Hunter's Mark: A Star-Crossed Book (Loki's Wolves 0)

by Melissa Snark

  "I'm sure he was prone to exaggeration." Chuckling, Daniel waved his hand. "Keep going."

  She scanned the rest and shrugged. "There's not much more. It says the skeleton is sighted infrequently, but most often on All Hallow's Eve. North of here, around Slaughterhouse Gulch. Patrick thinks it's 'probably a waste of time but he reckons he'll check it out'."

  "Maybe we should too, although, rumors of a lost gold mine and a giant skeleton aren't much to go on." Daniel glanced over the clock. His charging cell phone also sat on the nightstand. As if on cue, it rang.

  He picked it up and glanced at the display. "It's Gus."

  "That was fast."

  He nodded. "I'm going to take this."

  "Sure." Victoria eased off the edge of the mattress and moved a few feet from the bed. She would've preferred to give him more privacy than that, but she had nowhere to go but the bathroom or the balcony. Of course, she could go stand around in the hallway but she didn't want to and wouldn't—unless he asked.

  "Hey, man. What's up?" Daniel paused, listening to whatever reply his friend offered, and then said, "Okay, great. Let me grab something to write on—"

  Victoria snatched a courtesy notepad and pen, both bearing the Hermosa Inn logo, off the desktop and passed it to him.

  "Thanks," Daniel said to her. He held his phone pressed between his face and shoulder and bent, poised to write. "Go ahead."

  Succumbing to irresistible curiosity, Victoria edged closer to get a look. He'd written: North—State Route 89.

  "Yeah, I got that. Thanks. What time?" Daniel added: 11:03 a.m.

  His conversation with his buddy continued, straying into shop talk. Victoria's discomfort over eavesdropping grew in leaps and bounds. The second football came up, she assumed pacing a restless circuit about the room, looking for a diversion when a soft yellow halo caught her attention.

  Lo and behold—was that a spiritual glow from the balcony? Victoria squelched an impulsive instinct to rush out to investigate. Instead, she took a deep breath, centered herself, and eased through the door leading out onto the terrace.

  This was, Victoria presumed, Charity Briggs—the grief-stricken widow of the missing hunter, Joseph Briggs.

  The ghost rested her forearms upon the railing and stood looking out. She was in her early twenties and pretty in profile. She had on a bright red cloche hat with a black feather tucked into the band. Her curly brunette hair was cut short. She wore a sleeveless summer dress: a scoop-neck and drop waist style with a pleated skirt.

  To Victoria's surprise, Charity possessed both dimension and color. Often, spirits manifested only their torsos but this young woman had legs and feet, complete with cute, strappy sandals even though elegant, heeled shoes would've been better suited to her attire.

  "Isn't it just like a man to bring his lover to a fancy place like this, then just ignore her to talk about sports?" The spirit spoke with a honeyed southern drawl, although Victoria lacked the regional knowledge necessary to assign her accent to a specific state.

  Surprised at being addressed first and with such directness, Victoria rocked on her heels. "Ah..." She was caught off-guard and at a momentary loss for words. She recovered enough to ask, "How do you know we're lovers and not married?"

  A light but sarcastic laugh came from the ghost. With a flip of her hair, she turned, revealing a face that was lovelier in full than in profile. She had a heart-shaped face and beautiful hazel eyes, bright with intelligence.

  "I'm not blind. I've been watching you since you checked in," Charity said. "Any fool could see those handcuffs you're wearing are just for show. Your ring doesn't even fit. No self-respecting woman would let her husband get away with that."

  Victoria grinned and twisted the two-sizes-too-big band on her finger. "Maybe we eloped."

  "I don't think so." Charity smirked, obviously enjoying their repartee. "Your man is a hunter. He's got the mark." She turned further and pointed, drawing attention to the dagger-shaped tattoo on her upper arm that was an exact match for Daniel's, except a little smaller and hers was silver.

  Victoria's mouth opened. Well, she hadn't seen that coming. It took her a second to recover. The spirit's lucidity and stability were exceptional, but her awareness of her surroundings? Extraordinary, and unlike anything in her experience as a Valkyrie or a priestess.

