Night Hunter Read online

  Nick, his stomach a churning volcano of revulsion, could tolerate no more. He shut off the camera and, leaning a shoulder on the fence, met Celeste's anxious gaze.

  "Do you want to see?"

  "Of course, you ninny," she snapped and waited impatiently for him to rewind the footage to the beginning.

  When she was done watching, she stepped away from the camera, her mouth moving wordlessly, her cheeks a vivid shade of gray beneath her makeup.

  "Pretty awful, huh?" Nick asked, his tone kind. He'd been prepared for the gore, at least. Celeste hadn't.

  "Yeah," she croaked, pressing a palm to the side of her head and squeezing her eyes shut. "What sort of monster would do such a thing?"

  Monster, thought Nick, didn't begin to describe the unholy beast the Ancients called Cadamus and the atrocities he could-and would-commit against his unsuspecting victims.

  This poor old woman was only the beginning.

  Countless more were destined to die in the weeks to come before Nick located Cadamus and drove the ritual dagger deep into the creature's stone-cold heart.

  CHAPTER Two

  Gillian Sayers stared fixedly at the portable TV she'd brought from home, her bouncing right leg hitting the middle drawer of her desk.

  "Next up on TV-7 News at Noon," the handsome male coanchor announced from the tiny five-inch screen, "exclusive footage on the elderly woman found dead at a local Phoenix cemetery and what police are calling the most gruesome murder on record in the last twenty-five years. Stay tuned for more on this incredible story."

  Twenty-five years, Gillian thought, her heart racing, her head light. Twenty-five long, difficult, and, at times, hopeless years.

  Shuffling a stack of test papers she'd yet to grade, she barely listened to a commercial featuring an animated bubble touting a new and improved brand of bathroom cleanser. Since first learning about the elderly woman's murder that morning, her ability to concentrate had dwindled to nonexistent. In truth, she'd been worthless for weeks and constantly on edge, waiting, watching, and listening for any sign of the creature's return.

  The dead woman found in the cemetery had to be evidence of it-or so every fiber of Gillian's being told her. The date was exactly as predicted and the similarities to previous murders too astounding to blame coincidence.

  Though she was sorry for the victim's family, a small part of her was glad the woman had died. After battling skepticism and mockery for most of her life, Gillian would at last be able to obtain the proof she needed.

  How? a voice inside her needled.

  She didn't have an answer.

  Despite a certain level of expertise in the creature's habits, she doubted she could find it on her own. And even if she did somehow succeed in getting close enough to capture it on film or video, what would stop it from killing her?

  She needed help. But who?

  Not the authorities.

  Been there, done that, she thought. When she was a child, the police had patronized her. After she became an adult, they'd laughed at her theories, calling her a crackpot to her face and worse names behind her back.

  The academic world, thank goodness, had treated Gillian more kindly. But then, they didn't know her history. If they did, they, like most everyone else, would ridicule rather than respect her.

  A knock on her office door caused her to jerk reflexively. Glancing at the TV and noting that another commercial had just started, she called, "Hello," then groaned softly upon seeing her visitor stroll in and slump into the nearest chair.

  "Hey, Professor Sayers."

  "Randy." She steeled her resolve. In another thirty seconds or so the news would be back on, and she refused to miss a single second of the broadcast. "I'm sorry, but office hours aren't until three. You'll have to come back."

  "Please, Professor Sayers," he cajoled. "I only need a couple minutes."

  "You're failing my class, Randy. What can we possibly have to talk about?" Gillian wasn't normally so brusque with her students, but the news had come back on, and the coanchors were discussing the murder. Even listening hard, she could only catch bits and pieces of what they said.

  "Is there any, like, extra-credit work I can do?"

  "This is college, Randy. Not high school. I'm willing to give you a withdrawal," Gillian said distractedly, her attention on the TV.

  "Reporting live from the Forever in PeaceCemetery located in downtown Phoenix," said the female coanchor, "is TV-7's Celeste Todd. Celeste, can you tell us the latest developments in this case?"

