Shade Hunted: A Druidverse Urban Fantasy Novel (The Shadow Changeling Series Book 2) Read online

  Shade Hunted

  A Druidverse Urban Fantasy Novel

  M.D. Massey

  Copyright © 2021 by M.D. Massey

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  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.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapters!

  Introduction

  Prince Mark’s Price

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Shade Hunted deals with issues of child abuse. There are no graphic depictions of abuse, but it is an ongoing theme throughout the novel.

  If you or a child you know is being abused, call 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453) or visit ChildHelpHotline.org for help.

  1

  The most dangerous creatures are not those that look deadly, as the appearance of danger will at least afford the intended prey a chance to fight back. No, the deadliest beings are those that smile prettily before they tear their victims limb from limb. Currently, I stalked the latter.

  I remained concealed in the shadowed confines of a sewer drain, across the street from a neighborhood playground in a residential district of Austin. For the last several days, I’d been staking out playgrounds all over this side of the city based on a tip I received from a local hedge wizard named Templeton. Templeton was the de facto leader of all the magically talented individuals who lived on the street and the self-appointed shepherd of the local homeless population in general. I did favors for him, helping him keep his flock safe, and he fed me information.

  It was a rather tidy and usually beneficial arrangement, although the sewers were certainly the last place I would’ve chosen to be at any given moment. Between the rancid odor and the unidentifiable substances that squished beneath my feet, I was relatively certain I’d need to throw away my clothes after I’d completed this task. However, Templeton had been right when he told me this location would prove the best observation point. Stealth was a requirement on this job, making my trudge through the sewers a necessary evil, as my target was known to be as elusive as any in the World Beneath.

  Across the street, a young girl of perhaps eight or nine sat on a playground swing, the chains chirping above her as the wind pushed the child in a lazy pendulum arc. She trailed the toes of her patent leather shoes in the mulch beneath her, snagging an errant bit of shredded cedar in the white lace frill of her bobby socks. Her eyes were downcast, her face nearly hidden by her long, blonde pigtails. The white collared shirt she wore had come partially untucked from her plaid skirt at some point, and her dark blue school jacket was threadbare at the elbows, matching her scuffed-at-the-knees tights and the chipped pink polish on her almost too-long nails.

  The girl seemed oblivious to the world, lost as she was in introspection. Even her lavender backpack looked as if it were in mourning, the charms and miniature furries that hung from it barely bothering to obey the laws of gravity and inertia by swinging in time with their master. She gave the impression of vulnerability and innocence, the sort of child a mother would take pity on, offering to guide her back to the parents from whom she’d been separated.

  But no doting mothers pushing carriages while chatting about feeding schedules and naps were to be found in the park this afternoon. Instead, the grounds were barren of visitors, save for a lone man walking a yellow Labrador pup along the sidewalk in the general direction of the swing-sets. He was unremarkably dressed in khakis, a light-blue polo shirt, a tan golf jacket, and loafers. His short stature, slight build, and pale, almost sickly complexion were equally average and unexceptional. Add to this a bad comb-over and glasses that had been out of style a decade prior, and the sum total was an individual possessed of an utterly forgettable nature.

  He was in no hurry, that much was clear. When the dog paused to urinate, the man took the opportunity to scan his surroundings with a practiced, perfunctory efficiency. As his gaze wandered toward the swings, his attention lingered on the girl for a time that went well past casual concern, until it bordered on inappropriate scrutiny.

  Before his interest could be marked as unseemly by any who might be looking on, he averted his gaze. Continuing his walk with a gentle tug on the pup’s leash, he strolled in an unhurried fashion, his course taking him seemingly at random past the play area where the child sat alone. None but the most discerning eye would notice the tension in his shoulders as he walked almost, but not quite, past the swings before glancing over his shoulder.

  Fatherly concern marked his mien, and his voice dripped compassion as he called to the child. “Excuse me—are you lost?”

  The child nodded her head slowly. “I-I’m new. I mean, we just moved here, and I must’ve gotten off at the wrong stop.” She sniffled, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her school jacket.

  For a moment, a tight smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth, vanishing just as quickly as he regained his composure. “Now, now, don’t cry,” he said as he walked his puppy over to the swings. “What about your mother? Could we call her to come get you?”

  The girl shook her head. “I live with my grandma, and we don’t have a phone right now. Or rather, we have a phone, but it’s cut off.”

  The man’s voice dripped with sympathy, contrary to the predatory gleam in his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. And there’s no one else we might call?”

