Shadow Hunter
Alex 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 Hunter
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Shadow magic
What did you think?
Join the Hunt
ALSO BY ALEX GATES
Acknowledgements
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Shadow Hunter
by Alex Gates
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.
And let’s get one thing straight. This is the second book in a four-book series. If you think you can just jump into the story now, without having read the first book, you’ll be sourly… sorely?… disappointed.
This story isn’t not for the faint of heart. It’s not for the sensitive.
I know what you’re thinking, reader. You’ve 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 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 end, 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’ll sometimes break into a running commentary with my reader… because, it’s the only time anyone will ever listen to me!
Grab your favorite drink. You’ll need it if you ever want to forget this story.
1
Apparently, it’s bad literary form to begin a story with a dream—which sucks, because now you have to suffer through my snore-fest of a morning routine before reaching the actual beginning of this story—which, if you haven’t already guessed, is a nightmare.
So, in my best Mario voice…
Here we go!
I lay on Xander’s couch, wearing nothing but a split-open robe and bandages from my fight with Medea. My left arm, where I’d cut myself open with the ritual dagger, looked like an amateur mummy had tried to wrap me in cloth as practice—as did my lower back and abdomen, where Medea had thrown her magical spike straight through me. One tattooed leg curled over the sofa’s back, and the other sprawled over the edge with my foot resting flat on the hardwood floor. In my left hand, I held a chilled lager. A massive bowl of popcorn rested on my chest—the breakfast of champions. The fingers on my right hand were thick with butter, and my lips burned a little from the salt.
I watched television courtesy of one of Xander’s many streaming options. The guy spent a fortune on subscription services that he never used. Thank the Lord Jesus and Buddha for rich friends. Serendipity played for the second time that morning. I don’t give two howling shits what you say. I love Kate Beckinsale. I love John Cusack. I love romantic comedies. Does that make me less of a man? Maybe. But also, where does America get off dictating what masculinity and femininity look like? And, for that matter, why in the blazing heck does it matter so much?
Don’t give me that look, like you’re already tired of my ranting. You started this by calling me a wuss for liking romantic comedies. Sorry I’m sensitive and in-tune with my feelings.
Anywho, by now you’re probably wondering how long I’ve been moping on Xander’s couch since the end of the first book. A full day is the answer. I know it ended with me a little amped about hunting and killing some Nephil. But let me tell you something right here and right now—surges of excitement have a brief shelf life when you’re depressed. Believe you me when I say I wanted nothing more than to peel myself from that cloud-like couch and start kicking doors and taking names, but that also sounded like a lot. And I didn’t really have a lot in me. Please, don’t take that the wrong way. It’s just that I barely had the energy to throat-laugh through the movie, let alone keep my eyes open for short stretches at a time.
Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning—however your nerdy brain calculates time after midnight—Xander and I had found and killed Elizabeth Medea “The Priestess” Bathory. Lizzie for short. Yeah, I think her name was super obnoxious, too. If she hadn’t kidnapped and murdered my daughter, I would have found justification in ending her life just for having that stupid-ass name.
After taking Thursday—now yesterday—off from work, Xander had to rejoin his pack of butt-sniffing hounds. That’s code for detectives, because they sniff out stinky stuff to solve crimes.
Listen. I’m not even close to a hundred percent right now—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, sexually, nutritionally—and part of my healing process is telling jokes. I don’t have the headspace to create well-thought-out, well-constructed witticisms, though. This imperfect me is who you get right now, like it or not.
And I ’m not even sorry about it.
Back to the exposition.
Xander took yesterday off. Today—Friday for those who can’t follow the
