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Succubus Hunter Copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce
Book design and layout copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
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No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Daniel Pierce
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Succubus Hunter
Book 1 in the Succubus Hunter Series
Daniel Pierce
Contents
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
Chapter 18
Epilogue
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About the Author
1
“Kurt, do you know where you are?” she asked me. It took far too long for her face to come into focus, and when it did, I came to the conclusion that her voice didn’t match it. She was young, but her voice was cool and professional, a little tired, and husky. She had black eyes and dark hair, and there were lines on her face where there should have been none. Somehow I sensed a passage of time, and when I looked down, I saw myself in a hospital bed, covered with a thin sheet and surrounded by all manner of beeping devices that seemed to confirm I felt like absolute hammered dog shit.
“Bomb,” I said.
“Yes, a bomb. Roadside. But you’re not along the road anymore. You’re alive. Specifically, you’re in Germany, at Landstuhl. Do you know what that is?” she asked.
“Hospital?”
“Correct. I see you looking down, so let me put your mind at ease. Your body is complete, you just have a lot of holes in it. We pulled sixty pieces of shrapnel from you, but there’s still one left that will be with you until your end. It’s deep in your chest, too close to the heart for us to risk until you’re stable. That might be some time. Do you understand what I’m saying?” She leaned closer to me, and I could see the worry in her eyes.
“I do. My friends?”
She shook her head. “Only you. The truck was torn in half. So was the one following. You can thank Captain O’Hara for getting you out of there. He saved you.”
“Where is he?” I asked. Things were swimming into focus, if slowly.
“Gone. He was hit with a mortar round on dustoff. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but there are a lot of wounded here, and lying to you won’t help. You’re lucky to be alive, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that you have all your parts.” She fidgeted, and it was the first sign of nerves she’d shown. After looking down and away, she returned her gaze to me, and it was even sadder still. I wasn’t sure what was coming, but I knew it was bad.
“You pulled through surgery easily, even though it took six units of blood to keep you from coding, which makes what I have to tell you even harder.”
“Harder? Than everyone being dead? What could be worse than that?” I asked, and my throat felt like it was full of sand. I was afraid. I knew the feeling, and it sat on my chest like a beast, stealing my breath as I waited for the doctor to speak.
“If you’re well enough to travel in two days, you’re going straight home. No processing, no stateside care until you—until you’ve taken care of some family business, Kurt.” Her lips pulled down in a frown, and she plucked at my sheets, then stared at me with a gaze that had a physical weight. “You’re going home to Iowa because your mother is dying, and she’s waiting for you to get there before she goes.”
The room began to spin, and everything went black.
2
Mom died at 1:15 in the afternoon on a rainy Thursday in October. I know it was right then because she gave a little sigh, and one moment she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. The room got cool, and she was very still and pale, almost immediately, like her soul had other business and couldn’t wait around.
For three days after, dad and I drank whiskey until we were almost blind; he for his own reasons, and me because of the visions. I wasn’t sober enough to describe them, and on the morning of the third day, I woke up so hungover I wanted to cry in the sink, then stood in the shower, letting the cool tile bring a spot of relief to my throbbing skull.
I drank from the tap, washed my face, and went out to the kitchen to find my dad sitting there shaved, showered, and drinking coffee, his big hands around the cup like it was his only connection to life. We were almost identical—six feet, two inches tall, muscular from work, with brown hair and green eyes—but he wore a beard that lent him the air of a brawny professor, while I have always looked exactly like what I was: a fighter who happened to drive a truck in the army.
But not anymore.
I winced, sitting down as pain lanced through me—pain of my wounds, my loss, and my hangover. The holy trinity of hurt, all roosting on my shoulders like an old friend.
“Whiskey ran out last night. Time to move on a bit, I think,” Dad said, and I nodded, though it hurt. He was right, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
“Okay,” I managed.
He said nothing, but stared for a long time. “I’ve always been honest with you, Kurt, so I’m not going to stop now. I need the same from you. Can you do that for me?”
“What? Sure. I think.” I adjusted in my chair, cringing. “Why?”
Dad sipped his coffee, the ghost of a smile at his lips. “Don’t remember what you said?”
“I—no. Not really.”
“That’s okay.” He stood and poured me a coffee, then topped off his own. Handing me the cup, he said, “Tell me about seeing your mom.”
I spluttered, putting the mug down and looking at my dad with stunned shock, but then I saw his face and I just knew. It all came back in a rush. Mom, standing there, telling me things. The river. The—rock? The rock, I thought, as the memory clicked into place like a missing puzzle piece.
