Return of the Hunters (The DeathSpeaker Codex Book 4) (2 page)

He finally tore his gaze from the monitor. “Bullshit,” he said. “That thing was a bunch of special effects. I don’t know what your game is here, but I’m not playing it.”

Redfield sighed. “More proof, then,” he said. “Elijah? Come out here. Now.”

The hospital curtain twitched.

He backed up half a step and raised the gun.

“Relax. Elijah works for us.” Redfield turned to the curtain. “I said
now
.”

The curtain shivered, and something slunk around the corner.

Something that looked like a four-foot tall, mutated rat.

“Jesus!” he blurted. “What the hell
is
that thing?”

The thing in question shuddered. It was scrawny and filthy, dressed in rags, and all of its limbs seemed to be screwed on wrong. Its dulled eyes stared at the floor, and its misshapen mouth was full of sharp, yellowed teeth.

Whatever it was, human didn’t apply.

“Elijah is a very unique example of an Other,” Redfield said. “He’s quite tame, though. He only does what we tell him to, and he’s…between assignments right now. I do hope he’s sufficient proof.”

He frowned and took a threatening step toward the rat-thing. It flinched once, but it didn’t attack. It didn’t even look up.

This was unreal. But Redfield was right—he couldn’t discount what was right in front of him. And all that money was damned hard to pass up. “A quarter million each?” he said. “For live captures. And you provide the equipment.”

Redfield nodded. “Some are worth even more. In fact, we pay up to a million for viable Fae specimens,” he said, and held out a hand. “Do we have a deal, Mr. …?”

“Valentine.” He grinned coldly and shook with the suit. “We’re in.”

C
HAPTER 1

Manhattan, New York – Present day

I
sighed and lowered the gun. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” Taeral said. “You must.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

My teeth clenched as I focused on the target again. I
really
didn’t want to do this. Being a warrior wasn’t supposed to be part of the DeathSpeaker job description—the actual talking to the dead part was bad enough, without having to supply the dead people myself.

Unfortunately, Taeral was right. We had to take down Milus Dei. And if I didn’t make casualties, I’d become one.

Didn’t mean I had to like it, though.

“Okay,” I said, trying to shake out some of the stiffness. I lifted the gun in both hands and mentally ran through the steps. Aim with the dominant eye. Line up both sights with the target. Concentrate. Breathe. Pull the trigger.

The gun thundered, and my arms bucked up with the force.

But the glass bottle ten feet away remained whole and un-shot. Again.

After an awkward silence, Taeral said, “You were much closer that time.”

“Bullshit I was.” Christ, we’d been down here for three hours now. My brother the drill sergeant had cast some kind of sound-dampening spell on the basement of the Castle, and we’d shoved all the junk against the walls to make room for me to fail at shooting things, over and over again. “Look, I’m just not cut out for guns,” I said. “I’ll have to find some other way to fight. Maybe I could use a sword or something.”

He stared at me. “A sword.”

“Yeah. Or something.” I gave the gun a rueful glance. “These things don’t cooperate with me.”

“I cannot help thinking it’s not the gun that refuses to cooperate.”

Right again. It was a fact that I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn—but it was also a fact that I had no interest in getting better at shooting firearms. I didn’t want to have anything in common with the savage bastards I’d grown up with.

The Valentines were not my family anymore.

“Perhaps we should take a break.” Taeral held a hand out. “Give me the gun, and I will put the target out of its misery.”

I smirked. “It’s a glass bottle, man. Pretty sure it’s not all that miserable.”

“Nevertheless. We’ve set out to destroy it,” he said. “We should finish the job.”

“Look, if you really want it destroyed, I’ll just go over there and smash the damned thing.”

“Or you could shoot it.”

“No, I can’t! We’ve established that already,” I said. “Here. Let me demonstrate, in case you missed it the first hundred times I tried.” Without much thought, I raised my right arm, glanced at the stupid bottle and pulled the trigger.

The sound of shattering glass mixed with the flat crack of the report as the bottle burst into shards.

Taeral smiled. “I was right.”

“Jesus.” I looked from the gun to him. “Did you cast a spell on me or something?”

“No. I simply helped you get out of your own way,” he said. “You were focused on what holds you back, rather than what will move you forward.”

Yeah, and what held me back was always going to. I had enough physical and emotional scars for a few dozen lifetimes, and they’d never heal. Not because they couldn’t—but because I wouldn’t let them. That would require me to think about those sixteen years I’d spent in hell. Maybe even talk about them. And even though I knew it was wrongheaded and stupid, I refused to do that.

My past came with sharp teeth, and I didn’t enjoy letting it bite me.

“Well, I did it,” I said. “So we’re done now, right?”

“Not even close. You’ve only just begun to realize success.”

“We’re done.” I held the gun out to Taeral butt-first. “Unless you want to be the next target, because I will shoot you.”

He grinned. “You can try.”

“Don’t tempt me. You’re really annoying when you’re making me do shit.”

Before he could respond to that, the unseen door to the basement opened, and someone started down the stairs. The steps sounded wrong—faltering, uneven, and too heavy. There was a pause, a scraping sound.

Then a series of grunts and thuds as whoever it was fell the rest of the way.

