Night Hunt

  Night Hunt

  Adam J Wright

  Contents

  The Harbinger PI Series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Afterword

  The Harbinger PI Series

  LOST SOUL

  BURIED MEMORY

  DARK MAGIC

  DEAD GROUND

  SHADOW LAND

  MIDNIGHT BLOOD

  TWILIGHT HEART

  FAERIE STORM

  NIGHT HUNT

  GRAVE NIGHT

  FINAL MAGIC

  Chapter 1

  Winter bulldozered relentlessly over Maine, burying the state beneath a shroud of snow. Dearmont got just as much of the white stuff as everywhere else, and Main Street became a winter wonderland of snow drifts on the sidewalk and Christmas lights festooned between buildings.

  For Harbinger PI, though, the season was more like a winter wasteland. Nobody came through the door. It was as if the town’s ghosts and monsters were taking Christmas off, and no one had need of a preternatural investigator anymore.

  I opened up the office every day but spent most of my time leaning back in my chair with my feet on the desk, or gazing out of the window at Christmas shoppers going from store to store.

  Carlton made coffee and sometimes got donuts from the store next door, but he was just as bored as I was, and I sent him home early most days.

  When Christmas Eve arrived and we’d still had no clients, I poked my head around his office door and said, “Carlton, you should go home. Take a week off. Hell, take two. I’ll let you know if anything happens here.” Not that I thought anything would. I was beginning to wonder if this was the end of Harbinger PI.

  When I’d worked in Chicago, there’d been a seasonal slump during the winter but nothing like this.

  “Okay, boss,” he said, getting up from behind his desk. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure,” I told him.

  He wrapped a blue woolen scarf around his neck before putting on his overcoat, a white beanie, and a pair of gloves. “Have a good Christmas, Alec.”

  “You too,” I said.

  He left the office and almost ran down the stairs to street level. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough and I couldn’t blame him. We’d both been getting cabin fever, sitting in this enclosed space for almost two months with nothing to do.

  I wandered back into my office and stood by the window, watching the last-minute shoppers buying gifts for their loved ones and food for the table.

  I was losing my edge. I still trained in the basement every day—pushing myself even harder than usual since my days were so sedentary—but hitting bags and targets didn’t compare to fighting real monsters.

  Not only did I feel off my game physically, I was sure I was also losing my mental acuity. With nothing to occupy it, my brain felt like it was dissolving into a puddle of mush in my skull.

  I turned away from the window, deciding to take the same advice I’d given Carlton, and leave. I wasn’t helping anyone by rotting in the office, least of all myself. If I went home now, though, I’d just be doing the same thing there that I was doing here.

  I needed a change from staring at four walls.

  Outside, snow was falling, and it was damned cold but maybe a walk in the wintry weather was just what I needed to clear away the cobwebs in my head. If nothing else, it would be good cardio, especially if it involved trudging through deep snow.

  Turning out the lights, I grabbed my coat and scarf and put them on while I went downstairs to the main door. After stepping out onto the street, I locked up and shoved the keys into my jeans. I put on my black woolen gloves and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets as I walked along the sidewalk.

  It was cold, and the falling snow was driven into my face by the wind, along with loose snow that had been whipped up from the sidewalk. Not the greatest day to be outside, but still preferable to going home and doing nothing.

  A poster in the drug store window bore a photo of Sheriff Cantrell above the words: Missing. Have you seen our sheriff?

  Since attacking me at Moosehead Lake, Merlin had vanished. So Sheriff Cantrell was officially a missing person and had been for two months.

  His daughter Amy, who was now Dearmont’s acting sheriff, had been forced to launch an investigation into his disappearance so that everything looked normal to the townsfolk, even though she knew as well as I did that her father would never be found. Merlin had probably taken his body to another realm entirely and it was driving her crazy with worry.

  I didn’t blame her. As long as Merlin occupied Cantrell’s body, and the real sheriff was locked away in a magical prison, Amy couldn’t be sure she’d ever get her father back.

  I decided to head down the hill to the lake. Maybe a long walk along the snowy shore would give me the cardio workout I desperately needed.

  As I passed the window of Blackwell Books, I glanced inside and saw Victoria Blackwell at the checkout, serving a line of customers. I’d never seen the place so busy before. There were usually one or two customers browsing the shelves, but I could see five times that number waiting in line and many more browsing the shelves in the deeper recesses of the store.

  Victoria noticed me gazing through the window and waved me inside. I went through the door, being careful not to collide with the customers coming out with their purchases clutched in their hands.

  “Alec,” Victoria said as I entered the store, “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the hubbub.

  She raised a section of the counter to allow me through. “Come through here, dear. I can’t hear you.”

