The Dark-Hunters (343 page)

Dear Lord, it was worse than she’d imagined.

Her hands shaking in anger, she got up from her desk and headed straight into Leo Kirby’s office. As usual, he was online, reading some poor slob’s blog and making copious notes.

Leo was a short, lean man with long black hair that he always wore in a ponytail. He also had a goatee, cold gray eyes that never laughed, and a strange spiderweb tattoo on his left hand. He was dressed in a baggy black T-shirt and jeans, with a giant Starbucks travel mug at his elbow while he worked. In his mid-thirties, he’d be cute if he wasn’t so damned annoying.

“Killer moths?” she asked.

He looked up from his notepad and shrugged. “You said we were going to have a moth invasion. I just had Joanie rewrite the story to make it more marketable.”

She gaped in total astonishment. “Joanie? You had
Joanie
rewrite the story? The woman who wears tinfoil in her bra so that the people with x-ray vision can’t see her breasts?
That
Joanie?”

He didn’t flinch or miss a beat. “Yeah, she’s my best writer.”

Talk about insult to injury.… “I thought
I
was your best writer, Leo.”

Sighing heavily, he swiveled his chair to face her. “You would be
if
you had any imagination whatsoever.” He held his hands up dramatically as if to illustrate his point. “C’mon, Sue, embrace your inner child. Embrace the absurd that lives amongst us. Think Ibsen.” He put his hands down and gave another weary sigh. “But no, you never do, do you? I send you out to investigate the bat boy who lives in the old church belfry and you come back with a story about moths infesting the rafters. What the hell is that?”

She gave him a droll stare as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s called reality, Leo. Reality. You should stop shrooming long enough to try it.”

He snorted at that before he flipped to a blank sheet of paper on his notepad. He set it beside his coffee. “Screw reality. It don’t feed my dog. It don’t make my Porsche payments. It don’t get me laid. Bullshit does that … and I like it that way.”

She rolled her eyes at his beaming face. “You are such a toad.”

He paused as if an idea had struck him. He reached for his pad, where he quickly scribbled something. “‘Employee Kisses Toady Boss to Discover an Ancient Immortal Prince’… better yet, a god. Yeah, an ancient god”—he gestured at her with his pen—“a Greek god who’s been cursed to live as a sex slave to women … I like it. Can you imagine? Women all over the country will be kissing their bosses to test the theory.” Then he looked back at her with a wicked grin. “Shall we try the experiment and see if it works?”

She screwed her face up at him in disgust. “Hell, no. And that wasn’t a come-on, Leo. Trust me, even with a thousand kisses you’d still be a toad.”

He was totally undaunted, mostly because the two of them had been teasing each other this way since they attended college together. “I still think we should give it a try.” He wagged his eyebrows at her.

Susan let out a long, exasperated breath. “You know, I would bring you up on sexual harassment charges, but that would imply that you have actually had sex in your lifetime, and I intend to maintain that you are a prime example of what happens to people when they’re too sexually frustrated.”

That brought another glassy look to his eyes before he scribbled again. “‘Sexually Frustrated Boss Turns into Screaming Lunatic. Disembowels Woman Who Excites Him.’”

Susan groaned deep in her throat. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was threatening her, but that would involve actual action on his part, and Leo was nothing if not a complete delegator. His maxim had always been why do it yourself when you can hire or bully someone else to do it for you.

“Leo! Stop turning everything into a cheesy headline.” And before he could respond, she quickly added, “I know, I know. Cheesy headlines pay for your Porsche.”

“Exactly!”

Disgusted, she rubbed at the sudden pain she felt behind her right eye.

“Look, Sue,” he said as if he felt an uncharacteristic wave of sympathy for her. “I know how hard these last couple of years have been for you, okay? But you’re not an investigative reporter anymore.”

Her chest tightened at his words. Words she didn’t really need to hear, since they haunted her every minute of every day. Two and a half years ago, she’d been one of the foremost investigative reporters in the country. Her former boss had nicknamed her Hound Dog Sue because she could sniff a story from a mile away and then run it to ground and bring it home.