  The reporter touched the transmitter in her ear and waited a beat before saying, "Well, Rebecca, police are still mystified by the events surrounding the murder."

  A red and black banner listing various pertinent information scrolled beneath the reporter while she walked along a wrought-iron fence.

  "I read your book, you know."

  "What?" Gillian had forgotten about Randy and looked up, surprised to see him still sitting there.

  "I read your book," he repeated and nodded at the shelf where her dissertation and two related published works were on display. "You had some cool stuff in there."

  Gillian didn't ask him which of her books he was referring to. Only one interested her students and a minuscule fraction of the general public: Urban Legends-The Psychology Behind These Modern Myths.

  "Thank you," she mumbled, listening to the news and not Randy.

  "We understand you have some exclusive footage to show us, Celeste," the male coanchor's voice spoke over a picture of the reporter, now standing in front of the cemetery's main entrance.

  Again the reporter waited a beat. "Yes, we do, Doug. This footage was taken just minutes ago. We strongly advise parental discretion, as the images are of a disturbing nature and not suitable for young children."

  The scrolling banner echoed the reporter's warning. Gillian clenched her teeth and held her breath, waiting in both eager and dreaded anticipation for the newscast to continue.

  All at once, a bloody severed forearm filled the TV's tiny screen.

  Gillian stared, transfixed, her stomach twisting in on itself, the sour taste of bile filling her mouth. She grabbed the front of her desk with both hands to keep from swaying.

  Twenty-five years ago, shortly after her seventh birthday, Gillian had seen another severed limb. A foot and partial leg, the flesh gnawed off to the bone, had been lying in the hall outside her parents' bedroom.

  It belonged to her mother.

  "Professor Sayers. About my grade?"

  "What?" Gillian heard what Randy said, but his question bounced off her brain without penetrating.

  The news coanchors had moved on to the next breaking story, a four-car collision on the 1-17 and Greenway. Gillian inhaled sharply, reminding herself to continue breathing.

  "I'm willing to give you a withdrawal. Take it or leave it."

  Randy dragged himself out of her office, his hopes for an easy fix to his dilemma dashed.

  No sooner did he shut the door behind him than Gillian clasped her shaking hands together and brought them to her chest.

  "What now?" she whispered.

  Until seeing the elderly woman's forearm on the TV newscast, she'd harbored a tiny seed of doubt behind a thick veneer of confidence. No more and never again.

  The creature had returned, Gillian would stake her life on it.

  Instead of grading test papers, she booted up her computer and clicked on an icon with the innocuous name of Research Docs. Several clicks later she was reading a scanned copy of an old newspaper article covering her mother's death. She'd memorized the article long ago, but reading it today brought fresh tears to her eyes.

  At the time the reporter had penned the article, her father was being held for questioning. Soon after, he was tried and convicted of murdering Gillian's mother.

  He wasn't guilty, Gillian knew that for a fact. For she'd seen her mother's killer, might have died along with her mother if not for her father's unexpected appearance at a critical mom
ent. The creature had flown out her parents' bedroom window before the police arrived, leaving her father to take the blame for a crime he didn't commit.

  Gillian told the authorities what happened, described the creature in frighteningly accurate detail. No one believed her. Not the police, family, friends, or doctors. They'd patted her on the head and told her how children sometimes make up stories because reality is too awful to accept. In her case, witnessing her father brutally killing her mother.

  She'd been waiting twenty-five years for the chance to show them all how wrong they were and to secure her father's release from prison.

  One photo, one fifteen-second video, was all she needed. And to get close enough to the creature without becoming its next meal.

  Like her mother.

  Like that poor old woman last night.

  The ringing of her office phone chased away images of severed and mangled limbs from her mind. Wiping her damp eyes, she picked up the handset. "Professor Sayers speaking."

  "Hello," said a female voice. "Is this Dr. Gillian Sayers?"

