Hunter's Rise

by Shiloh Walker

  “Yeah?” His voice hitched. This was real. It was happening.

  Maybe fate wasn’t giving him that kick after all… pulling her close, he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face against her neck. “You want to stay here.”

  “I want to be with you. Here, there, none of that matters.” She pressed a kiss on the spot beneath his ear. Then she whispered, “Tor… I don’t like the way the silver smells on you.”

  He started to laugh.

  “Show me who did it. I want to kill him. Then I’ll be nice for the pack. I promise.”

  He laughed harder. Then he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “You can’t, sweetheart. I sort of shoved the rest of the silver nitrate down his throat and he choked on it.”

  “That shouldn’t have killed him.”

  “No. Me breaking his neck finished him off.”

  She sulked. “That bites.” Sighing, she rested her head on his shoulder. “So is this pack going to mind me hanging around town?”

  “You won’t hang around town. You come with me. And they’ll learn to deal.” Smiling, he pressed his lips to hers. “You’re mine… and they’ll deal with it, or deal with me.”

  “I fight my own battles, Tor.” She tipped her head back, watching him. “Maybe I could be useful. I’m good with knives and stuff.”

  “True…” He’d already thought about that. “A bunch of young wolves who need to learn how to fight, and need to get a lot of aggression out— you could have your hands full.” Lowering his head, he whispered, “You really want to stay?”

  “I really want you. And you need to do this… I just want to be where you are.” She pressed her lips to his. “Somehow you went and became everything, Toronto. If you’re here… then so I am I.”

  Everything… Smiling against her mouth, he let himself start to believe.

  “You’re everything for me, too.”

  Turn the page for a preview of

  a romantic suspense novel by Shiloh Walker

  THE REUNITED

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  “N

  OW…if you’ll just put your hand… right about there…”

  Special Agent Joss Crawford stood to the back of the group, his craggy face stoic, mouth unsmiling, eyes unblinking. And it took all of his willpower not to laugh. Keeping a straight face through this shit was a rough gig, but he did it. He wasn’t sure why. He could get where he needed to go without this joker’s help.

  “Do you feel it…”

  Bored, he stared at the area the tour guide had indicated. Nope. He didn’t feel a damn thing.

  “Yes, you feel it, don’t do? Most of you can just sense it…” the guide murmured, his skinny, ratlike face animated, dark eyes glinting in the lights of the flashlights. “That burst of cold, feel how it radiates. All around. Almost like a cold wind.”

  It was a cold wind, Joss thought, bored. A cold front was projected to move through and he had a feeling that had something to do with the sudden cool wind.

  But he couldn’t blame everything on the weather.

  Plenty of weird, though, could be laid at the feet of the guide. If anybody with eyes had bothered to look, they would have seen the clues all over the place. At least, he had.

  He’d seen where the dry ice had been used.

  He’d caught it when the guide had signaled one of his co-workers, too, and not a second later, there had been mysterious banging sounds when they’d stopped in the middle of an open field where a battle had raged nearly a hundred fifty years earlier.

  You can almost hear the soldiers, can’t you…

  All in all, he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth. And he wasn’t even at the highlight of the tour.

  The Oglesby Cemetery. That was still a good thirty minutes away.

  He just wished he knew what it was about that place that drew him so— well, he knew what. He just didn’t know why. He was getting kind of tired of coming down here every couple of months and listening to this fake’s spiel.

  “Y

  OU, sir, have the aura of a man in need.”

  Joss looked down to see the psychic-wannabe standing in front of him, an anxious look on that skinny face, his hands clasped in front of his chest, his eyes hopeful, shining.

  Aw, shit. He wasn’t the target for the night, was he?

  Then the man lifted a hand…

  Yes. He was the target.

  Each time he’d done this tour, the guy had picked somebody out of his group to focus on. He seemed to think it added something to the show, Joss figured. Hell, Joss could really add something to the show. But he wasn’t in the mood to have some fake playing tricks on him, either, and he damn sure wasn’t going to go along with the gag, either.

  Instead of responding, he just stared at him.

  “And you’re so closed off,” Larry “Cap” Rawlings said, his voice heavy and mournful as he peered up at Joss.

  Joss stood six five. Most people had to peer up at him. Normally most people kept some distance but this guy was practically standing on his toes, so close that Joss could smell the garlic he’d eaten. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. The guy had his head tipped so far back, one push against his chest and he’d be off balance enough to end up on his ass.

  Joss amused himself with that image but didn’t let it show on his face as he continued to stare at the con artist. “What is it?” Cap asked again. “Why are you here? What draws you here? What do you seek?”

  Oh, that’s a good guess.

  But if this guy was a psychic, Joss was a prima ballerina.

