Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel)

by Stephanie Rowe

  Anticipation rushed through him. He was finally going to track down his brother, and he was going to do it with the woman he couldn't get off his mind. He could still remember exactly what Jordyn smelled like: a faint hint of vanilla, sprinkled with something lighter, something so decidedly female that his cock got hard every time he thought about it. He could still recall the highlights in her hair when the sun had slipped through the thick jungle canopy and brushed over her slightly crooked ponytail. And those two kisses. Those two brief, incredible kisses that he couldn't get out of his mind, not even for a moment.

  And now, she was back in his life. She was waiting for him. And he was late.

  The spirit he'd been following to the grave flickered suddenly, jerking his mind back to the present. Swearing, he sent a careful pulse of magic at it, pulling it back into the physical world just as it started to fade. It surged back into sight, a slippery, silvery-gray presence fighting his grasp. The glittering shadow hovered restlessly between two trees, waiting impatiently. It swirled in and out of sight as if it were still alive.

  Eric loosened his grip on it just enough to allow it to move again. With a sudden surge of energy, it burst into action, streaking toward the burial ground that would empower it to break Eric's hold.

  Eric pushed onward relentlessly, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hold the spirit in this world for much longer. Once his guide dematerialized, he would have no way to find the cemetery that had once been a holy burial site, but which had been consumed by the swamp over two hundred years ago.

  The spirit traveled swiftly, and Eric had to break into a run to keep it in sight. He slogged through the swamp to solid ground, and then was able to move more quickly as his feet found purchase in the mucky soil. His body moved with the same grace it always had, and it felt good to unleash the power he usually had to keep contained in mainstream society. His stride lengthened, and his muscles elongated as strength surged through him. The thick, steamy air weighed on him as he ran, but he kept his pace even, tracking the spirit as it led him deeper and deeper into the swamp that the locals refused to enter.

  Then, finally, Eric felt his body suddenly go taut, as if his muscles were made of wire strung so tightly they were about to snap. The spirits of the dead were nearby. He eased to a stop, his skin humming with the energy of dozens of spirits, entities who had feasted upon the life that still existed in this world.

  His weapon ready, he slipped between the trees, his senses open wide as he searched the night for all the information he could find. The spirit he'd been tracking ducked behind a massive cypress tree, and then vanished, but he didn't need it anymore.

  He was close.

  He could feel it.

  Forcing himself to approach more slowly than he wanted, he eased through the overgrowth, calling upon his deeper skills to move with absolute silence. He passed the cypress tree, and then froze. Ahead of him, covered in moss and dampness, were seven ancient, crumbling headstones. He could feel the weight of the spirits in the area...all of them heavy with malice and darkness.

  The burial site of the damned.

  In this region, most bodies were buried above ground because the water table was too high, but these had been buried deep beneath the earth, cut off from any chance of them reconnecting with the human society they had terrorized. In front of the first headstone was a burned patch of soil centered around a small, black stone.

  He knew instantly what it was, and adrenaline surged through him. Anticipation and triumph, marred by a dark foreboding. Tristan had been there. It was his altar.

  Eric had seen Tristan build hundreds of altars as a kid, until they'd discovered the dark side of his brother's abilities. Tristan didn't do it anymore, and yet the signs were unmistakable. Tristan had been there, trying to resurrect whoever had been buried in that grave. "Tristan. You around?" His voice was low, drifting through the mist for only his brother to hear.

  There was no response, and he tried again, this time reaching out telepathically over the bond he and Tristan had shared since they were kids, though it hadn't worked since Tristan had gone missing. Tristan? You here?

  Again, no response, but once more he heard the deep whine of a large, wild animal. It was in the distance, but the menacing sound made his muscles tense with readiness. Moving quickly, he strode out into the clearing, staying low and ready as he swiftly approached the altar his brother had abandoned.

