Stalker of Shadows (SPECTR Series 3 Book 1) Page 3

  It has been almost perfect.

  “Let’s just try to find this thing first,” Caleb says. “Before John does.”

  Agreed.

  The wilderness has completely overtaken most of the fort, trees sprouting atop walls and roofs, so that the pale brick is barely visible in places. Wooden doors block the main gates, a sign on them warning mortals not to trespass. Pointless, as the deteriorating walls offer little barrier.

  The fort is wedge-shaped, with outer fortifications surrounding a smaller interior building. Dark doorways pierce the inner walls, along with casements that must once have held cannons. A faint memory whispers across their nerves, of smoke and hot metal. A previous host manned such a position, not here, but somewhere similar.

  Caleb stirs uneasily. “Still not a fan of having other people’s memories in my head.”

  “Do you smell anything?” John asks as he follows Gray down into the courtyard.

  “Many things. But not demons.” Disappointment curls through him. “The scent has faded.”

  John takes out a flashlight and points it at one of the doorways. “According to the teens, they were inside when they were attacked. Maybe we’ll have more luck in there.”

  The interior is in better condition than the verdant growth outside would suggest. Algae streaks the walls with dark green, and something has punched ragged holes in the walls between rooms. The damage is old, however, the fallen bricks cleared away, so likely nothing to do with them.

  “Still, it’s weird,” Caleb says. Gray doesn’t disagree.

  A few bits of detritus show where the mortals visited: an empty water bottle, a half-eaten chocolate bar, dropped in haste and stepped on. Scuff marks in the fine layer of dirt atop the brick floor reveal the direction the mortals ran.

  Gray follows them, then drops to all fours, hoping to catch some scent. The SPECTR agents crossed and re-crossed the trail, but he follows the marks in the dust anyway.

  They come to a dead end. A pile of bricks has fallen from above, recently by the freshness of the broken mortar. Was this where the demon entered the fort? He cranes their head back, and sees what perhaps the agents missed.

  Claw marks on the brick above, as if something used the opening to climb out.

  Gray leaps, easily catching hold of the ragged edge and hauling himself up. The brick scrapes against their leather coat and tugs painfully on their hair.

  He crouches atop the fort, scanning the area. Darkness between the trees catches his eye, and he creeps closer. There is a deep depression here: an old cistern, perhaps, now mostly filled in with dirt and trees, but still an excellent place to hide.

  Gray drops into it. The trees grab their hair and slash across their skin, but he does not care, because at last there is the faint scent of demon.

  The bones lie in the deepest shadows, the ground around them damp with decay. When a demon dies, the corpse rots quickly, as though the host had perished the day possession became permanent. This demon must have been older than most, because almost nothing remains save teeth and fragments of bone.

  “So wait. It attacked the teens, then what? Just crawled out here and died?”

  I do not know. Gray picks up the largest shard of bone, but there is no sign of what happened. If SPECTR did not kill it…

  Then what? Very few things in the mortal realm will kill demons. That is why Gray was summoned thousands of years ago, into a dead body of a warrior who had dedicated her life to defending her people.

  It makes him uneasy. Leaving the remains behind, he climbs out of the hole, and goes to find John.

  “I don’t know,” Caleb said as John steered the SUV back onto the highway. “Could it be a rogue demon-hunting crew, like the one I hooked up with to find Ben’s body?”

  John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, considering the possibilities. Caleb’s brother and sister-in-law had been members of an extremist group, the Fist of God, whose members hated the paranormally abled almost as much as they hated NHEs. Their illegal hunt had brought Caleb into proximity with Gray at exactly the wrong—or maybe right—time.

  Caleb fell through a hole in the rotting house and was badly injured. When the old corpse he possessed was destroyed, Gray jumped into the nearest useable dead body: Caleb’s, just as his sister-in-law successfully administered CPR. And suddenly, for the first time, Gray found himself in possession of a living body, with Caleb still inside.