  "My name is Victoria Storm. My partner in there is Daniel Barrett." She waved over her shoulder, a vague gesture toward Daniel. "You're right—he is a hunter. But I wasn't aware you were one too, Charity."

  Charity's slim shoulders swung in a shrug. "In my day, women who hunted were rare."

  "They still are. I'm not a hunter."

  "I caught that too." She flashed a quick smile. "Oh boy, a werewolf and a hunter shaking up—that's just the bee's knees. No offense intended, but in the 1920s we were as likely to kill each other when our paths crossed."

  "None taken. Wolves and hunters—we've been at peace for almost thirty years," Victoria explained automatically. Charity's mix of old and new slang just set her head to spinning. "Uh, my turn. No offense intended—"

  "None taken!"

  "But how is it you're so damn..."

  "Gorgeous?" Charity beamed and struck a pose.

  Victoria chuckled. "Coherent?"

  "Oh." Charity dropped her arms and frowned. "I wasn't always. For decades, I haunted this hotel. Time was a blur. The outside world changed so fast but I was trapped in my bubble..."

  "What happened to change things?"

  "A man stayed here—in this room." Charity crossed arms and grasped her own shoulders in subconscious expression of distress. "He talked to me and somehow he made everything better."

  "Better?"

  "Clearer. I could focus—for the first time since forever..." The ghost shook her head. "For the first time since I died, I could think straight."

  "How... Do you know what he did?" Victoria counted herself as a stronger than average medium and the enchantment Charity had described was well beyond her ability. Her mind baffled, trying to surmise what it might've been, but she came up empty-handed.

  "No."

  "How long ago was his visit?"

  "Um, it's October..." Charity considered, performing the calculation. "It'll be three years come December. I recall clearly that he visited just prior to Christmas. The hotel puts up decorations and there's always a tree in the lobby."

  "Good," Victoria murmured encouragement. "What was his name?"

  "He didn't tell me." Charity bit her lower lip and shook her head in a frantic motion. Her obvious distress worried Victoria. The ghost might not destabilize, but if she grew upset enough she could still opt to simply wink out.

  "That's okay. Can you tell me what he looked like?"

  "No," Charity said, uncompromising in her refusal. "I can't. I won't."

  "Why not?"

  "He asked me not to tell anyone about him. I promised I wouldn't." Charity looked Victoria straight in the eyes. "I can tell you don't understand, but please try. He helped me, before and after I answered his questions. He wanted to help me move on—"

  "So do I."

  "Well, I don't want to move on." Charity crossed her arms over her chest. The spirit's aura acquired reddish hues. "I refuse to give up on Joseph."

  "Whoa, it's okay." Victoria held up calming hands and chose her words with care. "I respect that. I promise. You shouldn't ever give up on the man you love."

  "And I won't. I won't move on. Not until I'm reunited with my husband."

  Victoria winced because the odds of Joseph still being alive were just... not good. Daniel had exaggerated the quote-unquote hundred years by quite a bit, but it had still been eighty-two years. The man was gorgeous but maybe not so good at math? So if Charity's husband had been say... Twenty in 1927? She did the calculation. Yeah, the guy must be dead or in a nursing home.

  "I know my husband isn't alive," Charity said in a soft voice. "Joseph loved me—he never would've left like that. He was murdered."


  "You know that for sure?"

  "Yes. He's close. I can feel him. He's here—trapped within these walls. I've wandered these halls—searched every room—countless times, but I can't find him. He is here. You have to believe me."

  "I believe you."

  "You do?" Tears brightened Charity's eyes.

  "I do, and I'm going to help you find him. I'll do everything in my power to reunite you with Joseph. I promise."

  "You'd do that?" Charity searched Victoria's face and her anguish subsided.

  "I would and I will." Victoria held up her hand in a pledge. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like... Anything. Start with what you were doing here in Granite Creek."

  "We were actually here on our honeymoon. When we checked in, there were dozens of long-stem red roses all over this room... Belgium chocolates on the bed and champagne on ice. Joseph was an incurable romantic." She beamed, love in her smile as she spoke of her husband.

  "That sounds wonderful."