Taeral and I glanced at each other and ran for the front of the room, and the stairwell around the far corner. The crumpled figure at the bottom of the stairs was the last person I expected to see hurt, or apparently looking for help from us.

Zoba.

The eldest of the Duchene clan lay sprawled face-up and motionless, one leg still on the stairs and the other bent awkwardly beneath him. His breath came in tortured gasps. His amber-gold eyes were rolled back to white, giving the skull tattooed over his face an eerie, death-mask appearance. Blood and foamy spittle smeared the corners of his mouth.

I dropped next to him, intending to see how bad it was and try to heal him if I could.

And he started to convulse.

C
HAPTER 2

Z
oba’s head was bent back, his chest arched high and locked into place. Pink foam frothed at his lips. If I didn’t move him, he’d choke.

Though I hadn’t worked as a paramedic in years, all my training took over. I grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him away from the stairs, wincing in sympathy as his bent leg cleared and flopped at an awkward, impossible angle. It was badly broken. At least I could heal that—but I couldn’t heal dead.

I had no idea if the Duchenes could die as easily as normal people, and I didn’t want to take the chance.

A guttural sound came from his throat, and I rolled him quickly onto his side. His back was wet and warm, and something writhed just beneath the surface of his skin. Something that didn’t feel at all like muscle spasms.

My hands came away smeared with blood.

“Jesus.” I stepped over his quivering form and crouched by his head. “Taeral, he’s bleeding. Bad.” I cleared the gunk from his mouth with a finger as best I could, wary of the bite reflex—especially since Zoba’s teeth were practically fangs. “His leg’s broken, too. Can you…”

“I’ll heal him.”

“Thanks.” The convulsions were slowing now, settling into a steady shiver with occasional whole-body flinches. One arm was wedged at a bad angle beneath him. I grabbed his wrist, pulled carefully, and realized he had something clenched tight in his hand. It looked a lot like a knife.

“What the hell…” I murmured. Prying his stiff fingers open wasn’t easy, but I finally managed to free the thing. It was a short, slim dagger with a polished bone handle, and tufts of hair bound to the base with twine. The blade was coated with blood.

Somehow I knew the blood was his.

Zoba spasmed again and let out a long, rattling breath. His eyes fluttered closed. Panic stabbed through me, and I pressed fingers to his throat until I found a weak pulse. At least he was still alive. The next step was to get a look at his back, see how much damage he’d done there.

“Christ almighty. Zoba!”

The voice at the top of the basement stairs belonged to Denei, the second oldest and leader of the Duchene brood. Usually, her and Zoba were inseparable. She flew down the stairs, her face a mixture of fear and fury. “Y’all back away from him. Now,” she snarled.

I got up slowly, and Taeral did the same, meeting her angry stare with a flat one of his own. There’d never been any love lost between the two of them. “You’ve a problem with us helping your brother, then?” he said.

“You cain’t help him.” She shivered and knelt behind Zoba, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders to lift him up. “Oh, no,
couillon
,” she muttered gently. “What’d you do now?”

Zoba groaned and gave a weak cough that sent him shuddering again.

“Denei…he’s bleeding,” I said. “I think he did it himself.”

She glowered up at me, and her gaze honed in on the dagger. “Give that over,” she said.

I handed it to her. In a single, swift move, she sliced his shirt down the back—and let out a horrified gasp. “No,” she whispered. “Zoba,
why
?”

He grunted a sound that was indescribably sad.

“I know, sugar. I know. But you can’t.” She smoothed his sweat-soaked brow and looked at us, her jaw set in defiance against glittering eyes the exact same shade as her brother’s. “You got some kind of sleep spell, don’t you, Fae?”

I frowned. “You want us to put him to sleep?”

“Not him.” She lowered him carefully to the floor and rolled him facedown, then pointed at his back. “That.”

The skin down the back of his neck and the upper part of his spine writhed and wiggled like a snake. Black, insectile legs bristled through a long split in his flesh, skittering aimlessly through the blood leaking from the wound.

“Jesus Christ,” I blurted. “What—”

“Just put it to sleep,” Denei said sharply. Her expression softened as she added, “Hurry. Please.”

I glanced at Taeral, who looked as horrified as I felt, and crouched beside Zoba. At least I’d gotten better at using magic since our little unexpected visit to the Fae realm, so hopefully I could do this without knocking him out, too. I touched a fingertip gingerly to the squirming mass and focused on whatever it was. “
Beith na cohdal.
”

The thing stopped moving. Its bristled legs twitched a few times and stilled.

Denei released a long breath. “Thanks, handsome,” she said without looking at me.

“Yeah, no problem,” I managed. I was still trying to get past the fact that Zoba apparently had a giant centipede attached to his spine. “Are you gonna tell us what the hell that thing is?”

She shook her head slowly. “It’s the price we pay for service. And it ain’t your business.”

“The sleep spell does not last forever,” Taeral said.

“Yeah. I know.” Denei slid an arm around her brother, and he struggled to his feet with her help. “I’ll take care of that.”

I moved toward them. “Wait. I can heal that cut—”

“I said, I’ll take care of it.” Denei shot a sizzling glare at both of us, then maneuvered Zoba toward the stairs. “You jes’ keep your distance, and we’ll all be fine.”

I couldn’t help thinking her definition of fine was a long way from mine.

C
HAPTER 3