L.A. Banks - Vampire Huntress Legend 3 - The Hunted

The Hunted.

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St. Martin's Press,

175Fifth Avenue ,

New York,N.Y.10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 0-312-32030-2

EAN 978-0312-32030-0

First Edition: June 2004

Printed in theUnited States of America .

DEDICATION AND SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is dedicated to my support system, those individuals who have always had my back and

helped me through the exciting process of writing an ongoing saga. Everyone, even my series heroine (the

Neteru), needs a squad, backup, and in that regard I'm truly blessed. Those who have helped me (in

both seen and unseen methods) are many… and they are loving, patient, and bring boundless

encouragement in ways too numerous to list. So, this book and this series are dedicated to my husband

and children, my sisters and parents, my sister-authors, and the many book clubs and readers groups that

keep me so thoroughly engaged in developing the next installment.

Special acknowledgments go to "the engine" of people who are also dear friends who consistently fuel

me: my agent, Manie Barron, who created the opportunity—THANK YOU; my editor, Monique

Patterson, who is a visionary, a pure joy to work with, and a consummate professional whom I consider

a true friend; Monica Peters of GritsNCheese, who is tireless in her publicizing and diligent promotion of

this body of work; Penny Makras, who always hits the mark and is a ray of sunshine; Harriet Seltzer, for

her invaluable help in setting up venues for our Huntress; Christopher Bonelli, my webmaster of

unparalleled talent; Vince Natale, the cover artist for this seriesùVince, your images blow my mind and

are awesome!; Michael Storrings, whose cover designs are brilliant; my alumni brother and homeboy,

Ray Jones, who makes sure my science is tight and my head is right for each incarnation of Carlos and

Damali—bless you;Sean, Kelly, and Angela of ArtNoir for their fabulous launches; Professors Tukufu

Zuberi and Guthrie Ramsey, for their solid friendship, encouragement, and belief in my work; Lorene

Cary, my sister-author friend who makes me stretch and grow and step out on faith; Jeff Hart from my

Art Sanctuary family, who uplifts my spirit with his constant support; Rick White, my brother-friend and

earth angel of inspiration; Dr. Erie Leichty at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archeology and

Anthropology, for his assistance with ancient languages; William Hanson, another alumni brother and

architect extraordinaire, for his brilliant research help; Isabelle Smith, who goes all the way back; Derrick

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Ward of RBG, for spittin' the sick beats; and the supportive authors who generously agreed to read my

work and offer positive blurbs… thank you all!

Prologue

On the outskirts ofRio de Janeiro,Brazil . Present day

The American embassy official turned away from the grisly sight, bent over, dry heaved twice, then lost

his lunch. Two American CIA investigators posing as embassy military police mopped their brows in the

dense humidity, the smell of old, rotting flesh and new vomit making their skin go pale. The stench was so

thick that it practically blurred the vision of those assembled. The befouled air could almost be seen rising

on translucent waves of heat. The villagers kept their distance, and even the Brazilian police were slow to

move too close to the carnage.

Four bodies lay in a mangled heap. Three men, one woman—their throats and limbs missing, their

abdominal cavities gutted, with huge hunks of torn flesh—were scattered across the ground. Within the

heat-liquefied slurry, there was a mass of flies buzzing, larva writhing, and beetles skittering for cover in

the three-day-old flesh. Disturbed buzzards waited their turn to feast again from their patient posts in the

trees. Twenty local farmers that had found the dead shook their heads and made the sign of the cross

over their chests, while murmuring, "Cuidado, por favor! Diablo—Exu." The crowd was growing

behind the police barricade.

"This wasn't the damn Devil," a CIA operative muttered. "Although I can see the locals' point. These

folks definitely died a helluva awful death."

The embassy official only nodded, still trying to regain his composure.

Investigators stared at the khaki safari clothing torn away at the chest down to the abdomen on each

body, making the fabric dark, muddy brown, and stiff. Removed entrails torn from the gaping abdominal

cavities had been snatched away so brutally that bits of splintered ribs littered the ground next to each

victim. Dead hands paralyzed with rigor mortis still clasped hunting knives, while cameras and other

equipment scattered the area. Mouths were still frozen open in silent screams, gums and tongues picked

away by wretched scavenger beaks. Only one skull still had eyes left in it, which were open and glassy

and stared at the sepia-stained earth.

"The buzzards missed one," the other CIA man said and then glanced away toward the trees. His pale

face had gone ashen even under the blaring sun, and his blond hair was matted and stained dark by sweat

not generated from the heat but pure fear. He tried to summon calm as he straightened his red-and-blue

rep tie, and loosened his white button-downOxford shirt at the collar, opening the top button, then wiped

his hands on the pockets of his navy blue suit. "Rebels sure have a helluva way to make a point to mark

off drug territories."