  "It was. We came here chasing his dream. His fantasy was to recover a lost fortune. I knew him since we were kids, and he never stopped searching. Of course, I didn't actually expect to find anything. I was always the realist. But it made him happy, so we came to Granite Creek to search for the lost gold mine."

  "Why this gold mine specifically?" Victoria had no idea exactly how many lost gold mines there must be, but she imagined the count to be higher than one.

  Charity chuckled. "Joseph had an old map he found in an antique shop."

  "A map could be helpful. What happened to it?"

  "When we checked in, he put it in the hotel safe. I never saw it again. A few hours later, Joseph went out for smokes. I waited but he never came back."

  "Did you report him missing?"

  "Yes, of course, but the coppers weren't interested. They took a report, but I could tell what they were thinking—that he'd left and I was just some stupid woman who was too naive to realize her husband had left her..." Charity gulped air and tears ran down her cheeks. Ruby tones streaked her aura again.

  "I'm so sorry." Victoria's heart ached for the poor woman. Compassion welled up within her. She wanted to help Charity, to offer support. It led her to do something she seldom did voluntarily. Victoria braced herself and laid a gentle hand on the other woman's shoulder. Her expectation was that the spirit's flesh would be icy. The dead always conveyed the chill of the grave. But to her shock, Charity's arm was hot.

  Charity nodded and swiped at her cheek. "The morning after Joseph went missing, the hotel manager, Sebastian Greer, came by to see how I was doing. At first, I didn't think anything of it. I thought he was simply being kind, but the next morning he asked me to leave. Said he thought it would be for the best. When I refused, he demanded payment upfront. I scraped together what little money I had and it was enough to cover the bill, but Joseph had been carrying most of our funds."

  "Did you call anyone?"

  "Just my mother, but she was disabled."

  "Mr. Greer came back, didn't he?" Victoria had a suspicion—a vision of what had happened next unfolding in her head. But she wanted to hear the story from Charity.

  "The next morning," Charity said, nodding. "He demanded payment again but I'd run out of money. He said I to pay up or get out. I refused. He left but—" Her throat worked as she swallowed. "That night he returned. I must have dozed off because I didn't hear him knock—if he did at all. Somehow, he got into the room. He must've let himself in with a master key."

  "Are you okay? We can stop if this is too difficult. I can guess what happened next."

  "Yes, I'm fine." With a visible effort, Charity gathered herself and then continued. "Greer was mad. In a terrible temper and he stank of booze. He was ranting and raving—calling me terrible names—and saying I had to leave. He grabbed me and dragged me out of bed. I think he only intended to force me out but I fought him. I'd been trained to defend myself. I hurt him but he was so much stronger than me. He wrapped his hands around my throat..."

  Sobbing, Charity pulled her hair aside, revealing dark bruises on her throat. Victoria murmured, a soft and nonsensical sound of comfort, and did something she'd never done before in her entire life. She wrapped her arms around the ghost and hugged her. Whatever magic sustained the spirit, giving her substance and solidness, also gave her warmth.

  "I'm sorry, Charity."

  "I am too. I was only twenty. It wasn't fair." Charity trembled like a leaf caught in a fierce wind. "Afterward, he staged it so it looked like I'd hung myself from this balcony. My mother died thinking I'd killed myself—her only child. It must've broken her heart."

  "Let's hope that bastard is rotting in the worst part of hell." Victoria fumed, seething with anger. If she could've wrapped her hands around Sebastian Greer's throat, she would've killed the bastard for what he'd done. She suspected the hotel manager was also behind Joseph's disappearance. Perhaps killed over that stupid treasure map? With so much time passed, it might be impossible to prove. Unless... until... Victoria discovered where Greer had hidden the body. Once he was freed from the walls, maybe Joseph's spirit would confirm what had happened.

  "Please be careful. Sebastian Greer is still here." Charity's fingers dug into Victoria's arms; the sudden chill of the grave biting deep to the bone. The spirit's face contorted in anger and anguish.

  "What do you mean?" Dread coalesced in her gut. She fought the urge to look behind her—as if the long-dead apparition of the villain lurked right behind her.

  "He watches me. He watches everyone who comes into the hotel. He doesn't like intruders." Charity's eyes rolled back in her skull—solid white although the force of her gaze remained a palpable thing.