  “No one, mister.” The puppy began turning circles as it chased its tail, eliciting a tinkling laugh from the child. “I like your puppy.”

  “Ah, and he likes little girls,” the man replied. “His name is Whiskers. Would you like to pet him?”

  She sniffled and wiped tears from her bright blue eyes. “Grandma says I shouldn’t talk to people I don’t know.”

  “I see,” the man said with nod. “I’m Will. What’s your name?”

  “Jessica.”

  “That’s a pretty name, Jessica. Now we know each other, don’t we? So, it’s okay to talk to me.”

  “I guess.”

  The man scanned the area again with the same professional ease. “Jessica, do you know your address?”

  She sniffled again. “I live in the mobile home park, off Loyola. But I don’t know how to get there from here.”

  “Is that so? I know exactly where that is, because it’s not fa
r from my house. In fact, I drive by there all the time.” His brow furrowed as if he were struggling for a solution to the girl’s dilemma. “I have an idea. Why don’t you ride along with Whiskers and me, and I’ll just drop you off on the way?”

  “I dunno, mister.”

  “Will. My name is Will, remember?”

  “Mister Will, are you sure it’s okay?”

  He held two fingers up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”

  Will held Jessica’s hand as they walked around the corner to his nondescript silver sedan. No one would consider the scene to be unseemly, just a father and daughter walking their dog through the neighborhood. I waited until they’d turned the corner, then I called on my shade, summoning shadow magic to sprout four dark, wispy tentacles from my torso.

  -Your quarry escapes,- my shade hissed.

  Not likely, I replied.

  Of late, my shade had been much more cooperative—docile, even. It had been picking up on human speech patterns as well, engaging me in psychic conversation at odd intervals. It was annoying, and it made me suspicious of its motives. Yet, all I could do was shore up the psychic and spiritual prison I’d created for it inside me, and make sure I took my elixir at regular intervals.

  That said, I had to admit I found it convenient that I didn’t have to face an exhausting battle of wills every time I needed to call on the creature’s magic. Take the current situation, for instance. Under my own power, I’d never be able to exit the sewers in time to track my prey, yet it was child’s play to move at speed with the shade’s help. Using the pseudo-limbs I’d created to lift myself out of the fetid water, I marched at speed to the open manhole cover one-half block distant.

  Earlier, I’d concealed the sewer access with a blue pop-up shelter I’d stolen from a city work vehicle. Thus, no one witnessed my use of magic as I exited the hole. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I tore off a small bit of shadow magic from the end of one limb, just before I banished the lot. Fashioning the dark, tarry stuff into a dart, I exited the work tent just in time to see the taillights flash on Will’s car as he shifted it into gear.

  I tossed the shadow dart overhand, imbuing it with a bit of my will on the release. The projectile sailed in a high arc, adjusting its course on the fly so it landed on the rear surface of the vehicle, softly enough to avoid alerting the driver. Once the magic had adhered to the sedan, it transformed into a dozen small, charcoal-gray spiders that skittered across the boot cover and into the seams around the lid.

  The spell had a twofold purpose; first to allow me to track the vehicle, and second to provide a means of eavesdropping on their conversation. At least one of the little shadow golems would surreptitiously deposit itself in the girl’s backpack. That would ensure that I’d know where she was, even after she left the predator’s automobile.

  -Clever.-

  I don’t require your praise, wraith. I know the quality of my work.

  The wraith merely laughed in reply, making a hollow, evil sound. I ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. Despite having a redundant tracking spell in place, I made for my Jaguar with all due haste, eager as I was to finally capture the target. It had taken me weeks to track one down, and I was not about to lose it due to apathy born of hubris.

  Trailing the silver sedan from a block away, I listened in as Will made disarmingly casual conversation with Jessica. What sort of music she liked, what her favorite animal was, the types of food she liked to eat—that sort of thing. Not so shockingly, Will’s tastes leaned toward those of a school-age girl, and the two chatted amiably until Will drove past the mobile home park off Loyola.

  “You passed my house,” Jessica remarked, with just the slightest hint of concern in her voice.

  “Did I? I guess I was distracted because I’m worried about Whiskers. The poor boy is hungry because he hasn’t eaten all day. Is it okay if we go to my house to feed him before I take you home?”

  The pup was likely to be sitting in the girl’s lap, and I imagined her stroking its short, golden hair as she replied. “I guess so. But I don’t want my grandma to worry.”

  “We won’t be long.” The man was silent for the span of a few heartbeats before he continued. “You know what would help me a lot?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you could feed Whiskers for me when we get to my house.”