“I’ve seen her. Here, since she died. For the past three days,” I admitted.
“And?”
“She . . . tells me things,” I said.
“Like what?” he prompted.
I shrugged, then found the words. “Go to the rock and split it? At the river?”
Dad got quiet, then he came and sat back down, never taking his eyes off mine. “Split the rock and take the flail. Free the captives and hunt well.”
I stared. Those were the exact words that had been haunting me in my stupor. I couldn’t drink them away, and now I knew there was no running from them, even sober—or relatively so-- and hurting in the morning light.
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice a ragged whisper.
“Because she told me too, but you’re her son—her blood—and there was a lot more to your mother than you or I will ever know. Do you know the rock? The one she told you about?” he aske
d.
“No. What rock?” I asked, confused.
“Think back, Kurt. You were eight. We were at the river, where the water swirls under the cut bank and floods around that square—”
“Rock that I stood and fished on. Mom said it was special. Said it was a—a place for holding things,” I said softly. It was so distant a memory, it seemed like a movie watched through a curtain, just shapes and hints of a different past.
Dad nodded toward the door. “Get your coat, Kurt. Go to the river. You’ll know what to do.”
I stood, numb, then turned back to him because I was afraid he would disappear, too. “Dad?”
He understood. “I’ll be here when you come back. I have to go on living, Kurt, even if I don’t want to. It’s what she would have wanted for us. Go on, now. I’ll be waiting.”
Hours later I stood at the river’s edge, the water high and wild from the hard rains. There, in front of me, was a rock like no other, square and squat and gray, jutting from the cold mud like an alien visitor that had gotten lost and stuck in the mire.
I approached then tapped the rock with my boot. Nothing happened, and I let a nervous laugh slip out. Only a jay answered, squawking at me from a nearby tree. The river surged on, swirling around the rock in inky blackness. It was getting dark. The day was gone, and I wasn’t sure where.
“Break the rock, Kurt. Break the chains. Free them, Kurt.”
I didn’t look around. I knew who it was, and I knew my world had just gotten more complex. An image bulldozed into my thoughts. A woman—thin, dry, and ancient. Her skin pulled away from teeth too sharp for any human. A crossed chain around her chest. The Night Flail. The name came to me like a whisper, and in a flash, I knew it was old—older than America, or the people who had come here in ships centuries ago. Maybe it had always been here. Like the river.
“I will, mom. How do I—” I began, then felt my hand begin to grow warm. At the edge of my vision, I could see her. My mother, or at least her shape, and then I knew she had been something more than just a woman. She had been a hunter. A witch.
She had been justice.
I knelt on the rock, reaching into the freezing water where a slim stone hung limp on a rusted chain, slowly turning in the dark water. The thing piece of rock wasn’t just stone—it was knife—very old, and put here as a one-time thing meant for a reason that made all the sense in the world.
I raised the stone blade and brought it down on a spot that wavered in my eyes. A weak place, I knew, and the blade shattered with a thunderous crack just as the stone split and the river invaded, covering the woman inside before I could memorize her face. I had a glimpse before the water covered her, but it was enough. High cheekbones, black hair, and as close to a mummy as could be. There was a ragged wool garment wrapped around her, and a knife in each hand—wicked things meant to kill, not for show. I snaked a hand under the surface to the center of her chest and pulled, shattering bones and skin like worn parchment.
The flail came loose and wrapped around my wrist like a lover.
The rock began to dissolve, and I heard one last thing before staggering away from the muddy bank, clinging to the flail even as it clung to me.
“Use your vision, son, and hunt well.”
3
“New York?” My mind was still racing to catch up with my rapidly changing reality, and now Dad throws this at me? How about a few days to come to terms with the fact that my mother was so much more than she had seemed? In a short time, she’d gone from a person, to a memory, to a point of grief, and then—a hunter of something with a weapon that seemed not of this world. It was a seismic shift under my feet, and it centered around a woman I thought I knew.
Dad gave me a sympathetic smile. “It won't do you much good to hang around here forever. We'd both just mope around all day and nothing would get done. I’ve got to get back to work, and you . . . well, I think you know what it is you need to do, Kurt.”
I looked down at the arm that the weapon had wrapped itself around just hours earlier.
“It’s like a flail, right? I don’t know a lot about ancient weapons, but it looks like a flail?” I asked.
Dad nodded. “It is. Rarely saw the night of day when your mother used it. She knew things, Kurt, and the weapon knew things, too. It was purpose made to hunt the night.”