"This was not rebels," the coroner finally said with conviction. "This is not an international incident. Don't

make it one, either."

Slowly pushing himself up from his stooped position, the American embassy official nodded, blotting his

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mouth with a handkerchief then with his forearm. "I know," he said, trying not to breathe too deeply. The

air smelled like blood and rotting flesh. His eyes watered from the stench.

The two CIA men stood there in navy suits and white shirts, their grim expressions partially masked

behind dark aviator sunglasses. They looked almost identical, save one had brown hair, one was blond,

but their just-the-facts facade was blown by the way their once-crisp white shirts clung to their bodies,

sweat staining them, making them limp. Heat wasn't the only culprit. Their silent fear was palpable. All the

officials and authorities present shared the same quiet terror with the locals.

"Looks like our National Geographic science team was attacked by some kind of animal. No slicing with

a knife could have dismembered these bodies like this. All their expensive equipment and cameras are

still here," one of the CIA men said after a moment. He raked his fingers through his perspiration-soaked

brown hair. "Even the local boys didn't disturb the site by moving in to fleece the bodies of valuables,

which would have made for more paperwork. So we can at least thank superstition." He walked around

the remains, glancing at the carcasses. "No shell casings, there wasn't even time for them to defend

themselves."

"Then, Se¤or, make sure that this is what is said in your media. This was no crime—just an unfortunate

animal attack." The Brazilian police captain wiped at the trickle of sweat running from his temple with his

forearm.

"Problem is, there's hardly anything left to ship home," the other CIA man said, shaking his head at the

remains. "Thatwill make the news. If we don't tell it, one of the family members will."

"As long as it doesn't put a negative slant on our country," the Brazilian police captain said anxiously.

"Tourism is down and only coming back very slowly, Se¤or, especially with the Americanos. Tourism is

big—"

"This was a freak situation," the embassy official assured the nervous officer, while ignoring the

terror-stricken expressions on the villagers' faces. "The incidents in the regions ofBelem ,Manaus ,

Para,Salvador , and Maranhao were all locals who were deep in the jungle where most of our wildlife

live and tourists generally don't go there. The fact that this American team was attacked in the hillside

areas nearRio de Janeiro —"

"Should not be made into an international incident. Yeah, we got it," the senior CIA official said

impatiently. "Bag the bodies, inform the families, and we'll handle the media. Case closed."

Los Angeles,California

Detective Berkfield studied the Internet report with care as he slowly sipped his morning coffee and

stared at his laptop. Nothing had even hit theUS news. Weird. He could smell a coverup a mile away,

and had it not been for his relentless search into obscure news for all things strange, he might have missed

it. Ever since his encounter with Carlos Rivera, every bit of information he'd gleaned from Rivera's tips

had sent him to search those regions for anything out of the ordinary, particularly bizarre murders,

accidents, and deaths.

His gaze darted nervously around the slightly modern suburban kitchen, wondering if it was time to have

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a priest come in and bless his house. Somehow the gun he wore just didn't seem to bring much comfort,

especially not when reading this type of news. It reminded him too much of what he'd seen in an alley not

too long ago, and he thought that was all behind him. The world was going from bad to worse. He was

still having nightmares, and this crap didn't make him feel any closer to making them stop.

"Do you believe this shit…" he whispered in the vacant kitchen and read the tiny, almost insignificant

article again. "Happened over a week ago, and we're just hearing about it?" His mind wrestled with what

could have kept something like this hidden in the middle columns of the papers, out of the headlines of the

Brazilian press, and away from major news sources in the States. There was only one plausible answer; it

had to be much more than what was reported, if someone had gone to such lengths to bury a story.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He'd seen shit similar to this before, right in his own

backyard. Kids with their throats ripped out and chests torn open, bodies mysteriously disappearing from

the morgue… The article said mutilated. What did that mean? It was what the paper didn't say that

disturbed him. He'd seen plenty of madness that he still couldn't explain to a soul, much less himself.

Question was, where was one Carlos Rivera?

Maybe he'd have to go ask the only person that might know—an always very hard to locate Damali

Richards.

You've got a piece of my soul buried within you. Why you gotta take us both through pure hell

?ùDamali Richards, "Piece of my Soul."

