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  Vampire’s Hunger

  Book 1 of The Awakening Series

  Cynthia Garner

  New York Boston

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  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Acknowledgments

  To the best critique group on the planet: You are my cheerleaders, my support, my sounding board and my friends. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  To my editor, Latoya Smith: You always believe in me and I appreciate that more than words can say. Thank you for making my books the best they can be.

  To my agent, Susan Ginsburg: You were the first to believe in me and my storytelling, and I’ll always be grateful. Thank you for your awesome support.

  Finally, to my family: You love me and let me be what I am without apology. I love you all.

  Chapter One

  Kimber Treat, one of only a few necromancers licensed by the county of Summit, Ohio, pushed open the door to the Medical Examiner’s lab. “You’ve got a Lazarus for me?” she asked.

  “Yep. Let me get ’im.” The Chief M.E. swung open the heavy metal door of the cooler, went inside, and within a few seconds wheeled a sheet-covered corpse into the room. As he did, Kimber took stock of her surroundings. A stenographer perched on a stool nearby, her machine in front of her, fingers poised over the keys. Two burly security guards stood ready, just in case. When the investigation into a murder ran cold and the cops had nothing else to go on, they called in a necromancer.

  Most of the time the deceased was revived, questions were asked and answered, and the newly revived was put back to his or her eternal rest. But every once in a while the reaction of the deceased to suddenly being cognizant again was confusion that quickly morphed into frenzied panic. The guards were a necessary precaution.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” Homicide detective Carson Bishop moved to stand next to her. He loosened his tie and flicked open the top button of his white shirt, then shoved his fists into the front pockets of his slacks. He tipped his chin toward the sheet-covered body on the metal gurney the Chief M.E. placed in front of her. “Half his face is gone.”

  She glanced at him then looked at the M.E. “He can talk, though, right? His jaws are intact?”

  The older man nodded. “Yep. Most of the damage is to the upper half of his face.”

  “Then there shouldn’t be a problem. Go ahead.”

  The M.E. folded the sheet down to the collarbones. “Poor fella. This is what taking a gunshot to the face does to ya.”

  Kimber took a bracing breath before she looked down. Dear God. She’d been around a lot of corpses—with her job there was no way around it—but she’d never seen anything quite this bad. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down and backed up a few steps.

  Bishop’s hand came out to steady her. “You okay?”

  She nodded. She had a job to do, and the sooner she did it the sooner she could get out of there. “I’m fine.” She moved forward and rested one hand on the corpse’s shoulder. Her palm tingled. Good. Some vitality remained, which let her know this man had been dead only a couple of days at the most. If he’d been dead longer than that, well… With each day that passed after death, the energy dissipated more and more. Then it took a major blood sacrifice—a goat or several chickens—to reunite the soul with the body for even a few minutes. There was awesome power in pain and blood.

  But with this poor guy, she could summon his soul by using a relatively small amount, so she’d use her own. Then they could find out who had put him in this state. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  The M.E. consulted the file in his hand. “Richard Whitcomb.”

  Kimber wondered who he’d been, what he’d planned to do with his life before someone took it from him. There wouldn’t be time to find out. There would only be time to help him through his initial confusion and find out who killed him, if he even knew.

  She withdrew the knife she kept sheathed at the small of her back. The hilt was a familiar, comforting weight in her hand. After broadening her stance, she sliced across her inner forearm, a long but not very deep cut, just below a faint row of thin scars. Even though the laceration was shallow, she sucked in her breath at the sharp sting. She walked a circle around the gurney, allowing a miniscule amount of her blood to drip on the floor. Once she’d completed her circuit, she stood inside the circle of power and let her blood drip onto the face of the dead man, making sure it covered his mouth before wiping the blade on the sheet. She slid the knife back into its scabbard. She’d make sure to sterilize it once she got home.

  The M.E. handed her a gauze pad and a strip of medical tape. She secured the gauze over her wound and placed her palm on the shoulder of the corpse again. Called by the life essence in her blood, the mists of the netherworld—that shadowy place where all life began and ended—began to stir. So far, so good. Kimber started to chant. “Hear me, Richard Whitcomb. I call you from beyond. I call you to journey from the Unseen to the Seen. By blood and magic I summon you. Arise, Richard. Arise. Come to me now.” She always made sure to use the singular when she summoned someone from the dead. She wanted to make sure she was the only one who controlled them. She’d seen firsthand how horrific a summoning could become when the dearly departed had been brought back by someone using “us” and “we” instead of “me” and “I.”

  She’d never make that mistake again.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted. The magic of the Unseen rippled. The soul was almost reunited with the body. Just one more push should do it. “Richard, come to me. Arise, Richard. Arise!”

  The palm of her hand tingled where it rested on his shoulder. He was reanimating. “Just a few more minutes,” she murmured.

  A surge of power flowed from the corpse up her arm, the energy of the Unseen coursing through her like an electrical charge, making her wince. What the hell? That wasn’t normal. She could usually feel the Unseen but it had never reached for her like this before.

  Though her instinctive reaction was to shake her hand, she kept it where it was. But she did take a step back, ready to break contact if she needed to, and thereby severing the conduit of her magic with that of the Unseen.