“The Night Flail. It fits,” I said, staring at the skin it had touched. The flail was gone now, or at least it could no longer be seen. But I could still sense it there, a presence like a cat ready to pounce. I had considered telling Dad about it and decided against it. He was probably happier knowing no more than he did now. As hard as all this was for me, I couldn't imagine what it was like to learn the woman you loved had kept such a secret from you for so long, but there was a quiet strength to him that never wavered. He was steady, constant—like the river where the flail had been hidden, and I was thankful for that.
There were things I wanted to ask him—like how much he had suspected, how much she had told him, and how much he knew that I didn't. But the words for the questions just wouldn't form, and I knew that I would become a different person. Maybe that guy could ask. Someday.
“But why New York?” I asked instead.
He shrugged. “Your mother brought it up from time to time. She said how much she wanted to go there, but when I made vacation plans, she insisted it was important to go with you. So we waited for you to come home from overseas, and, well . . . Anyway, I think what she really wanted was to bring you there. I'm not sure why, or what she wanted to show you, but there's only one way you'll find out.”
More mysteries. It seemed like a pretty flimsy reason to suddenly pack up and move to an unfamiliar state on the surface. Yet some part of my me, and instincts I was only beginning to realize I had, told me that he was right.
An awkward silence passed between us, until finally I let out a gusty sigh. “Good a plan as any, I guess. I'll go pack up and be on the next flight out.”
Dad suddenly looked troubled, guilt plain on his face. “I don't want you to think I'm kicking you out, Kurt. If you need some time, you're always welcome—”
I shook my head, cutting him off. “No, you're right. I need to do this. It will be good to have something to do, something to make me active so I’m not just wallowing around, moaning about my losses. Our losses, that is.” Besides, I had learned that I was not going to be allowed to return to active duty anytime soon. I didn't voice that part, though.
I didn't have a whole lot to pack, only a handful outfits, mostly cheap, a couple of books, and a few souvenirs from my tour overseas. It all fit into a single duffle bag, which I slung over my shoulder as I prepared to depart for the airport.
Dad met me at the door. He looked worried, an emotion I didn’t often see on his wizened face. “Kurt, I'm not exactly sure what it is that you are getting into to, but . . . be careful. If I lost you as well . . .”
I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know, Dad.”
“Promise me you'll come home if it gets too dangerous.”
“I will.” I avoided using the words I promise because I hated making promises I couldn't keep.
I gave my father a hug, then turned and walked away from my family home for the last time.
In retrospect, I probably should have waited for my severance from the army before I decided to begin my new life. I was cash poor at the moment, and after my plane ticket, subway fare, and a dinner that consisted of a street-cart hot dog and water from the fountain, my net worth was in the double-digits. Needless to say, paying for lodging was going to be a bit of a problem.
New York City was a big and exciting place—unquestionably, in my mind, the greatest city in the world. Given that my experiences were restricted mostly to rural Iowa, a few military camps, and the Afghani deserts, I didn't have much of a frame of reference. Everything was bright, and crowded, and teeming with activity. People walked briskly and with purpose. The smells of food from diverse cultures assaulted m
y senses, changing with each new street I walked down. Mostly, the city felt alive in a way that no other place I’d ever been had.
I was eager to explore it fully . . . once I got a decent night's rest.
After asking around a bit, I was able to get directions to seedy looking hotel in an equally run-down part of the city. Here the streetlights didn't seem to work, the walls were more graffiti than stone, and the smells were of exhaust fumes and sewage. The hotel was called “The Show Relief,” but enough of the letters of the sign were dim that it now read, “The Hole.”
The inside of the hotel hinted at glories past. The walls were lined with portraits of celebrities from long before I was born who had been apparently been guests here. The decor looked like it might have been expensive at one point, and the open layout suggested the designers had expected a good deal of foot traffic. That was all in the past now, as everything was either cracked, broken, or showed signs of water damage and mold. It was, however, within my price range, and that was all that mattered.
I rang the bell at the front desk and waited. When I got no response, I rang it again, then a third time in growing agitation. Finally, I heard some shouting from a room off to the side. The door slammed open and a middle-aged woman came storming out, her clothing wrinkled and her hair matted. She must have been asleep.
“I said, I'm coming!” she barked as she passed behind the front desk. “Nobody has any patience these days. It's all the damn coddling parents. Junior demands a toy, mom and dad see to it he gets it right away. They never teach the little brats that rewards come to those who wait. Millennials, I'll tell you, are the most impatient generation.” She fixed a glare on me. “Well, what do you want? You were in such a hurry five-seconds ago, now you're just going to stand there with your mouth agape?”
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