by Alex Gates
I nodded at Xander for his admission, silently thanking him for removing those items stained with my blood. Tampering with evidence had probably taken a lot of moral sacrifice for him.
He sighed and brushed his hand across his face, wiping away tears. “I hate this, man. I hate this so much.” When I didn’t respond to him, because I had nothing left to say, Xander continued. “I just compared the chalice to other chalice’s stored in the M.I.S. database and found a match. Medea didn’t lie. It’s identical to the Holy Chalice used by Jesus and his Apostles at the Last Supper.”
That stirred me awake. I straightened my shoulders and frowned. “What the hell does that mean?” Why had Medea needed a holy relic to catch my blood? And why had she instructed me to pour it over the silver? The possible answers to those questions roiled my stomach, especially when taken with Hephaestus’ words. “Did you find a match for the coins?”
When Xander responded, his voice tremored. “I did. They match the Tetradrachm coins that Judas Iscariot accepted when he betrayed Christ.”
I swallowed. “Do you think,” I asked, pausing for a second, “my new power plays a role? That it’s actually some kind of key?”
“I don’t know,” Xander responded, drinking his coffee. “Some people possess natural power, right? That’s why sorcerers exist—those who discover their magic without a pact. Only through the advancement of technology has the evolutionary trait fallen dormant. You were experiencing incredible emotional and physical pain at the time—you were on the brink of death. Instincts may have kicked in and that’s why you used your natural power. Medea sure looked surprised when you attacked her with it, so I don’t think she expected you to possess that particular ability.”
I scratched my forehead. “It just seems too coincidental. Why my blood? It can’t possibly be that I’m,” I hesitated, biting off the words ‘part-demon and ‘part-angel’. That would be impossible. Jesus’ sacrifice over two-thousand years ago defeated the demon lords by sealing them in thirty different prisons within Sheol. How would my blood bring open the seals? And what did my daughter have to do with it? “Why Mel?”
Xander shook his head, uncertain of the answer to my question. “Joey, I have this sickening feeling that something cataclysmic happened tonight, though I have no idea what.” He hesitated, biting his lip and averting his eyes from me before saying, “I can say that… I don’t think you have time mourn the loss of Mel. Not yet. We have to figure out—”
“No!” I shouted. “I don’t have to figure shit out. I failed again—Mel is fucking dead. My daughter is dead. Killed right in front of me.” I made a fist with my free and still-injured hand, sending a current of agony up my arm. I simmered for a second, and then exhaled and slumped my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened down there—it’s hard for me to process, too. I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind. Not only with Mel, but with the law and with Hephaestus. I’m here for you. We’ll figure this out.”
I gnawed on my lip and nodded. Scratching the back of my ear, I said, “Forget about all that shit. I want Hecate’s head mounted on my wall.”
“You don’t have a wall, remember?”
“I want it mounted on your wall, then and I want your help. Just like old times, baby. Xan the Man and Joey the Labrador.”
Xander didn’t reject my request. “Hecate is a powerful Nephil. What if you die?”
“Then good fucking riddance.”
Xander snickered. “Cops are after you. Hephaestus is after you. You don’t have your magic anymore, no charges left on your guns, and no house to live in. How the hell do you suppose we hunt and kill Hecate, too?”
I smirked at Xander’s playful curse and the smile lifted a blanketing pressure from me. I didn’t feel happiness or hope right then, and nor did I feel fear or worry. Anger guided my thoughts—anger toward myself and the Nephil. I didn’t know how I would hunt and kill Hecate, or survive as the other Nephil hunted me, but I didn’t really much care about that answer in the moment. I cared about the goal—hunting and killing Hecate and all the other fuckers that associated with her.
What did you think?
I’m would love to know your thoughts on the story… and I’m sure other readers would, too.
Reviews are the strongest marketing tool for any writer. They help bring my book to the attention of other readers, and allow me the opportunity to write awesome stories for you.
If you enjoyed the novel, I would be forever grateful to you if you left a short (or long and foul-mouthed) review on my book’s Amazon page.
Review Shadow Born
Thank you so much.
Shadow Hunter
Joseph Hunter Book 2 Preview Chapter
Apparently, it’s bad literary form to begin a story in a dream. Which sucks, because now you have to suffer through my snore-rest morning routine before reaching the actual beginning of this story, which—if you haven’t already guessed—is a nightmare.
So, in my best Mario voice…
Here we go!
I lay on Xander’s couch that Friday morning wearing nothing but a split-open robe and bandages from my fight with Medea the day before. My left arm, where I had cut myself open with the ritual dagger, looked like an amateur mummy had tried to wrap me in cloth as practice, as did my lower back and abdomen, where Medea had thrown her spike straight through me. One tattooed leg curled over the sofa’s headrest and the other sprawled over the edge with my foot resting flat on the hardwood floor. In my left hand, I held a chilled lager. A massive bowl of popcorn rested on my chest—the breakfast of champions. The fingers on my right hand were thick with butter, and my lips burned a little from the salt.