  He crouched in front of the headstone and shined his flashlight on the burned patch of dirt. Instead of the single stone he'd expected to see, there were dozens of small, rounded rocks, all filthy, so covered in soot that they had blended into the ground from a distance. Tristan never used more than one stone, and yet there were close to two dozen in this one spot. Had he tried more than once, or had all the stones been used for a single, massive burst of power?

  During the year he'd been searching for Tristan, he'd refused to give up hope that his studious brother was holed up in a library somewhere, consumed by some massive research project that had made him forget that the rest of the world existed. But this site destroyed that delusion. His brother was in trouble, serious trouble. "What the hell were you trying to raise, Tristan?" Eric whispered as he picked up one of the stones.

  The stone was dead and lifeless, which meant considerable time had passed since Tristan's magic had run through it. It was also intact, which meant his brother hadn't been successful in the resurrection. He picked up another. The surface was rough, and it flaked off under his thumb, but this one was also intact. Eric began to relax. If Tristan had failed, then he might still be okay—

  He suddenly noticed a large stone to the right of the grave marker. Unlike the others, it was streaked with a blood-red spatter that appeared to be sunk deep into the rock...and it was cracked in half, splayed open on the ground in two parts.

  A dark shadow of unease crept down Eric's spine. The broken stone could mean only one thing: Tristan had successfully resurrected whoever had been buried in that grave. Who was worth the cost it would have taken on his brother to call upon so much magic?

  Eric flashed his light onto the crumbling headstone. The carvings in the granite were faded and chipped away, making the name unreadable, but there was no doubt that the year was 1621.

  For his brother to resurrect someone or something that had been dead for almost four hundred years, the cost to Tristan was unimaginable. Why had he done it? And what had happened in the time that had passed since then?

  Then the thin beam of his light settled upon a marking at the top of the headstone, a carving so deep and violent that it had survived four hundred years so well that it was almost blinding in its intensity.

  It was three intersecting triangles bisected with a stake, the ancient warning symbol that the locals had once used to warn that it was a gravesite of the damned.

  It was the symbol of a vampire.

  ***

  Tristan had raised a vampire?

  No. He would never do that. Ever. There had to be another explanation.

  Eric plunged his hand into the dirt and opened his mind, searching for the truth of what had happened. The moment he dropped his mental shields, the dark energy of the spirits in the vicinity converged upon him. Images flashed through his mind of bloodied corpses, ravenous hunger, and the gaping emptiness of souls long missing. There was no doubt that the creatures buried there were every bit the predators they'd been accused of being. Evil plunged deep inside him, seeking a foothold to anchor itself to, as the spirits trapped in the burial ground swarmed him.

  He closed his eyes, knowing he had only seconds left to raise his shields before the spirits of the dead would consume him. He plunged his mind deep into the soil beneath him, sending out tendrils in every direction. Deeper and deeper he went, searching for the vessel of the body that was supposed to be in the grave.

  The soil was thick with maleficent violence, tainted with the shadows of the creature that had once lain there, but Eric could find no physical r
emains lingering. The body was definitely gone. Tristan had brought it back to life.

  Eric gritted his teeth. "What the hell have you done, Tristan?"

  But it was pretty obvious what Tristan had done. He'd resurrected a vampire that had been dead for almost four hundred years, one so evil that it had been buried in this remote site, its grave marked with ancient runes to protect against it coming back to life or causing any more harm.

  Tristan had brought it back to life. Hell.

  Sudden, spine-chilling malevolence knifed through him, and he slammed his mental shields closed just as invisible claws gripped his heart. For a split second, he couldn't breathe, and he thought he'd reacted too late, but then the menacing presence fled his body.

  He sucked in a deep breath, reinforcing his psychic walls as the evil of the dead continued to circulate around him. He could feel them pushing at him, trying to take advantage of the connection that they'd just shared, seeking access to him.

