Shadow Hunter: A Joseph Hunter Novel: Book 2 (Joseph Hunter Series) Page 8

  “Maybe only a little,” I said. “And maybe because you make it so easy to spite you—whatever that means.”

  “Detective Shells,” Chris—not Janson—said from behind us.

  Xander and I turned to the baby-faced, keyboard-wielding, phone-answering, note-taking son of a bitch—a true superhero in the making, if you ask me.

  “I forgot to mention. The gentleman in the waiting area claimed that you scheduled an appointment this morning to meet with him. I didn’t see anything on your calendar, so I turned him away. But he insisted on waiting for you.”

  Xander curled his lips, pondering the information. “I called him last night and left a message, asking him to call back to set up a meeting. Tell him I’ll be available in about an hour. Send him in around nine.”

  Chris agreed and disappeared.

  Xander and I shuffled to Xander’s office door—a spectacular thing with a window set in the upper section and miniature blinds to keep his privacy from all the hallway lurkers. Below the tiny window, a golden placard was set against the wood. It read, in all capital letters, DETECTIVE ALEXANDER SHELLS.

  Detective Alexander Shells unlocked the office door, and we entered.

  Now, I already described his boring-ass work room before. I don’t want to suffer through that elucidation again. So, for both our sakes, I’ll keep it brief and simple—painting by the numbers here.

  There was a bookshelf with lots of half-empty (because the glass half-full mentality is for suckers and children—who are mostly all suckers, anyway) paper cups stacked on the shelves, along with a globe. The globe was actually a combination lock that activated a secret door behind the bookshelf, leading into a prison for monsters. Yeah, very James Bond-y around here. Um, let’s see here. Xander’s bulky, metallic desk from 1932 rested on the far side of the room. A filing cabinet here, a something or other there. On the wall opposite the door was a window that provided a beautiful view of the alley between us and the neighboring building and a dumpster. If we were lucky, the security guard propelled by piss and fire might lurk nearby. And beneath the window was a couch.

  Big relief-filled exhale now that that’s over with.

  I set my duffle bag, filled with my guns, at the base of the couch and watched while Xander walked around his desk and sat in the creaky chair behind it. When he was settled, I said, “You mind spinning that globe for me? I’d like to take a walk through your monster theme park, maybe collect a few autographs—if I’m lucky.” I smirked, and the forced smile hurt my cheeks.

  Xander glanced at me from over his monitor. “You actually want to go down there?”

  “I would like to,” I said. “I can talk to that chick again, the one who sent us to the meeting with Hecate and her goons in the parking garage. Maybe she’ll know something about something.”

  He pushed away from the desk and stood, his knees popping with the movement. Shuffling to his bookshelf, he spun the globe and unlocked the hidden door. “There’s a slider on each door that allows for a window, along with a communication system. Just press the button and speak.”

  “You’re trusting me to do this all on my own?” I asked, blushing.

  “Just don’t go into any of the cells or let anyone out. Will that be too hard?”

  I shrugged. “Me no know.”

  I returned to the cell where Xander and I had spoken to the vampiress about Callie’s death and meeting with her killers. I reached the door, setting my head against the steel and closing my eyes. What was the point anymore, other than revenge on a Nephil that would most likely result in my death? My wife had died, her killer free. Mel had died, her killer dead… but the one who had orchestrated it free. Did I continue this search for justice? My wife and daughter weren’t coming back. If I was meant to die, why bother endangering Xander in the process? Why not just die, end it all and be done with this shit? I would solve Hephaestus’s problem, Hecate’s problem, my problems. Xander could go back to his boring-ass life. Who was I to stand in the way of them moving on?

  “Is someone out there?” a gentle voice asked from behind the metal cell.

  With my head still against the siding and my eyes still closed, I felt around the wall for the slider, found it after a second of unhurried endeavor, and opened it. “Hi,” I said, pressing the communication button that allowed us to hear each other, moving my head so it rested against the thick glass.