  I joined her behind the cash register and said, “I’m fine. Business is a little slow at the moment, unlike in here. Does it get like this every Christmas?”

  “This isn’t because of the time of year,” she said, ringing up a young couple’s purchases on the register. “This is because of our new coffee shop upstairs.”

  “Coffee shop?” Now that she mentioned it, I could smell the unmistakable aroma of freshly-ground coffee.

  “It’s Devon’s little pet project,” she said, referring to her sister. “She runs the coffee shop upstairs while I handle the books and trinkets down here.”

  I gestured to the line of people waiting to be served. “It seems to be working out well.” I was surprised a coffee shop could bring so many people into the store; Main Street was lined with coffee shops and cafés, and drinkers had a huge choice of establishments to visit. Why did it seem like half the town’s population was in here?

  “It’s working wonderfully,” Victoria said. “The customers come in and have a drink, and perhaps some cake, and then they buy books.”

  “Sounds ideal,” I said. At least someone’s business was booming.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a look?” she suggested. “Try a piece of Devon’s carrot cake; it’s out of this world.”

  “Sure,” I said. Maybe a cup of coffee and a slice of cake were just what I needed before setting off on my lakeside walk. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I felt as if I needed those things. “I’m going to go up there now,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”


  “All right, dear,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy.”

  I lifted the hinged part of the counter and made my way past the line of customers to the stairs. My mouth was watering at the thought of coffee and cake, which was strange, because, before entering the bookshop, I hadn’t felt hungry or thirsty at all.

  At the foot of the stairs sat a blackboard with the words Coffee this way written on it. Beneath the words was a simple chalk drawing of a cup of coffee. Beneath that, an arrow pointed up the stairs.

  Even the simple drawing of the cup with three wavy chalk lines representing steam made my mouth water.

  As I climbed the stairs, I felt a sudden stab of hot pain in my shoulder, as if I’d been hit with a burning poker. I was familiar enough with the sensation to know that one of my magical warning tattoos had been activated. That meant I was either being attacked by magic, or being affected by some sort of enchantment or charm.

  Even though every part of my being told me to rush up the stairs and get some of that delicious-smelling coffee, I resisted. Every instinct wanted me to go upstairs but I waited, halfway up the staircase, gritting my teeth and gripping the railing so tightly that my hand cramped up.

  The magic within the intricate network of tattoos that covered my body would work to counteract whatever spell I was under. I just had to give it time.

  Customers, on their way both up and down the stairs, passed me by, shooting me frustrated looks. I was in the way of their quest to purchase either coffee, books, or both, and they didn’t like it.

  The burning sensation in my shoulder receded as the magic did its work, and the compulsion to drink coffee vanished.

  I ascended the stairs to the second floor, where dozens of people sat on leather couches that had been arranged around a number of small, wooden tables. It was standing room only, so many of the customers leaned against the walls or stood in small groups while they drank their cups of Joe.

  A counter had been set up along one wall and, behind it, Devon Blackwell was making coffee and serving cakes from a display cabinet made of glass.

  When she saw me, she waved. “Alec! Hello! Can I get you get you some coffee, and a slice of cake, perhaps?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. The aroma of freshly ground beans was stronger in here than it had been downstairs, and it did smell good, but now that the compulsion was gone, I could resist easily. Besides, I had a point to make.

  I approached the counter and pointed at the pot of coffee on the burner. “What the hell is in that, Devon?”

  “Coffee, of course,” she said, looking at me with an innocent expression.

  “And what else? It isn’t just coffee that’s making all these people gather in here like moths around a flame.”

  She looked over at the pot and then back to me. “Well, there may be a little enchantment cast over the beans before they’re brewed.”

  “What kind of enchantment? Some sort of compulsion spell?”

  She looked shocked at the accusation. “What? No, not at all. I don’t need to compel people to drink my coffee. It’s just an enhancement spell. It enhances the natural flavors and makes the coffee taste and smell irresistible.”

  “Do you think that’s right?” I asked her.

  “Is what right? Giving people a tasty drink?”

  “Using magic to draw them in here. And what’s with all the people downstairs buying your entire stock of books? More magic?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, not intentionally, anyway. It seems that the enhancement spell is still in their systems after they drink the coffee and go back downstairs. So, while they’re walking through the store past the shelves…”

  “The books seem just as enticing as the coffee,” I finished for her.

  Devon nodded. “But I assure you that the book thing is entirely incidental. I didn’t mean for that to happen at all.”

  “But while it’s happening, Victoria is happily taking all of the money from the book sales.”

  “It isn’t like they’re being forced to buy things they don’t want. The enchantment simply makes them more attracted to the books they’d like to read anyway.”