  “Could be,” John said at last. “The Fist may have fallen apart, but its members are still out there. Or it could be someone else. If you want my guess, the NHE was already injured, though.”

  Caleb frowned and cocked his head. “How?”

  John shrugged. “Hit by a truck out on the highway? Could Gray tell what sort of NHE it was?”

  “Yeah. Rougarou. He’s hunted them before, in this area, even.”

  John tried to call up what he knew about rougarous. He’d never encountered one, but he had the vague idea they were similar to werewolves. “Say the rougarou is crossing the highway and gets hit by a truck. The trucker thinks he hit a deer and keeps on going. The rougarou is attracted by the activity at the fort, manages to make it there and tries a stealth attack. The teens run, but it doesn’t follow because it’s too banged up to catch them.”

  Caleb nodded, his expression distant. Talking to Gray, no doubt. “It would explain why it didn’t finish the job. A couple of teens armed with nothing but pepper spray should be easy prey for something like a rougarou.”

  “It might not have been a truck, of course,” John added. “I’ve heard alligators will attack NHEs, though I don’t know for certain if that’s true.”

  “Well, it’s dead now.” Caleb shrugged. “Gray’s disappointed he wasn’t the one to kill it, but I guess the problem is solved one way or another. You should call the district chief and tell her the case is closed.”

  John chewed on his lip. Caleb was right, but how would John explain what he was doing at the fort to start with? He didn’t want Fontaine to think Kaniyar had sent him here to sneak around and check up on her agents. Would Fontaine believe him if he said he’d decided to trespass in order to get some fishing in?

  John’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then did a double take. “Never mind, she’s calling me.”

  He’d never met the NOLA district chief face to face, and only spoken to her once before on the phone, on a conference call with the director. Kaniyar had informed Fontaine that John would be in the city, he was on special assignment, and if Fontaine had any particularly dangerous cases, she should give John a call. With the caveat that once John was in play, the case no longer belonged to the local office.

  Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t heard from Fontaine until now. No district chief was going to willingly hand off a case to an outsider. It would be tantamount to admitting her office couldn’t handle things. John had assumed they’d be gone long before Fontaine even thought about calling him.

  Which meant something must have gone very, very wrong.

  “Starkweather here,” he said, keeping his worry from his voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have a moment to talk?” Fontaine asked. “I have some bad news.”

  This was getting more and more concerning. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s about your people.”

  John frowned. “My what?”

  “The family you have here?”

  John pulled off onto the side of the road and threw the SUV into park. Sweat slicked his palms, and he rubbed them on his thighs. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t have any family in New Orleans.”

  Or anywhere else, he thought, but didn’t say. His parents hadn’t been able to handle having a paranormally abled child. They’d turned over custody to the state when he was fifteen, and he’d never seen them again.

  They’d lived in South Carolina, not Louisiana. Unless they’d moved, of course. Somehow, he’d assumed they would be in the same house, in the same neighborhood, in the same t
own, and look exactly the same as they had when he’d last seen them.

  “Do you know a John Marcus Starkweather?” Fontaine asked. “Aged seventy-nine?”

  John felt as though the world slipped sideways. “I…yes. He’s my grandfather. I was named for him.”

  “Then I’m very sorry to tell you that Mr. Starkweather was attacked by a rougarou at his home in Bayou Sauvage last night. He’s in critical condition, and doctors aren’t sure if he’ll survive.”

  Four

  John’s face went white as milk, and his blue eyes stared at nothing. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, as though he might go flying off into space if he didn’t cling tight enough.

  Fuck. The phone was on speaker, and the last thing Caleb wanted was for someone in SPECTR to start wondering who was riding around with John. He undid his seatbelt and slid over as far as he could with the console in between them, then put his arms around John’s shoulders. John only sat there, not pulling away, but not responding, either.

  Gray’s alarm thrummed through them. “John is hurt?”