  In the small cell, a red-haired, green-eyed, freckled-face Empousa sat naked in the corner. She hugged her knees to her chest and looked up at me through a veil of fiery hair. “Joseph,” she said, remembering me from our meeting a couple days ago. “Why are you here?” Her voice quivered with sexual teasing.

  I shook my head. “Your boss sucks at her job,” I said. “Lucky for her, though, I might just do it for her. What are your thoughts on suicide? I would hate to allow Hecate or Hephaestus or their Cursed the satisfaction of killing me, so suicide by Nephil isn’t an option.” My head throbbed against the cool glass, and my entire body stiffened with aching pain—reminding me of how brokenly alive I was, really hammering the idea that I didn’t much enjoy my active pulse.

  “Why?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

  “You ever…” I hesitated, realizing I was spilling my innermost thoughts to a monster. But what the fuck, right? “You ever wish you could just start over?”

  She cracked her neck and nodded.

  “Yeah, I guess I do too,” I said.

  “Those are different things.”

  “What are?”

  “Suicide and starting over. They’re not the same—not even close. Suicide is an end. It’s giving up, quitting, closing something forever. Starting over—” she shook her head, tossing her matted hair back and forth. “Starting over is just starting over. It’s a new beginning. It’s failing and learning and getting back up to try again.”

  I chuckled. “You’re pretty wise, for a monster.”

  “You’re pretty idiotic for one. Remember, I’m an Empousa.”

  That split my mouth into a half-real smile. “Your veiled threat doesn’t scare me. These cells are lined with lead and silver, probably blessed with prayers of every kind and coated in holy water. Whatever power or access to power you possess won’t breech beyond the walls of your room. So, you’re an Empousa—a loyal follower of Hecate. She can’t discern your location any more than you can enthrall me right now.” I tapped my forehead against the glass, re-upping my pain. It kept me awake after a sleepless night.

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why… why I feel safe speaking the truth. When they first detained me, I wanted to end it—just like you. But after staring at blank walls for hours on end and not suffering Hecate’s eminent control of me, my mind has cleared. I want to start over—to break the curse and live life free from my Nephil.”

  In case you weren’t sure, the Empousa were a type of vampire controlled by the Nephil, Hecate. Vampires, as a whole, weren’t known for their honesty. Though this one appeared broken and timid, I didn’t trust her any more than I trusted a schoolyard bully with a shiny pair of brass knuckles. Still, why not play the game to see what I could win?

  “Do you know where I can find Hecate? If you offer her location, we can stop her and break the curse. You’ll be free.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know Circe?” I asked. “Where I can find her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I licked my lips and closed my eyes. “Do you know Gladas?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What’s the Scylla curse?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Opening my eyes, I saw her standing directly in front of the window, staring at me with her dark green eyes. I lurched back, heart rate spiking and breath falling short. “What the fuck?” I asked.

  “Find your new beginning,” she said, her breath fogging the glass. “Find your purpose. But don’t quit. I have felt your true power, and it is unrivaled.” With that, she climbed onto her bed
and rolled away so her back faced me.

  I shook my head and slowly navigated the holding area until I found myself back in Xander’s office. I collapsed onto the couch and leaned forward, unzipping the duffle bag and removing one of my Glock 17s—Bambico was her name. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I’d carved Nephilim runes into the metal on her grip, barrel, and sights.

  Why had I done that, you ask?

  Well, think of all the stories you’ve ever read about wizards or magic-wielders of any kind. How do they most often channel their magic? Wands or staffs, right? Well, since I’ve progressed with the times, I—at the ripe age of nineteen—had decided to channel my magic through guns. They focused my power and evoked the spells with more precision and less energy than using my body as an outlet. Looking back, I now realize why no one had ever chosen firearms before. They’re super impractical—there are so many working parts. Take a staff, for instance. You have a piece of thick wood carved with runes that you energize with magic, and that’s it. You can use the staff for defense, offense, whatever. Now, take my guns. They have frames and magazines and ammunition. They need to be cleaned and cared for. But the biggest headache of all is that I must continually restock my ammunition and carve more spells into each round. It’s a freaking nightmare at the best of times.