  He needed to get out of there and rebuild his protections properly. Knowing he had very little time, he pulled his hand out of the dirt and grabbed his phone to take a picture of the headstone. Moving with ruthless efficiency, he took snapshots of each crumbling carving, hoping that he'd be able to decipher the name of the interred and get a clue as to why Tristan had done it. Sweat poured down his back as he canvassed the rest of the burial ground. No more graves had been tampered with. That main one was the only one Tristan had wanted.

  Nevertheless, Eric snapped pictures of the other headstones, all of which were crumbling as well. The vampire mark was on the top of each headstone. Why had Tristan chosen this one? Why had he left the others? Eric worked quickly, an increasing sense of foreboding weighing on him. He needed to get out of the area, and fast.

  Just as he snapped his final picture, he heard a low growl again, this time, to his right, and close. He spun fast, shoving his phone in his pocket as he readied his knife. He went into a crouched position, using the headstone to shield his right side as he stared into the thick woods.

  He shone his light into the dark, and two large, red eyes reflected back at him. He caught a glimpse of a shadowed body and white canines, and then it bolted, disappearing into the darkness.

  He had less than a split second of relief, when he heard a sudden scream. It was a woman's voice, and it was coming from the direction the animal had just taken. Fear tore through him. Jordyn? Had she followed him into the swamp? Earlier today, he'd texted her about the burial site he'd been planning to investigate. Had she taken it upon herself to come here? That was something she would do. "Jordyn!"

  He reacted instantly, without even thinking. He sprinted straight into the woods after the animal, toward the woman it was hunting. He caught a glimpse of movement ahead, but it was gone before he could identify it. "Hey!" he shouted. "Come back and get me! Leave her alone!" He hurled a rock in the direction of the creature, but it fell with a thud on the ground as the creature vanished through the trees. "Hello? Is anyone out here? Jordyn!"

  Ominous silence greeted him. The woman whose scream he'd heard didn't respond. Fear thick in his throat, he surged forward, scanning the swamp for her, for the animal, or even for a broken twig. Anything to tell him where they'd gone and what had happened.

  He found nothing. Not one single indication that anything had been there. He wanted to lower his mental shields to search on the spiritual level, but the air was still so thick with malevolence he knew he couldn't risk it. He'd do no one any favors if he became a vessel for the evil trying to take root in his body.

  As he searched, he texted Jordyn. Where are you? He had to know it wasn't her, that she wasn't dead ten feet from him, invisible even to his enhanced senses.

  She didn't reply.

  Jordyn. You okay?

  No response.

  His fingers itched with the need to call her, but they'd never spoken on the phone before. Their only contact had been brief texts arranging the logistics of her arrival. After their two-day trek through the jungle in search of her friend, they'd parted ways. She'd returned to Boston to make arrangements for long-term coverage of the battered women's shelter she owned, and he'd come to Louisiana to start tracking Tristan again.

  During the entire time they'd been apart, there'd been no calls. No familiarity. She'd put up the emotional barriers, refusing to acknowledge any text where he even mentioned sex. Business only. Text only.

  Screw that. The rules changed when a woman was attacked in the swamp. He didn't hesitate as he hit that green button on his screen and called her.

  The phone went right into her voicemail, and an automated recording requested he leave a message. Disappointment surged through him at the computerized voice, and he realized that he'd been expecting to hear her voice. He left her a brief message. "It's me. Call if you get this. Now." He hung up, frustration and fear hammering through him as he widened his search. "Jordyn!" He shouted again, his voice dampened by the heavy growth of the bayou. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

  He found nothing. Swearing, he knew he had no choice but to expose himself to the darkness hunting him. Keeping a tight focus on his mind, he lowered his mental shields slightly and reached out to touch the spiritual energy of the area. He didn't find even a whisper of the woman's spirit, not a footprint from the animal, and no more signs of his brother.

  It was as if it had never happened.

  But he knew it had.

  What the hell was going on? And why hadn't Jordyn called him back?