  Aren’t you listening? His grandfather was attacked by a rougarou.

  Confusion. “John told us his family sent him away.”

  To some anti-paranormal “therapy” camp that promised to get rid of his ability to sense etheric energy. John didn’t talk about the details, but he did tell Caleb the place had been shut down when he attempted suicide. After that, SPECTR was the only family John had.

  Christ. John must be feeling conflicted, at the least.

  Gray wasn’t conflicted whatsoever. “I am sad the rougarou did not eat this ‘grandfather.’ Perhaps he will die anyway.”

  Jesus, Gray, don’t say that where John can hear you.

  “Why not?”

  Because it’s complicated, okay?

  “Starkweather?” Fontaine asked.

  “I-I’m here.” John blinked rapidly. “I don’t…he was here? In New Orleans?”

  Cold seeped down Caleb’s back. John’s grandfather had relocated to New Orleans at some point…and Kaniyar had sent them here, for reasons they still didn’t clearly understand.

  Had she known?

  But no, that was crazy. Kaniyar couldn’t have possibly known John’s grandfather was going to be attacked by an NHE. He hoped.

  “Yes,” Fontaine said. “The attack was reported by Jennifer Starkweather.”

  John closed his eyes. “That’s my mother.”

  “I know you’re here on the director’s business.” Compassion tinged Fontaine’s voice. “We can handle the investigation. There’s no need for you to get involved in the official side of things. But if you want to have a hand in it—questioning the family members present in the house that night, for instance—I’m willing to let you assist.”

  John might not want to get involved. Caleb wouldn’t blame him in the least if he said “fuck it” and let someone else handle it.

  But letting someone else handle things wasn’t John’s style.

  John let out a long breath, and his death grip on the wheel relaxed at last. “I haven’t communicated with anyone in my family for well over a decade. They might not be glad to see me.”

  Caleb didn’t have to be an empath to sense the longing beneath the words. That maybe time had changed things. That maybe they would be glad to see John, after all.

  “But I’ll try,” John went on. “Text me the address. I’ll join the investigation.”

  “We’ll come inside with you, if you want us to,” Caleb said softly.

  John stared down the road at the mailbox bearing the address Fontaine had texted. He’d pulled off about a thousand feet down, intending to let Caleb and Gray out so they could search for any lingering traces of the NHE.

  The one that had hurt Granddad.

  When John had been a child, his grandfather owned a farm in the low country, well outside of Charleston. They’d visited in the summer: long days of running through the fields, feeding the goats, and riding ATVs. Nights of listening to the frogs, lying in the tall grass while Dad pointed out constellations.

  It had seemed like it would go on forever.

  Then he’d realized he could sense etheric energy. And nothing was ever the same again.

  He could just glimpse the house through the tangle of low, scrubby trees. They were deep into Bayou Sauvage now, and water closed in no more than a hundred feet from either side of the highway. Every patch of uncleared ground was a riot of plant life, so dense it was impossible to tell how far back it stretched, except when they passed the occasional isolated home.

  “If you come with me now, we run the risk of someone mentioning you to the other agents on the case later,” John said. “Even if we use your new identity, there will be questions about who you are and what you were doing here with me.” John glanced at Caleb’s getup and smiled faintly. “And you can’t exactly pass yourself off as just another agent.”

  “Being officially declared dead sucks,” Caleb muttered. “All right. Gray and I will do our thing. Do you know where he was found?”

  John pulled up the report Fontaine had emailed him. Goddess, just a few hours ago, he’d been complaining about not having access to official reports anymore. He wished he could take it back.

  “At the edge of the lot, near the trees,” he said. “The rougarou vanished into the undergrowth. There’ll probably be evidence of forensic collection, people tramping around, that sort of thing, to help you locate it.”

  Caleb nodded and reached for the handle. Then he stopped. “We love you. Just remember that, okay?”