  What’s that? Why don’t I just abandon my guns and use a staff or a wand?

  Cue the wild laughter. Why don’t you just stop complaining about your job or your significant other or your children and replace them? These metallic machines of destruction that so many people hate are my loves, my passion, my babies. I didn’t just choose them, as the cliché goes. They chose me. Technically, I chose two of them after Callie died. Henrietta, my beautiful Glock, and Hansel, my assault rifle, had belonged to wife.

  But you know what would be badass? A flipping sword.

  Also, notice how I’m tiptoeing around the F-bomb at the moment. Not everyone enjoys the word as much as me. So, while I talk about my guns—which a lot people also hate—I figured I could tone down the profanity. You’re welcome.

  But back to a sword. Maybe if I really did have a new type of mystery magic, and if I ever figured out how to use it, I would rethink the possibility of switching focuses.

  Henrietta and Bambico just felt so good in my hands, though.

  “You okay?” Xander asked, pulling my attention back to his dingy, community-college-professor office. “You haven’t said a word since coming back here. How did it go?”

  “Like shit. She knew shit.” Sighing, I held Bambico to my beating heart. “And I was just reminiscing about when this girl took her first life. She was just a baby. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

  “You’re a very dark person sometimes.”

  I smiled, disassembling my baby girl, going through the ritual of cleaning and lubricating her—no, not sexually, you pervert. I was about as happy as a boy playing with his sister’s Barbie dolls when another knock sounded on another door, and I about lost my shit. The next person to rap on anything within my vicinity would lose their knuckles.

  In a voice so calm it angered me even further, Xander said, “Come in.”

  6

  That god of a man from the waiting room entered Xander’s office. From the stiff lobby chair, he hadn’t appeared short, by any means. But he also hadn’t seemed so tall that he’d have to duck under the office doorway—which he did.

  Xander stood from his creaky chair and wheeled it around to the front of his desk. He stepped back and extended a hand to the sexiest man of the year. “I’m Detective Shells. Please, use my chair. I usually reserve the sofa for my clients, but… well, as you can see, it’s occupied by an overgrown child.”

  Wow, low blow. He knew I was crushing hard on the visitor, and he had to embarrass me like that. Dick move. “Hi,” I said, waving at our friend with Bambico, trying to save face after Xander’s insult. “I’m the aforementioned overgrown child. Some people call me Joey, most just call me for dat booty.”

  The man cocked his head as if admiring a strange, exotic animal behind the safety of a glass wall. He returned his attention to Xander and shook his hand. “I’m Gladas.”

  Now, that’s just not fair. This guy, who Michelangelo could have chiseled from stone, was Gladas. The Gladas. Unable to control myself, I snorted laughter. Had I been drinking something, it would have streamed from my nostrils. “Did you say your name is Gladas? Like the name of my grandma’s grandma?”

  The man adjusted his clipped tie and cleared his throat. “My name is Gladas,” he repeated, glancing at his feet, which was the last gesture I would expect from someone like him.

  “Like the—” Xander shot me a dagger glare, and I relented. How had he already found and scheduled a meeting with the same Gladas that Dakota had told us about yesterday—the Demi created by Circe? It didn’t seem probable, let alone possible. Yet, here we were, Xander eyeballing me to shut the hell up.

  “Please, sit,” Xander said, gesturing Gladas toward the chair again.

  Gladas unbuttoned his suit coat and sat. “Thank you.” He kept his gaze low, never meeting Xander’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry for making you wait out there. I didn’t anticipate you responding to my message so quickly. Most people find coming here…” Xander rocked his head back and forth, searching for the appropriate word.

  Lucky for him, I didn’t really give any shits about appropriate. “Embarrassing. Humiliating. Does that put the meat in your sentence sandwich?”

