The Hunter
Book One of the Legend Chronicles
By Theresa Meyers
ZEBRA BOOKS
Copyright © 2011
Theresa Meyers
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-2124-7
Chapter One
Arizona Territory
1883
He'd finally managed to wash the dark, sticky, tar-like
blood off his hands. There'd been no hope for his clothes.
He'd had to burn them.
A man couldn't be too careful. For the likes of Colt
Jackson, a Hunter born and bred, danger lurked everywhere,
even in a place as innocuous as a worn-out bar that
reeked of old tobacco smoke laced with the eye-watering
fumes of rotgut whiskey. But neither of those blotted out
the telltale stink of sulfur. Something supernatural lurked
close by. He'd bet his gun hand on it.
Everything in the little mining town turned ice hub in
Arizona Territory seemed coated with a ghostly layer of
grit, even the chipped crystal chandeliers overhead. He felt
the grit in his lungs and in his nostrils. It stank of putrid
eggs and worse, probably from the smokestacks billowing
white outside against an endless cerulean sky. He picked
up his smeared, nearly empty glass of ice water, leaving
behind a dark ring in the pale dust on the scarred, liquor-sticky
table.
Hell, the only reason he'd stopped in Wickenburg in the
first place was for the ice. Ever since the mines deep in the
desert had flooded out and ingenious businessmen replaced
the old rock crushers with steam-powered freeze machines,
ice had become one of the most profitable commodities
next to copper, gold, and silver in this special little sizzling
corner of Hell on earth. He glared at his glass. The ice
water had cost him almost as much as a good whiskey.
The lithe blond saloon girl he'd been eyeing since he
walked in strolled toward him across the warped wooden
floorboards worn smooth from the sand of so many boots.
Her hips swayed to the sound of the out-of-tune piano
plunking away near the stairs that led up to the rented
rooms on the second floor. The cheap glass beading on her
dark blue off-the-shoulder dance-hall dress flashed in the
illumination of the gaslights overhead, creating sparkles to
dance along the curves of her pale cleavage.
"Would you like some company, sugar?" Her smile
didn't reach her heavily kohled eyes. She was anywhere between
sixteen and thirty. How many men had she had?
Worse, did he really care? He wanted the comfort of someone
who smelled sweet and womanly. Someone in whose
arms he could forget, if only for a few hours, who and what
he was.
Colt smiled wide. Enough women had told him his
smile was dead gorgeous that he'd learned when to use it to
his advantage. He'd dressed with more care than usual
tonight, in clean black trousers, a starched white shirt, and
a black brocade vest threaded with a pattern of silver and
blue he'd been told matched the blue in his eyes. Seemed
the effort had been worth it. "Yes, ma'am."
She cuddled up beside him, throwing a long, smooth
leg, bare to the thigh, over his. "So what brings you to
Wickenburg, cowboy?"
He slid a hand over her smooth thigh. "Hunting."
She let out a husky laugh, full red lips tilting up in a
come-hither pout. "Most men here are lookin' to strike it
rich in ice. But I knew you was different the moment I saw
you. In fact, I've seen your face before. What's your name?"
Colt tensed. He worked fairly hard at keeping a low profile,
but every now and then a completely unwarranted
wanted poster tended to circulate with his likeness. "Colt
Jackson."
"Relax, handsome," she said, rubbing her hand over his
chest, delving beneath the edge of his vest. He felt the heat
of her hand through his shirt as her soft fingers stroked
right over his heart. "We get outlaws in here all the time."
Yeah, but Colt seriously doubted they were anything like
him. Her constant kneading touch began to drain the tension
out of his shoulders, but only a little. His gun hand had
started itching the moment he'd stepped into the bar, and
his instincts had never steered him wrong before. Something
in this little town wasn't right.
"So, are you famous? Are you dangerous?" she asked,
her fingers threading through his shock of nearly black hair
as she wriggled on his lap. Her perfume was way too
strong, and verging on unpleasant. Her skin under all that
makeup looked dirty. Her blond hair felt stiff and brittle
beneath his fingers and he dropped his hand to her waist,
feeling whalebone and crisp satin, not silky skin.
"Not exactly," Colt muttered, finding her less appealing
by the moment. "Really more like a modern Robin Hood."
Glossy ruby lips pouted. "It's so much more fun when
you're dangerous." He realized that it didn't matter how
much he wanted or needed a woman right now, a tumble
wasn't going to give him what he truly wanted and could
never have—a home, a place where he belonged. No matter
how delectable she looked, she wouldn't satisfy the deeper
craving.
These days nothing could. There wasn't a way to feed
the hunger that gnawed deep down, belly-deep. It bit into
his bones and wouldn't let go. Hunting was a like a drug.
Once a man knew supernaturals existed, he saw the Darkin
everywhere. Once a Hunter knew that those creatures were
the cause behind deaths no one else could explain, duty lay
heavy on his shoulders.