Chapter One

Los Angeles,California. Present day

Vampires had a vibe, and right now it was thick. She could feel them on her skin, making her flesh crawl

beneath it. Oh, yeah. Tonight it was on! Damali glanced around the club, all her extrasensory instincts

humming. The electric blues, fluorescent greens, and flaming orange stabbed into her brain as the insistent

reggae tempo seeped into her blood and created a second pulse within her. She could feel the rhythm of

her walk becoming smoother, longer in stride as the music filled her up. It beat inside her, mingling with

the grief and rage that had been her companions for the past month.

Lingering cigarette and spliff smoke burned her eyes. The stifling, club-sweat heat of bodies dancing,

pressing, grinding, nearly smothered her as she shoved her way through the crowd to get close to the bar.

Screw what Marlene and the guardian team had to say about her venturing out alone at night. She was a

full-blown Neteru now—a vampire huntress… and the vamp empire had killed her man. ACorona was in

order… no, perhaps a Red Stripe beer. Fuck it. Make it Jack Daniels.

"Whatchu having, pretty sis?"

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How about every vampire's head on a silver platter? she wanted to say. Ever since that cop,

Berkfield, had rolled up on her earlier today asking about Carlos, grilling her about his Jamaican territory,

and wanting to know where he was, she'd seen red. She'd clean out every lower-level vamp left in Nuit's

old vamp zones while the cops chased drug dealers till the end of time. That's all she had left to cling

toùrevenge, the old-fashioned way…just like Carlos would have done for her, if the shoe was on the

other foot.

The bartender leaned in and smiled. "Having trouble making up your mind? I'm not g'wan card you,

baby. Dis your first time out?"

The comment grated her. Yeah, she'd cut out his heart, too. Then she checked herself. Okay, so the

bartender wasn't a vamp, but the hair was standing up on her arms.

"A Red Stripe," she told him instead of ordering a Jack. When inRome … and it wasn't about getting

totaled if she was gonna kick some serious ass.

The bartender nodded and turned away to fill her order, but the sideline glance he'd cast to the other end

of the bar forced Damali's gaze to follow.

Bingo.

The moment her eyes locked with the dark stranger's seated twenty-five feet away, Damali opened

herself up and her internal radar kicked up a notch. Yeah. Vamps were in da house. Cool.

She accepted the beer, declined a glass, paid for her drink, and took a healthy swig from the bottle. She

allowed her peripheral vision to scope out a potential rush. She could now sense at least four of them,

and knew they could smell her. Good.

Damali watched the condensation trickle down the side of the cold bottle in her hand as she waited for

the approach that she knew was imminent. A fucking pretender to the throne… She hated lower,

third-generation vamps—always trying to push up on a sister. But that was all there was left to battle.

The vamp empire had wiped out all rebel second-generations, and what the civil war didn't claim, she

had dusted or they'd gone into deep hiding. Weak bastards.

"Lovely lady, what brings you out on a night like this… to a place like this?"

She didn't turn around as the smooth island lilt penetrated her ear and stroked it with sensual precision.

She glanced down to where the dark stranger had been sitting and sighed at the empty seat, knowing that

he was behind her and just inches from her jugular. Damali sipped her beer.

"Was looking for some action. Got bored home alone," she said in a weary tone, then casually took

another swig of her beer. "There are no more masters of the game left in LA, or didn't you hear?"

The stranger laughed, slow and easy, just like the music.

She finally turned to look him up and down. She smiled. Brother was fine. Shame. Long, black,

shoulder-length locks, height judged to be about six two,built , nice chest, perfect abs, the color of

semi-sweet chocolate beneath an opened, burnt-gold silk shirt and black leather pants… flawless

complexion, dark, lazy eyes—andvery white teeth.

She took another swig. Such a waste, and she'd have to dust his ass. But at least some mother's child

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would go home safely tonight.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. His smile was one of challenge, hers of warning.

"So, you came out looking for something different, tonightùsomething unusual?"

"Yeah," she snapped, growing annoyed that he was playing with her.

She could feel his hot gaze rove over her as it caressed her throat, fondled her bare breasts beneath her

black belly shirt, then licked at her exposed navel, and began to trail down to that precious place beneath

her boot-cut black jeans. Her muscles tensed at the psychic violation, and theIsis dagger stashed in her

right boot began to feel warm against her calf.

"Chill," she said, her tone attitudinal enough to brush off the vampiric invasion. "You don't know me like

that, yet."

"My bad," he crooned. "But the operative word isyet ."

"Can a sister at least finish her brew?" Damali let her breath out with impatience. "Or you could buy her

a drink—since you gettin' all familiar."

"Name your poison," he murmured, stepping closer to her than advisable.

"Blood."

He stared at her for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, giving her a glint of fang.