  And the last time he’d checked, he couldn’t dance to save his life. He’d actually broken his date’s toe at the senior prom. She never let him live that down, either. She was married to his younger brother now and when he went home on the holidays, she teased him ruthlessly. And fondly.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joss said, keeping his voice flat, his face blank and his eyes shuttered. He also deliberately crossed his arms over his chest and looked away— keep out, keep out, keep out—the body movements said it all.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, you do. You seek answers, but you don’t even know if you believe in what you see before you. You don’t believe in the…” He paused dramatically and looked all around. “Gift.”

  Inwardly, Joss snickered. The… Gift? He wondered what this freak would do if he had any idea just what Joss’s gift was. And Joss’s gift was the freak of all freak gifts, because he didn’t exactly have a set gift. He was a mirror— he mirrored the gift of whoever he’d last connected with— partnered with.

  And the last person he’d partnered with had been one of the telepaths on the special tasks force. Eyes slitted, Joss stared hard at Cap and caught a rush of thought.

  “Shit, I should have picked the old broad. She just wants to hear the same shit old bitches always want to hear, but I get so tired of that shit. This guy looked like he’d be more fun, but he’s not going to do a damn thing…”

  “If tips are good tonight, I’m calling Candise—she’s going to blow me so fucking hard to make up for shortchanging me last time.”

  “Damn it, we need to get moving, if it starts to rain, half of these idiots will whine about a refund…”

  The wind grew sharper, colder. Lifting his face to it, Joss breathed it in. “Do we really need to stand around here while you try to play armchair psychologist, Cap?” Joss said. “I came out here to see the cemetery— I wanted to do the night walk through and the only way to do it is with you. If it rains before we get through it because you wanted to chatter, I’m going to ask for my money back.”

  Something ugly flickered in the man’s eyes.

  Joss stared him down and as the guide turned away, he let himself smile.

  T

  HE phone in his pocket buzzed as he stood over the grave.

  This was what drew him.

  Joss didn’t know why.

  He didn’t understand it, couldn’t explai
n it, but this was what drew him.

  Amelie Carrington

  Born April 1, 1910

  Died April 1, 1930

  Died on her birthday, twenty years… to the day.

  Amelie.

  The name was a song in his mind.

  It whispered to him, called to him. And it had ever since the first time he’d seen it, nearly five years ago, when he’d been here working a case with the unit.

  Off to the left, he could hear the rest of the tour group— they were all walking around carrying coat hangers. Dousing rods, that’s what good ol’ Cap had called them.

  Joss could have told all of them that Cap was wasting their time in this part. There weren’t any ghosts waiting for them. If there were any ghosts to be found, they were up in the newer part. Not here.

  As the phone buzzed again, he pulled it out again and scowled at the message.

  Instead of answering it, he hit ignore and went to text him.

  Busy. What’s up?

  Not even a minute passed before the answer came up.

  You’re needed. And my wife wants to know why you’re standing in a graveyard.

  Joss scowled and lifted his head.

  Cap came into his line of view, a tight frown on his face. “You need to put that away. Those are very disruptive to the deceased. Spirits don’t like technology.”

  “Really?” Out of pure curiosity, he texted Taylor back. Ask Dez if the dead care about technology.

  The answer was almost immediate. Why in the hell should they? It doesn’t affect them and the older ones aren’t even aware of it.

  Glancing up at Cap, he smirked. “I have it on good authority that the dead don’t care about technology.” Then he scanned the perimeter of the cemetery. When he saw the car, he sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut my tour short, Cap. I’ve been paged.”

  “Y

  OU’RE into ghost tours now?” Dez asked as Joss came striding up to the car. Up until three months ago, it had been Desiree Lincoln, but then she’d somehow lost her common sense and she’d married Taylor Jones. She was Desiree Jones now.

  Joss tried not to hold that against her.

  “Yeah. I wanted to do the real thing, but I figured Taylor would punch my lights out if I asked you out on a date to show me the real ghosts,” Joss said, flashing her a grin.

  Dez chuckled. “Nah. He’s not the violent type.”

  Joss might have agreed with her— Taylor was normally a cold bastard and nothing affected him. Nothing and nobody. Save for Dez… He’d hidden it pretty well from most people, but Joss had spent too many times mirroring the gifts that let him read minds, read emotions, and when it came to Dez, Taylor’s head and heart were anything but clear.

  Speaking of the boss, he looked over the car and saw the man of the hour. “You know, I’m supposed to be off. For like the next five days straight. I haven’t had many of those mythical off days lately and I specifically requested a few days of personal time.”

  “Yes, you did.” Taylor shrugged. “Sorry, I just needed your particular talents.”

  Joss snorted. “My particular talents are nonexistent. I’m a fucking mynah bird. I mimic everybody else. Find whoever I mimic and stick them in.”

  “I can’t…” He shifted a look at Dez.

  It was just a bare glance— a quick flick and then his eyes were back on Joss’s face. But it was enough. Okay… so Jones wasn’t willing— or able— to send his woman into this? Was that it?