  Xander frowned at me, but nodded. “Yes. Many people find it hard to come to Mather due to the unlikely nature of the crimes we investigate. It’s difficult to overcome the stigma associated with the supernatural—to accept that it might exist, that it might be playing a role in your life, and that you might have to fork out money or put your credibility on the line to figure it out.”

  “HA! He said fork.”

  Doing his best to ignore my input, Xander trucked forward. “There are social, mental, spiritual implications that go along with our company name. You might feel a little hesitant, even crazy coming here. You might feel reluctant or embarrassed to tell your friends and family about this visit, fearing ridicule. That’s normal. But know that your privacy is extremely important to me and this agency. And let me tell you something, Gladas.”

  I snickered, continuing to lube up Bambico. She loved a good rubdown, so I didn’t conserve my affections.

  “Supernatural or not, we clear over 90 percent of our cases. You know what the average clearance rate is for local law enforcement?” Without giving Gladas the chance to answer, like a flaming jerk-wad, Xander said, “Less than 50 percent.”

  A moment of silence passed between the two titans. Finally, Gladas broke it. “Why did you contact me?” It was a solid question, as Xander had rambled on about nothing for God knows how long, leaving his visitor in the dark about the meeting with a supernatural enforcement agency.

  “You’re a fisherman, correct?” Xander asked, narrowing his gaze.

  “I am,” Gladas responded, still interested in his shoes.

  “Well, for the past decade, people have gone missing along the banks of the American River, the South Fork American River, and the North Fork American River. Are you familiar with the disappearances, Gladas?”

  After a moment of silence, Gladas said, “I am. Though the river is quite long, and as you mentioned, it splits into multiple tributaries. People drown, sir, and they go missing along rivers. Unfortunately, that’s the way it is.”

  “Over the past ten years, have you been made aware of any specific dangers along the river? Of missing people?”

  Gladas scratched the side of his nose. “I’m aware of the missing people.”

  “Other fisherman?” Xander asked.

  “Them, yes. Along with kids who get drunk and float down the river. Families or church groups water-skiing. Houseboats. Hikers. Drug deals gone bad. Those who go missing aren’t exclusive to fishermen. I don’t fish on
the American too often—”

  “Bawk, bawk,” I said.

  “Not out of fear, as your friend implies. As a commercial fisher, the American River offers little reward for my time. However,” Gladas paused, cracking his knuckles, “about a month ago, my nephew wanted me to take him fishing. I assume that’s how you found my contact information? You read the report I gave.”

  Xander nodded and said, “Please continue with your story.”

  “I figured we could sit on the bank, cast a line, and skip some rocks. He’s only six.” Gladas inhaled deeply. “I’ve been around fish and water my entire life. I’ve seen everything there is to see. But I’ve never seen anything like what I saw that day. It moved like the shadow of a giant squid—ten feet long, if not fifteen—beneath the surface of the water. Jake, my nephew, he noticed it, too. Started going on about how he didn’t want to fish anymore, just wanted to go back home. I didn’t blame him. So, we packed our stuff and left.” Gladas clutched the fingers of his left hand with his right, turning them as if he might wring out all the water he had sponged up over the years.

  “And your six-old-year nephew can corroborate this story about the giant, murderous squid lurking around the Sacramento River?” I asked, maybe a little too sarcastically—neither Xander nor Gladas paid me any mind.

  Xander reached behind him and grabbed his cell phone off his desk. He scrolled through the screen and said, “My notes state that you reported this incident to the sheriff’s department.”

  “That’s correct,” Gladas confirmed. “I’ve heard stories from some of my acquaintances about a river monster that eats human flesh. Never having been one for stories, I chalked their tales up to the sun and exhaustion and maybe a buzz.”

  “Did you know about Mather Investigative Services before you went to the police?”

  “I did,” he said.

  “And after seeing the shadow swim by, did you still not believe the stories?”

  “I was uncertain.”