Shadow Born
Joseph Hunter Book 1
Alex Gates
Alex C Gates
Copyright © 2020 by Alex C. Gates
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Luminescence Covers
Editor: Walker Kornfeld
Created with Vellum
Contents
Join the Hunt
Shadow Born
Warning!
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
What did you think?
Shadow Hunter
Join the Hunt
Also by Alex Gates
Acknowledgments
Join the Hunt
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Shadow Born
Warning!
Hi.
Little disclaimer about me, Joseph Labrador Hunter—no, that’s not my real middle name, but yes, I think it sounds pretty badass.
This story isn’t not for the faint of heart. It’s not for the sensitive.
I know what you’re thinking, reader. You have handled the daring Harry Dresden, the foul-mouthed Nate Temple, the pulpy violence of James Stark. Well, let me tell you something right now…
You’re dead wrong if you think you can handle Joseph Labrador Hunter. I’m more of the third, forgotten Winchester brother.
In the words of my old pal, Lemony Snicket, “If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.” He’s not really a pal of mine, more of a hero, but the sentiment rings true. My story isn’t one of happiness.
It has a sad beginning…
In the middle, there’s a lot of violent, sad things that happen…
And the ending, well, that’s the saddest part.
I’m not a hero. I’m not a wizard. I’m not Superman with a wand. If you’re looking for light-hearted fun, go sniff up someone else’s magical staff.
I’m a nightmare to my best friends and a death wish to my worst enemies. And I’m also very melodramatic, and I will sometimes break into a running commentary with my reader—because it’s the only time anyone listens to me!
Grab your favorite drink. You’ll need it if you ever want to forget this story.
1
Cold water drizzled over my face, waking me from a dead sleep. By the way my head hammered, I half-wished I’d finally eaten that special, life-ending bullet I had always craved. It would have swept away the shattered glass rattling around the old think tank. I’m just very conscious of what I put into my body, and I had hard time believing that a bullet in the brain would solve any of my problems—beyond my headache, that was.
The coolness of the damp ground and the morning air and the sprinkling water helped with the burning temperatures of my skin and head. But the reek of feces and wet soil didn’t help with the bile lodged in my throat and the nausea swimming through stomach.
As I lay facedown, I opened my eyes and saw green blades of grass thick with dew. The water showering over me had moved away. Thankfully, it returned a couple seconds later, spraying over my body and soaking my clothes.
Shit, I thought, clawing my fingers into the moist soil and trying to recollect last night.
In a previous life, I was a contractor, hired to locate, investigate, and exterminate. In this life, I did more or less the same thing—locate where I woke up, investigate the previous night, exterminate the hangover. That’s a true riches to fucking rags story, right there.
After work yesterday, I’d found a dingy bar with a killer happy hour to mourn the anniversary of my wife’s death—which was actually today. I didn’t remember leaving the dive, though. Nor did I recall whose yard I had passed out in.
Not mine. That was for certain. My sprinkler box had a massive black widow living in it, and I’d be damned to turn the irrigation knob from OFF to AUTO and mess with that bitch. Not that my lawn grew anything beyond dandelions and broad-leafed weeds, anyway. Better to keep it my preferred color for a yard—brown.
I grunted as another stream of sprinkler water washed over me, and I forced myself to sit upright. My chin rested against my collarbone as I waited for the blood to drain from head. The yard spun. The cold, sporadic sprinkler water helped with the aching throughout my entire body and my hazy vision and the lingering nausea.
I burped, tasting bile, but I didn’t vomit. Thank God for small victories.
I gripped my temples between my thumb and index finger, applying pressure to my head, and my thumb pressed into something slimy… gooey. Pulling back my hand, I noticed a greenish-brown substance smeared over my thumb. The lingering smell of feces grew. I coughed as another round of nausea overwhelmed me.
“Great,” I muttered when the sickness passed. Apparently, the grass hadn’t been up to par with my fancy-ass sleeping standards. I had needed a pillow upon which to rest my dainty head, and I had chosen a fluffy pile of dog shit.
I wiped my thumb on the wet lawn and surveyed the neighborhood. As I did, dreaded realization settled over me, instantly curing my hangover and muting the stench of poo that spread across my face like peanut butt-butter. I had an untamable urge to get up and leave this place and not look back.
“Shit,” I said again, my stomach knotting every which way, my skin tingly with regret. I’d screwed up last night—and not the usual Joseph Hunter screw up. I had actually fucked up good and proper.
I stood on shaky legs and stumbled toward the street as the world whirled around.
“Joey,” called an idiotic voice from behind me. “Where you going?”
I silently cursed, but kept walking, pretending not to hear.
“Joey,” the voice said again. “I see you.”
I halted my attempted escape and sat back in the wet lawn.