Once a Hunter started hunting, he couldn't just stop.
Evil didn't take a holiday. Hunting wasn't a profession, it
was a way of life.
For an instant he wished he could be like his older
brothers, Winchester and Remington, upstanding citizens
who didn't run from place to place even if they too were
named after his pa's favorite guns. While the Jackson
brothers looked a lot alike on the outside, with their pa's jet
hair and wide shoulders and their ma's blue eyes and winning
smile, they were different as could be on the inside.
Winn was a solid, steady, ordinary man. Remy straddled
the line, looking respectable but hunting on the side. But
being like Winn and Remy wasn't Colt's destiny. No, Colt
had every intention of living up to the family legend his pa
Cyrus "Black Jack" Jackson had started as one of the most
notorious outlaws of the western territories, rather than
living it down like his brothers. That was the life of a
Hunter. Tracking down supernatural monsters one at a time
and killing them to make the world a safer place.
Winn and Remy might have shirked their responsibilities
to the Legion of Hunters, but he never would. Because
once Pa had trained him, he'd revealed something to Colt
he hadn't to Winn or Remy.
There would come a time when the far-flung pieces of
the Book of Legend would have to be brought together or
humanity would perish. This grimy ice hub was just one
more stop in his three-year search to uncover the hiding
place of his pa's portion of the Book to prepare for the
showdown with the Darkin, if and when it happened.
"So tell me somthin', mister. If you're a gunslinger,
where's your gun?" She snaked a hand down to wrap
around the inside of his thigh, rubbing suggestively at his
groin and wriggling her bottom into his lap. That got his
attention. It'd been a long time since he'd rested long
enough to find a woman. If he'd been a less focused man,
all the blood would have drained out of his brain right then
and there regardless of how she'd looked.
With practiced ease she slipped one leg over the far side
so she straddled him. The damp heat of her seeped right
through his britches. He let out a ragged breath and she
pressed forward, her soft breasts pushing against his chest as
she skimmed the tip of her soft, slick tongue along his neck.
Then he heard it. Right next to his ear. The distinct sudden
flick of a vampire's fangs being extended. He caught a
sudden whiff of sulfur so strong it burned.
Colt reared up from the chair, but the vampire clung to
him, her smooth legs firmly gripping his middle with the
strength of a metal handcuff. Knowing he had only seconds
to act, he shoved an arm between them, pushing her away
from the blood pumping hard and fast in his neck.
Her face was warped beyond recognition, the brows protruded
and bent, the eyes red, feral and hungry, her fangs
twin white daggers bracketed by stretched ruby red lips.
"Now, Hunter, you will die."
He looked her straight in those red eyes and didn't
flinch. "Ladies first."
With his free hand he pulled the sting shooter from the
holster at his hip. A high-pitched keening sound split the
air an instant before he shot her point-blank in the stomach.
Zzzot.
The arc of bright blue electricity catapulted her to the
floor with a thick thud. She writhed and bucked on the
floor like a beached fish, smoke curling in a black wisp
from between her red lips.
The piano abruptly stopped. Half a dozen screams echoed
in the bar as people came up from their crouch on the floor
and stared at the barmaid, then at Colt with accusing eyes.
Her face had already returned to its human shape. Her fangs
retracted as she lay on the floor in a spreading, glistening
black pool that leaked from two charred and smoking holes
seared straight through her.
Shit. He hadn't intended for it to kill her, merely stun her
senseless. That would teach him to use one of Marley Turlock's
inventions before it was fully cooked. Marley was a
brilliant inventor, but sometimes his ambitions outpaced
his execution.
Colt knew better than to wait until the townspeople
could get their hands on him and string him up on the nearest
tree. So he did what any sensible Hunter would do. He
ran like hell.
Five days later he still hadn't stopped running, but he
knew he'd have to stop soon. His eyes were gritty from too
much time awake in the saddle, and his clockwork horse,
Tempus, was making funny grinding sounds. He wondered
if perhaps he'd gotten a small stone or some other object
accidentally lodged in the intricate workings of gears and
springs that filled the copper belly of the beast, or just
pushed his machine too hard across the dusty terrain without
stopping to properly oil it. Marley would know.
Tempus clicked and whirred beneath him, the brass
hooves kicking up small puffs of dust with every step
through the main street. People glanced curiously at him
and moved on their way along the wooden walkways.
To the untrained eye, Tempus looked like a black-and-white
paint. The cowhide covering not only protected Colt
from the copper getting too hot to touch if he rode in the
sun too long, but also protecting the clockwork inside from
rain and dirt. Only the horse's brass hooves, solid shining
silver eyes, and mechanical noises gave it away. Being as
Marley lived in town, the locals were probably used to
seeing his contraptions of one kind or another.
Colt pulled the reins, steering the horse up the narrow,
winding, dusty road that led up a steep hill to Marley's
house. From a distance the house perched on the bluff overlooking
the valley resembled a praying mantis more than a
proper house. Various cranes and gadgets stuck out like
multiple legs and antennae from the main building, and
they often moved at odd intervals.