I watched television courtesy of one of Xander’s many streaming options. That guy spent a fortune on subscription services that he never used. Thank the Lord Jesus and Buddha for rich friends. Serendipity played for the second time that morning. I don’t give two howling shits what you say. I love Kate Beckinsale. I love John Cusack. I love romantic comedies. Does that make me less of a man? Maybe. But also, where does America get off dictating what masculinity and femininity look like? And, for that matter, why in the blazing heck does it matter so much?
Don’t give me that look like you’re already tired of my ranting. You started this by calling me a wuss for liking romantic comedies. Sorry I’m sensitive and in-tune with my feelings.
Any who, by now you’re probably wondering how long I’ve been moping on Xander’s couch since the end of the first book. A full day is the answer. I know it ended with me a little amped about hunting and killing some Nephil. But let me tell you something right here and right now—surges of excitement have a brief shelf life when you’re depressed. Believe me you when I say that I wanted nothing more than to peel myself from that cloud-like couch and start kicking doors and taking names, but that also sounded like a lot. And I didn’t really have a lot in me. Please, don’t take the wrong way. It’s just that I barely had the energy to throat laugh through the movie, let alone keep my eyes open short stretches at a time.
Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning—however your nerdy brain calculates after midnight—Xander and I had found and killed Elizabeth Medea “The Priestess” Bathory. Lizzie for short. Yeah, I think her name was super obnoxious, too. If she hadn’t kidnapped and murdered of my daughter, I would have found justification in ending her life just for having that stupid-ass name.
After taking Thursday—now yesterday—off from work, Xander had to rejoin his pack of butt-sniffing hounds. That’s code for detectives, because they sniff out stinky stuff to solve crimes.
Listen. I’m not even close to a hundred percent right now—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, sexually, nutritionally—and part of my healing process is telling jokes. I don’t have the headspace to create thought-out, well-constructed witticisms, though. This imperfect me is who you get right now, like it or not.
And I ’m not even sorry about it.
Xander took yesterday off. Today—Friday for those who can’t follow the sequence of days in a week—he returned to saving the world one prayer at a time. He had asked me to head into the old nine-to-five with him… no, he had all but pleaded for me to go with him.
“Joey,” he had said, “I don’t think it’s the best idea for you to be alone right now. Not after Mel. I think structure will keep you… sane. Besides, you can use our resources to start looking into different leads regarding Hecate’s location.”
I had adamantly refused his advances. The thought of spending a day with him during my time of mourning would do everything but keep me sane. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to… like finishing my fourth beer before ten in the morning.
Hey! No judgement from you. I’m grieving the death of my daughter. What would you do in my place? Go to work with Xander and listen to him hum Amazing Grace all day while finger-banging his hemorrhoids and insisting to pray over your agonized soul? Or would wander aimlessly down the streets of Sacramento in the sunny, brisk temperatures of late November in blind hope to find a lead pointing you to Hecate? Or would sit on the couch and watch your favorite romcom while drinking a six-pack of cheap lager and eating movie theatre popcorn?
That’s what I thought.
My back ached from Medea’s attack and my recent lack of movement did nothing to help stretch the tight muscles. And let me clear any confusion from the air—not tight from in-shape and fit, but tight from injury and lack of movement. I adjusted my position on the couch, forgetting about the popcorn bowl resting on my chest. The buttered kernels toppled and spilled onto Xander’s pristine hardwood floor.
“Shit,” I muttered.
There went my breakfast. I would have to make more, but that meant getting off of my life raft. Was food worth it? I leaned my torso over the couch and reached for the ice chest directly below me. Opening it, I counted two more beers. Liquid calories. I didn’t need any more popcorn. It wasn’t worth the effort.
And before you put your judgmental goggles back on, Xander only had scotch in his cupboard. Should I have made a cocktail for breakfast? Psh. I’m not an alcoholic. Despite Xander forbidding me from leaving his condo until he returned home, I had had to cross the street to buy beer that morning, risking law enforcement or a Nephil or their Acolytes or Cursed to notice me. So, not quite an alcoholic, but also not the sober person at a party for one.
I lifted the half-empty can to my lips, finishing it in two gulps, and then crushed it and tossed across the room. It landed near the three other dead soldiers—all who had sacrificed their life’s blood to help me forget for a few hours.
Reaching into the cooler, I retrieved and then cracked my fifth feel-good juice. “Thank you for your service,” I said to it. “Your work is appreciated by many, and your name will live on forever.”
At the mention of the word work, I dropped my feet to the floor and sat upright, sending a jolt of pain through my lower back. I grimaced and frantically scoured the couch for the remote control, finding it wedged between two cushions. I rewound the film about thirty seconds, before pausing it and making sure Kate Beckinsale’s beautiful face remained frozen on the screen.
Since my personal cell phone was stowed away in an evidence locker at the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, I had to use Xander’s tablet. I fished around the floor for a minute, trying to find where the device had fallen. When I had it, I video called my employer—the owner of a demolition company in Lodi. He had expected me back at work this Friday morning.
His face showed on the screen—a giant red ballon of a head with a swollen nose and tight lips. After a second, he answered, “Hello.”
“Perkins,” I said, “can you see me?”