  "It is." Gillian could tell in an instant her caller wasn't anyone on staff or associated with ArizonaStateUniversity. "Who's calling?"

  "Dr. Gillian Sayers, author of Urban Legends

  The Psychology Behind These Modern Myths?" "Yes." Gillian tried not to let her growing vexation creep into her tone. "How can I help you?"

  "I'm Sherri Hathoway from the TV-7 News Center.

  May I ask, Dr. Sayers, have you heard about the woman murdered last night at the Forever in PeaceCemetery? We did a newscast on it a few minutes ago. If you missed it, we'll be repeating it at six o'clock."

  Gillian's heart gave a small leap. Could someone else besides her have made the connection?

  "I heard about the murder and saw the newscast," she answered cautiously.

  "Good." Sherri sounded relieved and happy. "Would you be available for an interview this afternoon? Say, in an hour?"

  "An interview?" Gillian's heart gave a second leap, this one into her throat. "What for?"

  "Well, ah ..." Sherri faltered and covered her mouthpiece. Clearly she'd expected Gillian to connect the dots on her own. A moment later she came back on the line. "We'd like to discuss the similarities between this murder and the ones described in your book."

  Someone had made the connection.

  Gillian mentally debated the pros and cons of giving an interview. Would appearing on TV and speaking out about her theories help or hinder her cause? The more people looking for the creature, she reasoned, the better the chance of someone-it didn't necessarily have to be her-finding it and obtaining proof.

  But then she'd worked so hard to earn the respect of her colleagues and peers. What if they saw her on TV and thought she was off her rocker? She could lose her credibility.

  "Dr. Sayers?"

  "Ah, yes. I'm here." Gillian pushed an errant lock of hair from her face. The gesture reminded her of how her father used to tuck her hair behind her ear, when she'd been small. They'd had so little time together. "About the interview. .."

  Making a snap decision, she said, "An hour is fine. Can you come to my office on campus?"

  "Of course!" Sherri gushed. "Celeste Todd, she's the reporter you saw on our noon broadcast, and her camera operator, Nick Blackwater, are on their way."

  Gillian jotted down the two names on a notepad. After giving Sherri directions on how to find her office once on campus, she hung up the phone, sat back in her chair, and stared at her computer screen with its blinking cursor.

  An interview! Was she crazy?

  On impulse, she pulled up her favorite search engine and typed in TV-7 News Center. Dozens of matching Web sites were instantly listed. She went to the official site for the station and, after poking around a bit, found information aplenty on Celeste Todd and Nicholaus Blackwater.

  The recipients of multiple awards and accolades, the highly accomplished pair had earned quite a reputation for themselves in the television news industry: Celeste for her investigative reporting, and Nick for his daring exploits in the name of journalism. There was little he wouldn't do, few risks he wouldn't take, to get the shot.

  Her interest piqued, she continued searching until she found pictures of Nick. Most were studio head shots of a moderately attractive man with no distinguishable characteristics. Light brown hair of medium length, brown eyes, pleasant features, and a nice, if reserved, smile.

  A link highlighted in blue led to another page featuring photographs from a recent awards ceremony where Celeste and Nick were honored for a report they did on gang violence. Gillian studied the photos of Nick accepting his plaque, noting that a tuxedo did amazing things for his looks. Were circumstances different, she'd have appreciated his sexy, lopsided grin and broad shoulders.

  Gillian saved the Web page to her list of favorites and closed the Internet, the wheels in her head starting to turn.

  She needed footage of the creature to prove her father's innocence. More than that, she needed someone with the balls to rush in there and get the film without regard for danger.

  From what she'd just read about Nick Blackwater and his devil-may-care approach to his job, he fit the bill perfectly.

  her father used to tuck her hair behind her ear, when she'd been small. They'd had so little time together. "About the interview. .."

  Making a snap decision, she said, "An hour is fine. Can you come to my office on campus?"