Tempus came to a rocking stop in Marley's front yard as
Colt flipped off the GGD switch by twisting the horse's ear
into a backward-facing position. Marley had dubbed it that
when he'd shouted "Giddyup, God Dammit" at his seventh
version of the horse, and it had actually moved. Colt wrapped
the reins around the hitching post. Just for show. Tempus
wouldn't go anywhere until pressure was applied to the plate
in his back beneath the saddle, compressing the springs that
allowed the GGD switch to be engaged. It was what Marley
called a double safe precaution against horse thieves.
Not that a thief could get close to Marley's place. He had
artificial eyes stuck here and there that were wired to an
enormous lens in his laboratory. He could see who was
coming or going at all hours of the day or night. Colt decided
he'd hate to see which of Marley's deterrents an unsuspecting
thief might run into. He'd had a close encounter
once with one of Marley's spine-shooting mechanical cacti,
and it had been enough for him.
Colt raised his fist to pound on the door, but it opened
before he could knock. A man half a foot shorter than Colt
peered at him from behind a pair of intricate multi-lensed
brass goggles that extended six inches from his face and
magnified his brown eyes to enormous proportions.
It was hard to tell exactly how old Marley was. The
smooth youth of his face and dark brows competed with a
cap of wild snow-white hair on his head. Marley attributed
the premature color change to a lightning bolt that had
struck him during an experiment. Colt wasn't sure, but
he'd bet it was the side effect of yet another harebrained experiment
gone awry. Marley's inventions, while undeniably
brilliant, tended to hit big or miss horribly.
"I say, it's about time you made it back," Marley said,
his words as clipped and undeniably British as his manner.
He wiped his hands on his stained leather apron, then
pushed past Colt and headed directly for Tempus, clucking
and fussing over the machine like an old mother hen.
Colt grunted, glancing over his shoulder. "Good to see
you too."
Marley was too busy checking Tempus over to reply. He
was already bent over double, flipping up hatches and inspecting
gears and springs, poking and prodding the beast's
inner mechanics as he muttered to himself.
"I'll just make myself at home," Colt said under his
breath.
Marley glanced up, his eyes magnified to the size of
small saucers behind his goggle thingies, making gold
flecks and the ring of darker brown around his irises stand
out. "Don't touch anything."
Colt nodded. He wouldn't have dared. Last time he'd
tried to move something, he'd gotten a nasty electrical
shock from it. Nearly every surface of Marley's place was
covered with a jumble of odd bits of brass and wire, heaps
of gears and springs, and stacks of sketches. He'd find a
chair and sit, maybe forage for something to drink while he
waited for his friend to finish his inspection of Tempus.
The only chair available turned out to be the one Marley sat
in at his workbench.
He settled into the seat, thankful that it was softer than
his saddle. He glanced in the direction of the kitchen and
thought better of trying to navigate the trails of teetering
junk piled up along the way. Instead he tipped his hat down
over his eyes and relaxed for the first time in days.
Marley sauntered in about ten minutes later looking
far too pleased with himself. "That horse is a marvel of
mechanical engineering, if I do say so myself. I've been
working on a new version that would remove the leather
covering and allow the copper to act like a chemically
powered boiler for steam. Make the beast move faster and
more smoothly ..." He trailed off, as he frequently did
when he was distracted. Which was always.
Colt pushed his Stetson back. "Are you sure that's a
good idea? I don't know how stable sitting on a steam
boiler is going to be, especially if I'm getting shot at," he
pointed out, his voice dry.
Marley's dark eyebrows bent down in a deep V, disappearing
behind the edge of his goggles. He worried his lip
with his finger. "True.You do tend to draw a lot of fire. Perhaps
that method of locomotion would better serve the
horseless carriage I'm working on."
A horseless carriage? Last time, Marley had been working
on an improved steam flyer. "In the meantime, you
might want to see what you can do about this." Colt pulled
the sting shooter out of its holster and tossed it to Marley.
Marley caught it, then pushed the button. A high keening
sound split the air a second before a vivid blue wiggling arc
of electricity shot out, launching a marble bust of President
Lincoln off a nearby table and scattering a stack of papers.
They instantly burst into flame. "Nothing's the matter with
it. The Tesla coil is active. Seems to be working properly to
me," he said as he stomped out the flames.
Colt tipped up the edge of his Stetson a little farther
with his finger. "It blew two holes clean through the last
person I used it on and nearly got me lynched."
Marley peered at the sting shooter more closely. "I see.
Perhaps it requires an adjustment. It's still in prototype
stage for the Tesla Rangers." He set it amid the flotsam and
jetsam on his desk. "In the meantime, I've got something
else for you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Hunter
by Theresa Meyers
Copyright © 2011 by Theresa Meyers.
Excerpted by permission of ZEBRA BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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