“Hunter,” he answered. He had one of those voices that makes you wonder if he gargled with whiskey both morning and night. “Where the fuck are you and why is your face on my screen?”
“Well, good morning to you, too. And happy Friday. I’m currently in Sacramento, watching Serendipity, and thinking about you.” I leaned over and picked up a few kernels of popcorn from off the floor and tossed them into my mouth.
“Hunter,” he said, sighing, “I hope to God you’re joking.”
The ironic part about that statement was that I usually am joking. I shook my head, though I didn’t vocalize the fact that I was as serious as a librarian in a middle school.
Perkins sighed. “You’re putting me in bad spot. You helped me out in a big way a few years back, and I haven’t forgotten that. But I have a business to run and a reputation to uphold. I can’t create a culture where absence is accepted.” He sighed again.
Despite Perkins sounding like he swallowed shattered glass for the hell of it, he could have been Santa Clauses’ twin brother. No, not for his girth—though, that wasn’t out of the question. Perkins had to be the nicest human being to ever live. So nice in fact, it would probably break his heart to fire me.
“Let me interrupt you, boss man. I quit. Listen, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity. You know me, I love breaking shit, and you allowed me to live that dream for five years. But I think it’s time for both of us to move on, to try something new, to grow as individuals. And, Tony, please, don’t blame yourself. This is about me and my shit. It has nothing to do with you. It’s never been about you.” Serendipity had really struck a romantic chord with me that morning. “Can we still be friends? Maybe… on those nights when we drink way too much and want to try something stupid… maybe we can be, I don’t know, special friends.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.
I swiped a few more kernels from off the floor and sucked the butter until they became soggy in my mouth. “I think the world will remember us as we were. Young and on fire. Not as we are now. Burnt by age and—”
He coughed, interrupting me. “Listen, Hunter, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I’ll pray for you. Like I said, you’re a good man and you helped me through an impossible time. I’ll always have a job for you.”
I choked on tears—not really, but for theatre. “You do love me. You really do. Oh, Tony, maybe we can rethink this. Maybe we can give us another shot. What do you say? Take me back.”
“I say find the help that you need. Learn how to process your emotions like a healthy adult.” With that, he disconnected the call and his chubby, beautiful face left my screen.
I cracked my neck. Seven years ago, my wife had died. Two nights ago, I had lost my house, all my freedoms as a citizen as law enforcement wanted my head, my magical powers, and my daughter was murdered. Now, I had lost my job.
Dropping my phone into my lap, I rubbed my eyes.
All I had left was one and a half beers, a spilled bowl of popcorn, and forty-five minutes of Serendipity.
I finished my sixth beer by the time the movie had ended. A few pieces of popcorn remained on the floor, out of reach, and unless I mustered the gumption to get up and restock my forget-everything juice, I wasn’t going to take the initiative to clean the floor.
The hardest decision presented itself as the credits to Serendipity rolled. Did I spend thirty-seven minutes deciding on my next movie, or did I replay the one I had just watched? Let me rephrase that. Did I want to watch another actress other than Kate Beckinsale? No. No I didn’t. I started the movie over.
Brace yourself, because the nightmare part of this beginning starts… now.
As the movie played and as the beers settled into my system, a grogginess enveloped me. I struggled to keep my eyes open and absorb the romanticism of chance encounters—I wanted to know for the third time that morning if John Cusack and my girl would ever find each other again. As he scribbled his phone number onto a dollar bill, and she used it to pay for mints, someone pounded on Xander’s door. Like a drowning victim swimming for air, I surfaced with intensity—sweating and panting—through the black ocean of sleep that had tried to
suffocate me.
The knuckle-on-door assault continued. Picture frames trembled on the walls from the percussive force. The popcorn kernels that littered the ground bounced on the floor as if about to pop for a second time. Okay, maybe those descriptions are a little dramatic and untrue, but that’s what I believe happened.
I groaned and stood, adjusting my robe to cover myself—because, sometimes, I am decent. “Shut up! I’m coming!” I shuffled across the living room to the front door, taking my candy-ass time. No one, no matter how aggressively they knocked, hurried Joseph Labrador—especially after they had expelled me from the comfort of the couch and a romantic comedy.
Peeping through the peephole, I saw…
“What the fuck?” I whispered, backing up a step. I did one of things that people do in books and movies, but never in real life, where you rub your eyes and shake your cheeks and blink really fast before double-checking to confirm what you had just seen. Believe it or not, I confirmed it.
My hands shook and fumbled with the security chain and with the deadbolt. I couldn’t open the door fast enough. When I finally did, swinging it inward, the person I know I saw in the hallway—because I had cleared the fog from my eyes and made damn sure of it—had vanished. My heart echoed the pounding the door had taken. Chills broke across my skin.
“Callie,” I said in soft voice. I glanced to the left and right, but no one remained in the flickering hallway that reminded me of a low-budget horror movie. Strange, since Xander lived in a high-end complex with a motivated maintenance crew. “Holy Batmobile,” I whispered, trying to control my labored breathing.
Had I really just seen my dead wife through the peephole? I rubbed my face with open palms and slapped my cheeks. Serendipity had really jacked me up on pent emotion—well, that or recent events. Maybe both.