  Chapter 2

  Jordyn Leahy stood in the doorway of the fifth bar she'd visited over the last two and a half hours, debating whether or not to try one more place or check into her hotel and crash. She was tired. Her feet hurt from wearing heels. She needed a shower, and she'd had enough of the lascivious approaches she'd been fending off all night.

  Eric had never shown up at Mack's Diner. She'd waited over two hours, and he'd never appeared. No text. No call. Nothing. After traveling all day, her phone battery had been dying. She'd contemplated leaving it on in case he needed her. But what if he'd never called and her phone had died? There was no way she was foolish enough to strand herself without a phone, so she'd finally shut it off after an hour. Once she'd cut him off, she actually felt better and more empowered. Why should she wait around for a guy who couldn't be bothered to keep a date they'd had for a month? Not a date, but still.

  She didn't need him. She'd immediately decided to give up her vigil and take action on her own, and had headed out to canvass the local bars to start the search for Tristan herself.

  As she'd walked out of Mack's Diner, she'd been a little annoyed with herself for waiting even that long for Eric. She knew what he was like. She knew better than to count on someone like him. Even for Tristan, she would not align herself with a man like Eric, who seemed to be obsessively focused on convincing her to have sex with him. The one thing she didn't do anymore was get involved with men on any level. Been there, done that, time to find some new experiences in life.

  But even as she thought it, she couldn't help the smile that flickered over her face at the thought of how many times Eric had suggested they get horizontal. His audacity was actually completely charming, and she was fascinated by the fact that a part of her almost wanted to scream "yes" and leap into his arms so he could show her exactly how great a lover he really was.

  But the other part of her would rather stick splinters under her fingernails than get naked with him, or any other man.

  Eric had told her Tristan was missing, and that her hometown, Parrish Creek, was the last place he'd been seen. Now that she knew that, she didn't need Eric anyway. She could search for Tristan on her own. She owed him that much. No, she owed him everything. She owed him her life. Eight times, in fact.

  But even as she'd trekked around from bar to bar, she couldn't help wondering what had kept Eric. Yes, he was an incorrigible flirt, but he'd risked his life to help find her friend, and she knew how much his brother meant to him. Despite h
is best efforts to convince her otherwise, she knew he wasn't only the shallow playboy he liked to present himself as. So, where was he? Fear flickered through her, and she tried to shove it aside. She'd seen glimpses of what Eric could do, and she knew he could take care of himself. He wasn't her concern.

  With a sigh, she adjusted her purse over her shoulder, surveying the low-ceilinged bar that was mere yards from the swamp. One more bar, and then she was calling it a night. The sooner she found Tristan, the sooner she could go back to her life.

  The windows were wide open, but thick screens held the insects at bay. The stench of overheated bodies and humidity was thick and almost toxic. Would Tristan ever have come here?

  Maybe, if he thought there was something or someone here of interest. Tristan's project had been important to him, and he'd been willing to do anything to get answers. Was this the place where she would finally get a break? Someone must have seen him. The last time she'd been with him, he'd been in this town, researching ancient cemeteries. He'd said it would take at least two years to finish his project, and yet, he was gone.

  Someone in this town had to know something. They might not tell a stranger like Eric, but she wasn't a stranger. Not by a long shot. This used to be her town.

  Two men were at a nearby table, their jeans and tee shirts doing little to hide the sheer mass of muscle that both of them carried. Their gazes were bold as they roved over her, their eyebrows lifted in an unspoken invitation that even an antisocial woman like herself couldn't fail to recognize. She also recognized, however, the faces of both of them. The Gaston brothers, who had both been several years ahead of her in high school, were the kind of guys who dominated every room they walked into, who had exuded power even when they were teenagers. Boys that, even then, she had instinctively stayed away from.

  There was no recognition in their eyes as they watched her. Though she had seen many people from her past tonight, not a single one had realized who she was. They hadn't noticed that she had once been the skinny, gawky child that ran wild through the fringes of the bayou, playing with the neighbors' kids while her father passed out on their back porch after a night of binge drinking.