She shook her head. The lower generations were so much less cool than the seconds or masters. In a

public fucking club, this bastard wanted her so bad he was giving her fang? Pullease.

"Carlos made you? Before his unfortunate—"

"We were close," she said, the venom in her voice cutting off his statement. "He and I went to Hell and

back together. Shit happens. Let's leave it at that." She didn't even want to think about it.

The dark stranger rubbed his palm over his chin and glanced at his four henchmen in the crowd.

"Damn… I thought for sure I was sensing Neteru. And, if so, then Carlos is the only one who could have

turned her."

Damali followed his gaze, monitoring the reactions of the vamps with him. Good, she was talking to their

leader, which meant his backup was a generation below him. Four brothers, each a serious specimen of

Jamaican male in a delicious range of hues from cinnamon to ebony, serving silk and leather, muscle shirts

and kid glove—supple pants, skin and sculpted fineness, brilliant smiles set in fine faces, all nodded at

her.

"We are what we are," she finally said, her tone now becoming amused. "Can't take everything from a

girl in one night."

The leader nodded, stepped closer, and ran a thumb over her jugular. "Sorry to hear 'bout what

happened to your man… but, as they say, it's all good. You're still here, got to live your life now. Right?"

"Yeah," she repeated, her tone once again icy. "It's all good." Damali set down her beer hard on the bar.

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"Can't sleep during the day anymore, though. You feel me?"

"I feel you…" he murmured, low and sexy. "Wanna get out of here?"

"Yeah," she said. "And bring your friends. Miss Rivera already." She let the truth dangle as bait, knowing

they'd sense authenticity in what she'd said. But the truth cut her to the bone.

He hesitated, stared at her, confused, and then chuckled. "That's five of us, you know."

Damali cocked her head to the side and smiled. "And?"

"Damn, sis… aw'ight. That's cool."

"I was made by a master. What did you expect?"

The vampire before her shook his head. "I'd heard about master-made second-level females, but I

confess I didn't know it was like that."

"Follow me. Watch and learn… since this is your first time with a sister like me." She didn't even wait for

his response as she strode through the crowd toward the off-limits section at the back of the club,

elbowing people out of her way.

She could feel the five eager vamps behind her, knew they were intrigued and off-guard. Half of her

questioned her own judgment; the other half of her just wanted to get it on. What was there to live for,

really? If she went down, she'd go out swinging. If she lived, so be it. Either way, all these potential

victims in the house got another night of reprieve.

As she passed club-goers, she glanced at the silver crosses some of them wore, and other religious

objects embedded in their jewelry, disheartened by the fact that none of it would ward off an attack if the

wearer of the object didn't believe. Most didn't.

The narrow hallway she'd entered that led to the back alley made her claustrophobic. It was too

reminiscent of the corridors of Hell she and Carlos had battled in together. Everything reminded her of

him, especially the thick, palpable desire emanating from the vampires that followed her in the dark.

She threw her weight against the heavy, metal door and was greeted by fresh air. The evening was

unseasonably cool, and she welcomed the rush of breeze against her face. She closed her eyes and

leaned her head back for a moment, preparing for the inevitable. A pair of chilly hands rested on her

shoulders. Icy breath filled her ear.

"You have any preference about which one of us goes first?" a deep male voice intoned.

"No. Do you?" she murmured, shrugging out of his hold and bending over so she could reach the pant

leg zipper, concealing her stashed dagger.

"Damn," one of the henchmen whispered. "I don't care, man. Just as long as I'm in the lineup."

"Good," she said, chuckling as she glanced up at the four weaker vamps hanging back in the shadows. A

hard erection poked at her behind in a sultry grind. Hands were on her hips now, caressing them,

stroking her backside, and making the beaded triangle sarong that was tied against them shake. "I'm not

choosy about which one of you goes first, either."

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"Pull down your jeans, baby. We'll work it out."

"Okay. But first lemme show you whatI'm working with," she said with a dangerous half smile, peering

up at him over her shoulder.

In one deft move, she unzipped her pant leg, snatched her dagger, spun, and plunged it into the chest of

the vampire that had been on her ass. His eyes opened almost as wide as his mouth. His fangs exploded

from his gums and he made a choking, gasping sound as he tried to speak. His face was still frozen in

shock as his skin turned to ash and crumbled away to red glowing bones, which then disintegrated.

"Oh, shit! A fucking black widow!"

Damali wiped her blade on her thigh, ignoring the comment as the four remaining vamps took battle

stances. Adrenaline shot through her as she watched their size bulk up, their once deep brown eyes turn

fiery red, and their sensual smiles gave way to full-fanged snarls.