  Dez sighed and flicked her hand through her hair. It was a little longer than she usually wore, falling almost to her chin. “He needs more than a ghost-talker on this gig, Joss. But if he sends in more than one person, we’ll be made. And besides, I’m not exactly the… ideal… person to do this.”

  Joss had heard her. He had. But the one thing his mind focused on was more than a ghost-talker.

  Shit.

  Without even look at the man, without opening his mind, he knew. “You’re going to head-fuck me again, aren’t you?”

  Silence stretched out between them.

  Finally, Taylor sighed. “Joss, I don’t have much choice. You’re the only man I’ve got who can do this. Nobody else has the ability to pick up any needed gift at any given time; I need multiple abilities and I need them now.”

  “Where?” He didn’t bother trying to talk his way out of it. There was no point. He was in this line of work because he had to be. He wasn’t in it for fun, for kicks or for the money. If he was needed, then fuck it. He was needed. Shooting one last glance back toward the stone that kept calling him back here, he looked toward Taylor. The pull had been stronger this time… so much stronger…

  “Here,” Taylor said quietly. “It’s right here. In Orlando.”

  * * *

  F

  ROM the penthouse, she could see the bright lights of the amusement park… and the castle. A bit of whimsy hit her and she wondered what it would be like, to be Cinderella and live in a castle, happy ever after with her prince.

  Her heart skipped at little at the way the lights danced over it. That whimsical part of her, that little girl who’d yearned for that fairy-tale prince, melted inside as she stared at the castle and the longing in her heart just didn’t want to let go.

  But the more practical, cynical part of her was in control as she turned away from the window and made her way toward her bedroom. She wasn’t here on a leisure trip and she wasn’t here to stare moon-eyed at some child’s pipe dream, either.

  She was here to get married.

  And it was going to be a debacle. Her prince charming didn’t exist and she wasn’t expecting that to happen now.

  Drucella Chapman knew that much, even though she wasn’t required to do much of anything. The bloody wedding planners were taking care of everything, from her one-of-a-kind designer gown, to the invitations… what the planners weren’t doing, her fiancé was handling.

  It didn’t feel like her wedding at all.

  But then again, her life didn’t feel like her life, either. “Why should my wedding be any different?”

  The knock at the door caught her off guard.

  It could be one of two people… her father, and she hoped it was him.

  It could be her fiancé. She suspected it was him and she rather hoped it wasn’t.

  It was a good thing she didn’t let herself put much faith in her own hopes, because she was able to keep a smile on her lips as she opened the door and smiled at Patrick Whitemore, the man she was to marry in just under a month. It was going to be at the wedding pavilion, she’d ride in the silly carriage…

  Her heart ached even thinking of it. Her father had mentioned to Patrick that she’d always wanted that fairy-tale wedding and here her men were, in the position to give it to her, so by God…

  “Hello, darling,” Patrick said, dipping his head to brush his lips against her cheek.

  She resisted the urge to flinch and smiled at him. “Patrick, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you so late.”

  “I just wanted to see you, see how you were settling in, Ella.”

  Dru looked down so he wouldn’t see the way she frowned. She hated that name. She’d rather be called Drucella than Ella. Why couldn’t he just call her Dru? Oh, yes. She remembered now… it was another way for him to remind her just how much he controlled her.

  “How are your rooms?”

  She smiled at him. “They are quite lovely, thank you.” She missed her flat in London. Her parents had divorced when she was young and Dru had spent most of her childhood flying back and forth over the Atlantic— she’d gone to school in London, but she’d spent the summer months and most holidays in the States with her father.

  Turning away, she glanced down at the sophisticated, elegant ring he’d given her a year ago. It weighed down on her heavier and heavier these days. She wished she’d never accepted it— wished she’d never accepted that first date. Wished she’d never laid eyes on him.

  “I was thinking
that I might fly back in a week or two, just for a few days, settle a few things with my flat,” she said quietly, stroking a finger over the stone. Get away from you for just a bit.

  “You were supposed to have all of that dealt with already.” He lifted a hand, laid it on her shoulder. The touch was light. But there was no mistaken the threat there.

  He didn’t need to touch her to remind her.

  But that touch… bile churned its way up her throat and images, bloody and dark, flashed through her mind.

  “Yes. Most of it,” she murmured. “I’m likely just nervous. I suspect it’s just part of being a bride.”

  A bride who doesn’t want to be one…

  Plastering a smile on her face, she turned and faced him. “I’ll just have a friend check on things for me, shall I? I’d feel better.”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much,” he said, touching a brow to her forehead. “It will give you wrinkles.”

  She only wished that were the least of her problems.

  Wrinkles…

  Marrying a man she hated.

  She could always run away, she knew.

  But if she did, he’d go after her father.

  And worse, he’d track her down. And then, he’d kill her.

  Table of 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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26