Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel) (3 page)

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?

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 his 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.

Granted, the entire point of Eric asking for her help was for her to use her local influences to assist him, but the moment she'd driven her rental car across the town border, something inside of her had shriveled up, creating the same hard knot in her chest that she'd had when she'd lived there. She wasn't ready to reveal her presence to the town. Not yet. So, she'd simply posed as a stranger from out of town in each bar she'd entered, and the result had been educational, to say the least.

Tonight, the men in the bars had noticed only her breasts, and they'd seen her as only a possible chance to get laid. If she'd walked in the door in jeans and sneakers, with her hair in a ponytail, she was pretty sure everyone would have known who she was. But clad as she still was in her narrow work skirt and her silk tank top, no one was looking past her boobs to her face...which was why she'd chosen not to change her clothes after she'd arrived here. She wasn't ready to be the Jordyn Leahy she used to be. And quite frankly, it was somewhat illuminating to see how the men in her town treated a woman they thought was a stranger. They weren't very helpful, and they had an annoying fascination with her breasts. Was this really what the men she'd grown up with had become? Or maybe she was just bitter and suspicious?

She laughed to herself as she walked further into the bar. Yes, it was probably the latter. She definitely carried enough baggage when it came to men to justify keeping even the nicest guy at a distance. They were just being guys reacting to a single woman waltzing into seedy bars at one in the morning. She knew this world, and she knew her way around it.

With a weary sigh, she shook out her shoulders as she walked up to the bar and eased onto a stool beside a guy she didn't recognize. He was tall, with wide shoulders, and a face that looked gaunt and gray, as if he'd been sick for a long while.

He turned his head as she sat down, and she was struck by the anguish in his gray eyes. Instinctively, she touched his shoulder to offer comfort. The moment her fingers brushed over his shirt, a sharp tingle of pain shot through her. She jerked her hand back, a chill of fear rippling down her spine.

She stared at him, her heart pounding. "Are you okay?" she blurted out.

One dark eyebrow went up, and he shrugged. "I might be," he said in that Cajun drawl she hadn't heard since she'd moved away. He flashed a smile that showcased a dimple and perfect white teeth, but no warmth. "Evenin'."

She managed a smile. "Hi." She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to move away from him. Instead, she stayed where she was and scanned the bar, even though she knew there was no chance she'd find Tristan sitting there, sprawled on a bench, waiting for her to march up to him.

"Can I get you a drink?" the bartender asked.

She swiveled around on the stool to answer him, and then her heart lifted when she saw deep blue eyes studying her, azure eyes she knew so well. "David?"

His dark eyebrows went up, and he narrowed his eyes. "Yes?" His reddish-brown hair was cut short, and he had a half-grown beard on his jaw, making him look so much older and more masculine than the last time she'd seen him, almost ten years ago. His bright orange tee shirt was more flamboyant than the David she knew, but the quirk to his eyebrows, as if he were about to laugh at a joke, was the same. The same black and red cross was even dangling from his left earlobe, as if he'd never taken it out after all those years.

She knew it was him, the gangly boy who had pulled her out of hell the night her father had almost killed her. Unable to stop the smile building inside her, she leaned forward and grinned at him. "Yes?" she teased. "That's all I get is a 'yes?'"

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

She hesitated. Did he really not remember her? How could he not know who she was? Yes, it had been a decade, but she hadn't changed that much...had she? He had once been her best friend. "David—"