And in one moment of gross stupidity, her whole world had come crumbling down around her. She’d been so hungry that she’d run headlong into a setup that had completely destroyed her reputation.

It’d almost cost her her life.

She rubbed at the scar on her wrist as she forced herself not to remember that awful night in November—the only time in her life when she’d actually been weak. She’d come to her senses, and then vowed to never let anyone make her feel that powerless again. No matter what, this was her life and she was going to live it on her own terms.

But for Leo, whom she’d met in college when they’d worked on the staff of the campus paper together, she’d have never worked in journalism again. Not that working for the
Daily Inquisitor
could ever be construed as true journalism, but at least it allowed her to pay off some of her gargantuan debt and court costs. And though she hated her job, it kept her fed and off the street. For that she owed the little toad.

Leo tore off a sheet of paper and slid it toward her.

“What’s this?” she asked as she took it from his desk.

“It’s a Web address. There’s some college kid who goes by the name Dark Angel who claims she’s working for the undead.”

She stared at him. Oh, yeah … her life was definitely a lemon and she wanted her money back—with interest. “A vampire?”

“Not exactly. She says he’s an immortal shapeshifting warrior who annoys the hell out of her. She’s local, so I want you to check it out and see what else she has to say. Then report everything back to me.”

Oh, this couldn’t be happening to her, and yet that old internal voice in her head was already laughing at her. “Shapeshifter, huh? Is this before or after she drops acid?”

Leo made an irritated noise. “Why don’t you at least try to get into the spirit of the job? You know, it’s really not bad at all. In fact, it’s actually highly entertaining. Live a little, Sue. Let go of the venom. Enjoy it.”

Enjoy it … enjoy being a laughingstock after she’d been working for the
Washington Post …
yeah. It was hard to Carpe Crap when what she really wanted to do was get her reputation back.

But those days were over. She’d never be a real reporter again.

This was it. Her life. Joy, oh joy—the bad-luck fairy had really screwed her over.

No, she thought as her chest tightened again, that wasn’t true. She’d screwed herself over and she knew it. Heartsick, she turned around and headed back to her desk as she looked at the blog address in her hand.

It’s stupid. Don’t do it. Don’t even go to the site.…

But before long, she did, and there it was … a black page with some hand-drawn Gothic artwork on a Web site called deadjournal.com. But her absolute favorite part had to be the header that read: “Musings from the Dark and Twisted Mind of a Damned College Student.”

The girl, Dark Angel, was certainly that. Her entries showed the typical angst of an average student … who was seriously delusional and in need of years of therapy from between the walls of a padded room.

JUNE
3, 2006, 06:45
A.M.

Someone please shoot me. Please. I really can’t stress the “please” part enough. So here I was trying to study for my test tomorrow. Note the word “trying.” So here I am engrossed in the complexities of Babylonian Math, which isn’t really engrossing, to say the least, when all of a sudden my cell phone rings and scares the total shit out of me because the house is even more silent than a tomb—and trust me, I’ve been in enough tombs and crypts to know this for a fact.

At first I stupidly thought it was my father harassing me, until I looked closer at the number and no. Not him. Those who’ve been reading my journal know that it’s my boss, ’cause who else would call me at this ungodly hour and think that I have no life whatsoever except to serve his every whim and need? Really, take my advice and never work for an immortal. They have no respect whatsoever for those of us with finite lives.

5:30 in the morning, there he is. Calling to tell me that he’s just killed off a bunch of undead people (okay, vampires, but I really hate to use that word ’cause it draws out all sorts of lunatic weirdos who want to know how they, too, can become vampires and where to find the ones I know, which wouldn’t do anything but get you killed, but back to my original thought) and that I need to pick him up since it’s about to be dawn and he can’t make it home before the sun turns him into grilled toast. You know this isn’t the way to motivate me, since a grilled toast boss = one happy Dark Angel.