  “Can I?”

  “Sure you can. All his food and toys are downstairs. I’ll show you where, then you can feed him while I take care of a few things. After that, we’ll head right back to drop you off before your grandma even knows you missed your stop.”

  A basement, in central Texas. Installed by the owner himself, no doubt. Utterly predictable.

  The girl giggled with giddy excitement, and I tuned them out as they engaged in further, mostly harmless conversation. By the time Will had turned into a lonely gravel drive on J.M. Holloway Lane, shadows were lengthening as the sun set over the distant Austin skyline. The driveway led to a weather-beaten farmhouse and detached garage with faded blue siding and a gray asphalt shingle roof. Fifty yards or so past that sat a collection of old cars, discarded appliances, and metal shipping containers, rusting away on what I assumed to be the back acreage of the lot.

  I drove on for half a block, pulling onto the shoulder on the rear side of a boat and marine junkyard that looked more graveyard than salvage. After casting a “look away, go away” spell on my sports car, I exited and cloaked myself in shadow. Stalking through the sparse trees that lined the border between the junkyard and the side yard of the house, I reached the rear door just as I heard the front screen door bang shut.

  Moving as quickly as stealth would allow, I located an access point to the crawl space under the house. On entering, the faint smell of decomposing corpses was the first thing I noticed. There was, indeed, a basement here, as the home had been built over a buried metal shipping container. It was clever, in the worst possible way. Unfortunately, the owner had poured an enclosed concreted stairwell to allow him access to his dungeon, which meant I’d not be entering via this route.

  No matter. Events would take their natural course in short order. I exited the crawl space and hid by the back door, waiting until such time as I might catch my target unguarded and vulnerable.

  Through my connection to the shadow spider, I heard Will call out to Jessica from within the house. “I have sodas and chocolate milk in the fridge, and cookies in the jar on the table. Help yourself.”

  “I’m not hungry yet. But can I go downstairs and feed Whiskers?”

  “Absolutely—let me show you the way.”

  The sound of three deadbolts unlocking came loud and clear through the connection, then a door squealed in the background.

  “Why do you have so many locks on that door?” Jessica asked with perfect naïveté.

  “For safety. I don’t want anyone falling down the stairs.”

  “Oh.” After a short break in the conversation, the girl continued in a quavering voice. “It’s dark down there.”

  “The light switch is at the bottom of the stairs. You carry Whiskers, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Alright.”

  The sound of footsteps echoing on plywood was my cue. I waited to hear the sound of the door slamming shut and the locks snapping into place, then I tested the back doorknob. It was unlocked, which told me Will didn’t have anything to hide in his basement at the moment. Or he was more careless than I had at first thought.

  I crept into the home, careful not to make a sound on the outdated and worn linoleum floor. The home looked like something one would inherit from an aging parent, filled as it was with knickknacks and the human detritus of decades past. Doilies, figurines, and porcelain dolls sat everywhere, covering the tired, ancient furniture in a tawdry display of poor taste and probable fetishism.

  How very reminiscent of the killer’s house in that suspense horror film Belladonna made me watch. What was it? Silence of the Something or Other.

&
nbsp; As I passed through a sitting room, I kept an eye on a clown doll that stared at me from a shelf in the corner. I did not suffer from coulrophobia, but certain entities had a predilection for inhabiting such items, as most humans were in fact afraid of clowns. It was likely evil spirits would be drawn to this place, as the necromancer in me could sense death all around.

  I’d already seen a ghost, that of a girl not unlike Jessica, peering forlornly out of a window. There’d be others, echoes of the horrific acts that had been committed in this place. Before the night was done, I’d see to it that such violence was never visited on a child in this home again. Then, I’d notify the authorities—anonymously, of course—if only to provide the victims’ families with closure.

  A shame that my work didn’t cause me to cross this monster’s path sooner.

  Shaking off such errant thoughts, I brought my mind back on task as I reached the basement entrance. While I could easily use a cantrip to open the deadbolts, I was too close to my target, and even that small bit of magic might tip it off to my presence. Certainly, I was blocking the only exit from the killer’s playground below, but I was unwilling to take such risks. Thus, I produced a set of lock picks, throwing the bolts one at a time, just as quietly as possible.

  I quieted the hinges with a bit of oil from my locksmith kit, then I nudged it open, slowly, so very slowly. The stairs beyond were dark indeed, forcing me to borrow my shade’s shadowsight in order to navigate their depths. Plywood planks creaked beneath my feet—steps that had been hastily constructed after the rough concrete tunnel had been poured.