He did. And she saw a man in his prime, handsome, with strength of purpose in the sculpture of his face. But there was weariness in his eyes.

  Weariness and death. Yet they were just playacting; that past was so, so long ago now….

  She didn’t speak. Neither did he. Because his face began to rot. It blackened, and while she watched, the scabrous decaying flesh began to peel away. Soon she was staring into the empty eye sockets of a skull.

  She started to scream.

  Above that sound, she could hear someone calling to her. Someone calling her name. The sound was deep, rich and masculine, and she knew it….

  It was Jake! He would help…. Surely he would help.

  But she could only stare at the skeletal mask in front of her.

  Smell the blood.

  And scream.

  * * *

  A strange sound in the middle of the night awoke Ashley. She sat up with a start and realized she was doing the screaming. She clamped her own hand quickly over her mouth, embarrassed and praying that she hadn’t roused the household. She waited in silence; nope, no one.

  That was pretty pathetic. It must have been a horrifically pathetic scream. If she ever really needed to scream, she’d probably be out of luck.

  Lord, that had been some nightmare.

  She didn’t have nightmares. She was the most grounded human being she knew; hell, she had grown up next to a bayou full of alligators and cottonmouths, and she had lived in a downtrodden area of New York City near Chinatown in order to afford NYU. She knew all about real monsters—ghosts were creations to reel tourists in.

  So…

  With a groan, she threw her head back on her pillow and glanced at the clock. She needed to sleep. In a week’s time, they’d be celebrating Donegal Plantation’s biggest annual event: the reenactment of the skirmish here that had cost her ancestor his life.

  Ah, yes, and she had been dreaming about the skirmish—or the reenactment?

  That was it, she thought, grinning. She was dreaming about the events at Donegal Plantation because they were preparing for the day.

  History was always alive at Donegal. The plantation house was furnished with antiques, most of which had been in the family forever. There was an attic room that contained more artifacts from the Civil War than many a museum, down to letters, mess kits, knapsacks, pistols, rifles and bayonets. Still, the reenactment remained a major undertaking.

  But they’d been running it since before she had even been born. It was rote by now. All the same, there was still plenty of bustle and confusion, along with everything that had to happen before the event could take place, including a mound of paperwork on her desk that had to do with the “sutler’s tent,” the pop-up shop where period clothing and curios and other paraphernalia, such as weapons and antiques, were sold. Which meant registrations and taxes. Then there was the insurance they needed for the day, and the officers to direct traffic and so on.

  That was it. She just had a lot on her mind.

  And the reenactment always reminded her of Jake. He’d never been a soldier, North or South. But he’d dressed up, and he’d played his guitar and sang music from the era. And sometimes she had played with him, and he’d always known how to make it just right, to bring back the past, with the light of truth.

  She eased down in her covers, determined to forget both her anxiety and Jake.

  Not so easy, even though it had been a long time since Jake had been in her life.

  Finally, she started to drift again. She was comfortable; she loved her bed and her room, even if she had lived here her whole life other than college. Though she loved to learn about new people and new places, she also loved to be home.

  She started again, certain that she had felt a touch; something soft and gentle, smoothing her hair, stroking her cheek.

  She sat up. Moonlight streamed into the room, and there was no one else here; with so many guests around, she had locked her bedroom door. She looked at her pillow and decided that she had merely rubbed against a side of the pillowcase.

  As she did so, she glanced at her dresser.

  There was something different about it. She studied it for a moment, wondering what it was.

  Then she knew.

  She kept a picture of her parents there, on her dresser. It had been taken almost twenty years ago. They were together, holding her between them, when she had been five. It had been developed in sepia tone, and they’d had it done when one of the guests at a reenactment had found a way of making nice money by pretending to be Matthew Brady, the famed Civil War photographer. Throughout the day, he had answered historical questions about photography and its place in the Civil War.

  As was the custom of the day, none of them was smiling, but there was still something exceptionally charming about the picture. There was a light in her father’s eyes, and just the hint of a curl at her mother’s lips. Her father’s arm was around her, his hand coming to rest tenderly on her mother’s shoulder. She was sandwiched close between them, and in her mind, the picture had been filled with love. It had become an even greater treasure when she had lost them.

  It usually faced at a slight angle toward her bed.

  The picture was turned away, as if someone had been looking at it from a different angle. It was such a little thing, but…

  Maybe someone had wandered into her room. Cliff ran the property and she ran the house, but they employed extra housekeepers in the main house when they had guests. They hadn’t had guests in the house in the last few weeks, but the house was usually open, and her grandfather loved to walk anyone staying on the property through it. Depending on his mood, a tour could get long.

  And the picture…

  She turned over, groaning. It was just the angle of the picture.

  * * *

  Jake Mallory should have slept well, with a hard case finally settled.

  But he didn’t.

  The odd thing about his nightmares was that they were a recent phenomenon. When he had begun to realize and make use of this gift or curse—those things he somehow knew—there had been no dreams.

  During the summer of the storms, during Katrina and the flooding, they had all been so busy. While it had been happening, he’d never explained to his coworkers that he was so good at finding the remains of the deceased because they called out to him; they spoke to him. It was heartbreaking; it was agony. But the dead needed their loved ones to know, and so he listened. And he didn’t dream those nights.

  Later, the dreams had come, and they were always the same.

  He was alone in his small, flat-bottomed boat, though he’d never been alone during any of the searches.

  He was alone, and the heat of the day had cranked down to the lesser heat of the night, and he was searching specifically for someone, though he didn’t know who. As the boat moved through the water that should have been a street, he began
to see people on the rooftops, clinging to branches here and there, and even floating in the water.

  They saw him; they reached out to him. And he felt like weeping. They weren’t living people. They were those who had lost the fight.

  As he drifted along, he looked back at them all, men and women, old and young, black and white and all colors in between. He wanted to ease their suffering, but he could no longer save them. Their faces had an ashen cast, and the bone structure was sucked in and hollow; they didn’t seem to know that there was nothing he could do for them anymore. In the dream, he knew that he, like many law-enforcement officers, scent dogs and volunteers, would be called upon to find the dead in the future.

  But now he was seeking the living.

  They called out to him; they were trying to tell him something. Bit by bit, he saw they were trying to show him the way. He thought that there should have been sound, but there was none. He didn’t hear his passage through the water, and nothing emitted from the mouths of the corpses he passed.

  Then he saw the figure on the roof far ahead. He thought it was a woman. She seemed to be in something flowing, which was not unusual. Many victims, living and dead, had been found in nightgowns or boxers or flannel pajamas. What was strange was that she seemed to be the only one alive. She was in tremendous peril as the water rose all around her. He felt that there was something familiar about her, but he didn’t understand what it was that seemed to touch him. The light of the full moon turned her hair golden and gleaming, her white gown flowed in the breeze. Amidst the destruction, she was a beautiful survivor.

  He tried to get closer.