  "Charity—what's wrong?" Chills ran through her body.

  "He's here now." The spirit caught fire, burned up, and winked out.

  A man's shout emanated from within the room, followed by a whole-body thunk. Victoria whirled toward the sound. Thick black smoke poured through the sliding door. The alarm system split the air with its nerve-shattering shriek. Simultaneously, the ceiling-mounted sprinklers activated, releasing a deluge of water.

  Panic jolted her into motion. She gathered herself and charged, shouting his name. "Daniel!"

  Chapter Seven

  * * * *

  Victoria measured the distance between the balcony and the room in the time she sprinted across the terrace. It took her seconds and centuries to reach the door. The throbbing of her heart. Each labored breath. Endless, awful scenarios in which Daniel died rushed through her mind. Gone before she'd even gotten the chance to know him—and the possibility terrified her.

  Her wolf burst upon her with the eruption of snowy white fur upon the backs of her hands and arms. Bones broke, altered, and reformed. Each step she took—an agony. As she passed the threshold, deadly wolf fangs replaced her human teeth. The points of claws burst from the tips of her fingers and toes. Her beast howled for blood. She halted the transformation before it progressed past the midway point, throttling her most basic instincts until she had a chance to assess the situation. Dependent upon the circumstances, becoming a wolf wasn't necessarily the best choice.

  For a desperate eternity, she scoured the area, searching for any trace of Daniel. Despite the intense spray from the sprinklers, swirling gray smoke obfuscated everything. It burned her eyes and clogged her airways. Her eyeballs itched and watered like crazy. The inflammation built in her lungs until a wracking cough rattled her chest.

  Movement caught her attention. She charged across the room. The bedspread and the research material that'd been stacked on the mattress was scattered across the floor. The smoke got thicker in the center—too dense to see through—so she plunged headlong into the miasma.

  Luck was on her side. She came upon Daniel's prone form with such suddenness that she stumbled to avoid trampling him. He twisted and writhed inside the smoldering cocoon that enswathed him—an insubstantial prison. To
halt her charge, Victoria pulled up, digging in with the claws on her feet. Her nails pierced the carpeting and cut deep slashes.

  A growl built in her chest, overpowering the awful cough that had plagued her since she'd entered the room. Smoke and heat surrounded her, unchecked by the ineffective sprinklers. A swarm of dancing embers filled the air—singeing her face and arms. Her soaked fur provided some protection but the stink of burnt hair was awful.

  A pungent odor permeated the area, overpowering the sulfuric fumes. Magic—white-hot and itchy. It set Victoria's skin to crawling in a way wholly different from shifting, stinging and burning like a million ant bites. She snarled at the ambiguous threat, but all her bluster failed to make a difference. The enchantment couldn't be seen or heard—unquantifiable and elusive.

  Her frustration built until she threatened to burst. Her primal instincts screamed for her to plunge straight in with bared fangs and brandished claws. She couldn't see or smell well enough to identify a target—and she feared harming Daniel on accident.

  Precious seconds ticked past while she assessed the threat. At last, she discerned a shape within the smog—a smoldering spirit. Its hands grasped Daniel's head and covered his face. Fingers made of smoky tendrils pushed into the hunter's nose and mouth as it sought to gain possession of a living host.

  Realization burst upon Victoria—it was a wight.

  "Get off him!" Victoria plunged straight for the dense mass of the smoke that composed the wight's torso. She swung both arms underhanded, hands angled like five-point baling hooks. Her nails punctured its ribcage and embedded deep into flesh and bone, and corrupted soul.

  Wights—rare and powerful. The malignant spirits often appeared upon the demise of a truly wicked person. Their decayed souls continued on in the Shadowlands long after death. But unlike mundane spooks, they possessed the ability to manifest on the physical plane—to touch, and thus to attack, objects and living creatures.

  Daniel clawed at the wight, shoving but failing to dislodge it. He thrashed, kicking out, but his attacks lacked direction and force. His short hair slicked against his skull and his clothing was also soaked. Unable to breathe, he weakened more with each passing second. He must be in agony; his distress compelled her to action.