  John leaned over and brushed his lips softly over theirs. “I know. Love you, too. I’ll meet you back here, unless you find something.”

  Once Caleb slipped out of the vehicle, John guided it back onto the road and down the last stretch to the house. He pulled into the drive and paused a moment to take stock.

  The house was no different than others they’d passed along the bayou roads. Tall stilts held it off the ground, above the reach of normal flooding. A set of stairs ran up to the wrap-around porch, and a second set around back connected to a dock.

  Dad always had loved to fish. He’d dreamed of retiring someplace on the water more times than John could count. It looked like he’d gotten his wish.

  The lawn was perfectly groomed, the lot entirely free of any vegetation except for grass. The house itself looked just as neat. More like a model to visit, than a place anyone actually lived.

  Appearances were everything. He’d learned that lesson young, and learned it again the last time he’d seen his parents. Maybe in time they would have reconciled themselves to a paranormally abled son, but his suicide attempt had shamed them in front of the other members of the church. And for that there could be no forgiveness.

  He could call Fontaine back right now. Tell her this had been a mistake. That he wasn’t actually up to the task after all.

  The front door opened, and a woman peered out.

  His first, shocked thought was how much she’d aged. In his mind, his parents had remained frozen in time, and he’d somehow failed to imagine the years passing for her the same way they passed for him. Her hair was lighter, a brassy shade he suspected was meant to cover up the fact she’d gone gray. She’d put on weight, and her face was lined, but she still dressed as though expecting company at any moment.

  John shut off the SUV and climbed out, wishing he’d taken the time to go back into the city proper and put on a suit. He was still dressed for exploring an abandoned fort, in boots and jeans, a thick hoodie pulled over his t-shirt. Hardly the image of a SPECTR agent, let alone a prodigal son who hoped to be welcomed back.

  She stared at him without so much as a flicker of recognition. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  He didn’t know why it hurt. It shouldn’t have; he’d only been a kid the last time she’d seen him. “Mom?” he said. “It’s me. John.”

  Her eyes widened, and she clutched at the railing, as if she might fall. “Wh-hat? Johnn
y?”

  “I’m with SPECTR now. I came because of the attack.” He took out his badge as proof, though he kept it folded in his hand. “I want to help.”

  Her pale eyes glanced around, but there were no prying neighbors out here in the bayou. Even so she took a step back and said, “You’d best come inside.”

  Caleb pushed through the first line of underbrush, only to find concrete under his boots. From the road, this had looked like untamed wilderness, but here was what seemed to be the remains of a driveway. Though low trees clustered nearby, and weeds gone brown with winter poked up through every crack, he could still make out a wide slab where a house must have once stood.

  An abandoned boat lay on its side a good twenty feet from the water’s edge. Judging by the age of the growth around him, it seemed a safe assumption that Katrina had razed the house and heaved the boat up here. Hell, maybe the boat hadn’t even originally belonged to this lot, but been swept in from somewhere else.

  How much of the wilderness they’d driven past concealed similar ruins? A tale of loss and ruin written on the very landscape.

  “The works of mortals come and go,” Gray said. “I have seen it many times. They build their cities believing they will last forever, only to have them lost within centuries.”

  “Entropy always wins, I guess.” Caleb tilted back his head and breathed deep. He inhaled the ordinary scents of the bayou: deep water and dry grass, algae and fish.

  But underneath lay something more. Blood and rank weeds, black mud dredged up from the bottom of the swamp, spiked through with rot.

  “Rougarou.”

  Two within a few miles of each other. Caleb frowned. Do they travel in packs?

  “Sometimes,” Gray replied. “When I walked here before, it was a time of great cruelty. Great desperation.”

  Caleb shuddered. Like the LaLauries. Their mansion was one of the stops on the ghost tour—sick fucks who summoned demons into slaves and then got off on torturing them. I guess New Orleans was pretty good hunting for you back then.