"Only two inches of fang, gentlemen? Rivera gave a girl six to eight, when provoked. Is this the best you

can do?" She shook her head and studied her fingernails. "Guess there really is a difference between

masters and wannabe lower levels. Size does really matter after all."

She sensed them go airborne before she'd even looked up, and quickly dodged the first one's grasp as

the others came down in a circle around her. She moved counterclockwise to their movements, their

snarls and growls making them sound like rabid pit bulls. Her senses heightened, she waited for them to

attack again.

The one behind her was the first to strike—and was the first to get his throat slashed as she spun and

kick boxed a second one away from her. As soon as the second fell back, another was on her, only to

find herIsis blade deeply imbedded in his chest. Another pile of ash crumbled at her feet, and she

sidestepped the burning, putrid heap, assessing the placement of the last two vamps in the alley.

They stared at her then glanced at each other.

"Later, bitch!" one of them said.

"Bring it now, punk," she spat back.

"Later," the other repeated.

Then they were gone.

"Can't even get a good whup-ass on out here!" she screamed into the nothingness.

Pure frustration claimed her. Two of them had gotten away. "Damn!"

Club music and street traffic filtered into the dark alley. Damali kicked the Dumpsters as she passed

them, hoping the vamps might have changed their minds and been lying in wait for her, or at least might

have gone somewhere to bring back a fresh crew for her to mix it up with. What was wrong in the

world? Couldn't even get a good beat-down these days. Her hands were shaking, not from fear but from

total rage. Anything left from Nuit's line had her name on itùtattooed to its skull like a bull's-eye. That was

the least she could do. She felt hot moisture rise in her eyes, and she blinked it away. Fuck it. Whatever.

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If this was her life, so be it.

A sudden motion made her go still. She watched a male form approach her from the shadows, coming

from the direction of the street just beyond the alley. She listened to its footfalls and clenched her dagger

in her fist more tightly. Heavy. Too heavy. She sniffed the air. Sweat. It was human. She relaxed.

"Can't get a good alley fight on? Is that what I heard you yelling, young lady?"

Detective Berkfield shook his head as he stepped closer to Damali, holding up his shield, his expression

of confusion now clearly visible under the dim alley lights.

"What the hell is a female rap star doing out, alone, at night, with no security, in the freakin' Jamaican

badlands?" He glanced at her hand. "Clearly looking for a fight."

"I'm a hip hop, spoken-word artist—not a rap star. And for your information, my songs are neo-soul."

"Whatever," the detective said, pocketing his badge. "If you're looking for trouble, this is a place to find

it. What's the deal? What're you doin' in an alley by yourself, hon?"

Damali looked at the pudgy, balding white man in the rumpled raincoat. He was still huffing just from the

mere exertion of walking fast. She let her breath out hard and bent to sheath her blade in her boot.

"An expensive, flashy entourage ain't my style, and I only came out here for some air," she grumbled.

"Some punks thought because I'm a fairly successful hip hop artist, I was soft, okay? What's it to you?

They're gone and I didn't stab anybody. I was protecting myself and wouldn't recognize them again if I

saw 'em."

She stood and folded her arms over her chest, defying him with her glare.

Berkfield nodded. "Okay, okay. But, lemme ask you this. Why is it that afteryou've been somewhere,

there's always these mysterious piles of ash left in a goddamned alley, huh? What is it with you and

Rivera?" He glanced at the ashy heaps and then stared at her harder.

"You really don't want to know. Trust me."

"Try me." He held her gaze, thinking about the last contact Carlos had made with him—an envelope with

all the Jamaican territory laid out… this club listed as a source of trouble. And there was something in her

eyes, the unsaid, that made him realize she had to know that Rivera wasn't the average Joe, Carlos's

drug-dealing history notwithstanding.

Locked in a standoff, for a moment all he could do was stare at her.

This kid was so wrong when she'd just said that he wouldn't want to know. It had been the very

question that had kept him up at night for months. Yet he didn't want to sound crazy, even to himself, by

broaching the subject. He couldn't explain any of what he'd witnessed to another living soul. The

unfathomable possibility of what Carlos might be had forever changed his life, his perspective, and it was

now possibly threatening his sanity. He'd almost been able to chalk it up to the trauma of being

double-crossed by a trusted partner and nearly shot in the process. That had somehow been a

comforting rationalization—until theBrazil thing had gone down. The carnage there just reminded him too

much of the unsolved cases that would always haunt him.

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L.A. Banks - Vampire Huntress Legend 3 - The Hunted

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