  "Of course!" Sherri gushed. "Celeste Todd, she's the reporter you saw on our noon broadcast, and her camera operator, Nick Blackwater, are on their way."

  Gillian jotted down the two names on a notepad. After giving Sherri directions on how to find her office once on campus, she hung up the phone, sat back in her chair, and stared at her computer screen with its blinking cursor.

  An interview! Was she crazy?

  On impulse, she pulled up her favorite search engine and typed in TV-7 News Center. Dozens of matching Web sites were instantly listed. She went to the official site for the station and, after poking around a bit, found information aplenty on Celeste Todd and Nicholaus Blackwater.

  The recipients of multiple awards and accolades, the highly accomplished pair had earned quite a reputation for themselves in the television news industry: Celeste for her investigative reporting, and Nick for his daring exploits in the name of journalism. There was little he wouldn't do, few risks he wouldn't take, to get the shot.

  Her interest piqued, she continued searching until she found pictures of Nick. Most were studio head shots of a moderately attractive man with no distinguishable characteristics. Light brown hair of medium length, brown eyes, pleasant features, and a nice, if reserved, smile.

  A link highlighted in blue led to another page featuring photographs from a recent awards ceremony where Celeste and Nick were honored for a report they did on gang violence. Gillian studied the photos of Nick accepting his plaque, noting that a tuxedo did amazing things for his looks. Were circumstances different, she'd have appreciated his sexy, lopsided grin and broad shoulders.

  Gillian saved the Web page to her list of favorites and closed the Internet, the wheels in her head starting to turn.

  She needed footage of the creature to prove her father's innocence. More than that, she needed someone with the balls to rush in there and get the film without regard for danger.

  From what she'd just read about Nick Blackwater and his devil-may-care approach to his job, he fit the bill perfectly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Where shall we do this?" Dr. Gillian Sayers eyed Nick's camera as if she half expected it to start shooting a stream of fire at her.

  Then again, maybe it was the camera operator she didn't like.

  flaw, he decided. It was definitely the camera that made her uneasy. Or, the idea of being interviewed. Him, she found interesting-but not sexy interesting, his bruised male ego reminded him. More like clinical curiosity. Sort of how scientists examine the cancer cells growing on a laboratory r
at's tail and ponder the many mysteries.

  Given her chosen profession, she probably made a habit of studying people.

  "Seated at your desk is fine," Nick told Gillian, already thinking of her on a first-name basis.

  No reason he shouldn't. He knew a lot about Gillian Sayers, PhD, professor of psychology at ArizonaStateUniversity, thirty-two years old, born and raised smack-dab in the middle of Phoenix. If she ever found out how much and how long he'd researched her, she'd have him arrested for stalking.

  Nick perched on the visitor chair in front of her desk, adjusted his camera, and brought her face into focus. Then he zoomed in for a close-up, lingering longer than necessary. She really should sue whoever took the photograph for the back of her book. The grainy black-and-white picture didn't do her justice.

  Gillian Sayers was pretty. More than pretty. She was lovely. A tall, willowy blonde, as Charlie, his mentor and teacher, would say. Soft, wavy hair fell to her shoulders. Eyes, dark blue and haunted, looked out from an exquisitely smooth complexion that needed no help whatsoever from Max Factor. Her refined manners went hand in hand with her dignified and conservative style of dress.

  Who would guess that beneath such genteel perfection lay a woman with the heart and soul of a tigress?

  "Can you move some of the stuff out of the way?" Nick indicated the paper tray, pencil cup, and various other desk accessories cluttering the picture. "Leave that," he said, and she obediently replaced the nameplate she'd picked up. "Good. Makes you appear more credible."

  "Do you think I'm not credible?"

  The average Joe probably didn't take someone who wrote about winged, flesh-eating creatures seriously. Nick did. He took Gillian very seriously. It was one of the reasons he'd casually dropped her name at the production meeting earlier that day.

  "It's not my job to think, Doc."

  Their gazes connected, locked, and held fast. Her delicate eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.