Now here’s where I tirade against the fact that if he were just a regular shapeshifter, I wouldn’t have to go get him. He’d be able to get home without help. He could just teleport himself into the house, but back when he made the bargain to become immortal, that ability was taken from him, along with the one that allows him to travel through time and the ability to walk as a man in daylight. And why was this taken from him? One reason. To make my life a living hell of servitude, that’s why.

Oh, and I have to bring him clothes since he’ll most likely be in cat form at Pike’s Market, which is the only way he can be in daylight and not be a crispy critter (really). So when he switches back into human form he’ll be naked and will need clothing—yes, for those with gutter-bent minds, he’s a buff god in theory, but since I’ve known him all my life it’s like seeing your brother naked—can we say “ew”?!

All right, it pisses me off, but I go since he pays me and if I don’t he’ll tell on me again and get me into all kinds of trouble, none of which I want to hear right now. So after I hoof my butt over there to get his sorry ass, what do I find?

Yes, you guessed it. Nothing but a couple of homeless people who think I’ve lost my mind as I search for my “cat” while holding male clothing which I slowly remember won’t do any good since he can’t shift back into a human until after I get him home. That rank bastard and his pranks. A curse of poxes on his head. Better yet, I hope he gets fleas (I would wish ticks, but then I’d probably get Lyme disease from him). So fleas. Lots and lots of fleas!

I’m sure Catman Moron found some bimbo to shack up with and shag for the day, but damn it all. Couldn’t he have called and told me that? No. So here I am, chugging extra-caffeinated espresso and hoping I stay awake for my test this afternoon. Thanks, boss. Appreciate it. You are the best. Where’s Animal Control when you really need them? Better yet, get me an ax so I can cut off his head, and I don’t mean the one on his shoulders.

Mood: Pissed

Song: “Everything About You”: Ugly Kid Joe

Susan let out a tired breath as she rubbed her brow. Oh, yeah. The girl needed some serious professional help. But what the hell? It wasn’t like she had anything else to do other than go and investigate the Immortal Catman of Pike’s Market.

Susan cringed at the thought. “Now I’m doing it, too … Cheesy headlines are us.” Groaning, she rubbed her eyes. “You know, if my life was a horse, I’d shoot it.”

*   *   *

No matter the location or day, every animal shelter in the United States seemed to always hold the same pungent odor of cleaning antiseptic mixed with wet fur. And even though the shelters were warmed, there was always an odd chill to the air. One that penetrated straight to the bones.

Today was no different. The cat cages were lined along two walls where some of the felines slept while others played, ate, or groomed.

All except one.

That one crouched as if ready to kill and it watched everything around it with the sharp intellect of a vicious predator that belied its smaller size. It wasn’t like the others. Only a fool would make that assumption.

At first glance, it appeared to be a regular Bengal house cat, but if one looked closer, it was obvious that it didn’t hold quite the same facial characteristics that marked the Bengal breed. In fact, it looked just like an Arabian leopard—only it weighed a scant fifteen pounds instead of sixty.

More than that, its eyes were an eerie shade of black … an unnatural color for such a beast. And if one was really paying attention, they would definitely notice that while the other cats wore plain white collars, this one wore one of silver. It was a very special collar that caught the light and flashed with a preternatural gleam.

And what made it so special? Certainly not the thinness of its strap or the fact that it had no buckle on it. No. It was the unseen circuitry that ran along the underside of the silver fabric. Circuitry that had been designed to send out inhibitors that couldn’t be felt by man or beast—unless the creature was both man
and
beast.

A devilish invention by those who wanted some control over the magick of others, this collar kept this particular cat in its current feline form.

And that seriously pissed the cat off.

Ravyn hissed as a man ventured near his cage. If he could get out of this, he’d tear the bastard’s arms off and beat him with them. But unfortunately, he couldn’t—that would require him to actually have arms of his own, which in his current form he didn’t possess.

And it was all his fault. Damn him and his libido anyway. If he’d simply trotted past the sex goddess in the extremely short skirt at dawn, he’d be happily home by now—well, maybe not happily, since he’d have to listen to Erika bitch, but certainly he’d be home in his own bed and not locked in this damned cage.