  “Devon, you’re using magic to influence people.”

  She sighed. “It may have gotten a little out of hand.” Looking over at the coffee pot, she said, “I’ll dispel the enchantment.”

  She walked over to the pot and passed her hands around it slowly, reciting something unintelligible under her breath. “There,” she said, returning to the counter, “Now it’s done.”

  “And it still smells delicious,” I said, truthfully. “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of customers without resorting to magic.”

  She nodded and then her eyes widened as if she’d suddenly remembered something. “Oh, did Victoria tell you about your gift?”

  “My gift?”

  “Yes, we made you something special for Yule.” Coming out from behind the counter, she said, “Come with me. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

  She headed for the stairs and I followed.

  “Hey, are you still serving coffee?” someone shouted after her.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said as she led me downstairs. Taking me to the back of the shop, she opened a door that had a sign designating it for staff use only. It was some sort of storeroom and inside, along with boxes of books sitting on the shelves, was a pile of gifts wrapped in shiny, silver paper and adorned with red bows.

  “Yours is here somewhere,” Devon said, picking up various packages and inspecting them before putting them down again. “Ah, here we are. Happy Yule, Alec.” She handed me a package that was bulky and felt squishy.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” she said, looking at me expectantly. “I’m sure you’re dying to know what’s inside.”

  “Umm, yeah, sure.” The only gift the Blackwell sisters had given me in the past had been an oversized sweater. I had a feeling the package in my hand contained something similar. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful, but the last sweater was so large as to be almost unwearable and now lay on the floor in my closet. I had a feeling this new gift would soon be joining it.

  I removed the bow and the silver paper to reveal that the gift was, indeed, another sweater. This one had been knitted from black yarn and looked big enough to clothe three people.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s great.”

  “You can never wrap up too much in this weather,” Devon said, beaming. “Why don’t you try it on?”

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  “Oh, okay.”

  When I saw the disappointed look in her eyes, I said, “You know what? I’ll try it on right now.”

  Her face brightened. “Excellent! Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

  Before I even had the zipper open, she was tugging the jacket off. With it folded over her arm, she stepped back and indicated the sweater in my hands. “Go on, Alec. Try it.”

  I slipped the voluminous garment over my head and pushed my arms through the sleeves. It dropped over my body, almost reaching my knees.

  Looking at Devon, I nodded. “I’m sure this will keep me warm.”

  She raised a finger. “Just wait a moment, Alec.”

  After a couple of seconds, I felt the sweater begin to move. It shrank slowly, tightening around my body until it fit perfectly.

  Devon beamed. “Yes! It works! Victoria and I have been working on perfecting that spell for ages.”

  I looked down at the form-fitting sweater and nodded in appreciation. It really was a nice piece of clothing now that it had fitted itself to my physique.

  “And the rune that we knitted into it the sweater will bring you luck,” Devon said, pointing at a tiny, knitted, white rune on the left shoulder. It was shaped like a tiny triangle with a different symbol at each point: a horseshoe, a shamrock, and a star.

  She brought my jacket to me and held it open while I slid my arms into the sleeves. “You’ll be much warmer now,” sh
e said. “You must have been freezing with nothing but a flannel shirt and T-shirt under your jacket. Now, I must get back to my customers upstairs.” She opened the door and ushered me out.

  When we were back in the main part of the bustling store, she planted a warm kiss on my cheek. “Have a great yule, Alec.”

  Before I could answer, she was heading toward the stairs that led up to the café area.

  I pushed past the crowds on my way to the front of the store. Despite the enchantment being removed from the coffee, books were still being snatched off the shelves by the customers, and the line at the checkout didn’t seem to be getting any smaller.

  I bumped into a young woman who was holding a stack of books in her arms. She dropped them, and they scattered across the floor. My eyes caught the titles. They were various texts on witchcraft.

  “Sorry,” I said, stooping down to retrieve the books.

  “Alec,” she said, “it’s me! Lucy!”

  I looked up and realized who she was. Lucy Hawthorne. I’d met her in the Fall, when I was working on a job that Felicity had filed under the title, The Case of the Conjuration of the Midnight Blood.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” I asked as I handed her the books I’d knocked out of her hand.

  “Great,” she said. “In fact, I was hoping I’d bump into you while I was here in Dearmont. You still owe me an interview, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. Lucy was a horror writer and I’d promised to tell her about the life of a preternatural investigator.

  “Are you busy right now?” she asked.

  “Not really. I was just taking a walk to clear my head.”

  She grinned. “Great! I’ll join you.”

  “Umm, sure.” I liked the idea of having some company, especially after seeing hardly anyone except Carlton for the past few days.