  “Everything okay?” Bishop asked. He took a step closer to the gurney, hand on the gun at his waist, even though she knew that he knew bullets wouldn’t stop this kind of zombie. Only the one who summoned him, through her magic and force of will, could compel an animated corpse to return to his eternal slumber. He could pump this guy full of bullets and as long as Kimber held sway over him, he’d keep right on coming. Headless, armless, legless, he’d keep on trying until the necromancer returned the essence that animated him to the Unseen.

  “Yeah. Yes,” she said more forcefully. She had a reputation to uphold. This was a little unusual, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d been raising the dead ever since her power had manifested when she hit puberty. Almost twenty years now. Granted, eight of those years she’d been under the guidance of a mentor, but still, she had a lot of experience. More than most.

  And right now she needed to bear down and put that experience to use. She focused her ability and drew on the Unseen. Another strong wave crashed into her but she maintained her contact wit
h the dead man. “Richard Whitcomb, I summon you by blood and magic. Arise!”

  A shudder worked its way through the corpse then pale lids flew open. Or, rather, a pale lid. The eye on the ruined side of his face was gone. Equally pallid lips parted on a groan. His one eye flicked back and forth. Frown lines creased his brow. When Kimber lightly squeezed his shoulder, his gaze skittered to her face.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. “Richard, you’re safe. You can’t be hurt anymore.”

  His mouth worked but no sound came out. His eye widened and he jerked against the metal table.

  “Richard, it’s all right,” Kimber said again. She’d learned long ago that she needed to keep using the deceased’s name; otherwise they took a much longer time remembering who they were and what they’d been doing right before they died. “Richard, look at me. Focus on me, Richard.”

  His head turned and that filmy blue eye fastened on her. His mouth continued to open and close; only now low, gruff grunts came out.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “You’re safe. Be calm.” She felt some of the tension ease from the cold muscle beneath her palm. “That’s it.” She leaned closer. “Your name is Richard Whitcomb. Do you remember?”

  He bobbed his head.

  “Good.” Kimber was aware on some level of the people around her, but she kept her attention on the dead man. He’d been human, once, maybe he still was, and that meant he deserved her respect. And some dignity. She grabbed the sheet just as it started to slide off to one side, and made sure his nudity remained hidden.

  Confusion was still evident in his gaze. She needed to give him time to realize he was dead. Sometimes they got it right away. Sometimes it took a few minutes.

  “Wh…where…”

  When he didn’t go on, she figured he wanted to know where he was. “You’re at the County Medical Examiner’s office.”

  His frown deepened. “H…how…”

  She tightened her lips. He needed to remember how he got here, not have someone tell him. Otherwise he might not recall the details they were looking for.

  “You were shot,” the M.E. volunteered.

  “Doc,” she muttered. She looked at him and shook her head. This wasn’t their first dance with the dead. He should know better.

  “He seems confused. More than normal,” he said. When she merely stared at him, he shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Sh…shot?” Richard struggled to sit up. Kimber helped him. When the sheet slid to his waist she gave silent thanks that it kept the important bits covered up. She wasn’t a prude, she’d seen naked man parts before, but she wasn’t particularly thrilled about seeing them on a dead guy.

  “What do you remember?” she asked him.

  He gave a slight shake of his head and raised a trembling hand to his face. When he felt the ruin on the right side, he let out a cry.

  “Richard, you’re okay.” Kimber gave another gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Look at me.” She repeated it until he turned his attention to her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, all right?”

  He swallowed. “All right.” He looked down at his fingers and clenched them. “Feel…strange.”

  She couldn’t even imagine how weird it was for him. She didn’t pretend to know. “Tell me what you remember about that night.” She glanced at the stenographer. The woman tipped her chin to acknowledge she was ready.

  A low sigh, almost a moan, came from the zombie. “We fought. We were always fighting. I don’t think we knew how to do anything else.”

  “Who’s we, Richard?” Kimber asked.

  The click-clack of the steno’s keys sounded loud in the otherwise quiet room.

  Kimber leaned closer to the zombie. “Who did you fight with?”

  He looked up. His confusion and sadness twisted into anger. “She did this to me!” He swung his legs over the side of the gurney. “She killed me.”

  It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a murdered person to be outraged upon realizing what had happened. It also wasn’t unusual for them to become physically agitated as a way to work off some of the mental and emotional anguish. Even so, Kimber wanted to keep him as calm as possible. A calm dead man was one who went back to being dead with little effort. “Richard, it’s all right. She can’t hurt you again.”

  His one eye held dark rage. “I know she can’t hurt me anymore. But I sure as hell can fuck her up.”

  Bishop took another step forward. “Kimber…”

  She waved him off, never taking her gaze off Whitcomb. “Richard, I need you to pay attention.” When he ignored her, she lost the soothing tone and made her voice commanding. “Richard Whitcomb, look at me.”

  He looked at her. She saw something move in his gaze, something that felt dark. Evil. Something she’d never seen or felt before at a reanimation. She tried to ignore the sensation that niggled at the back of her mind, that feeling that something was really, really wrong. She had a job to do; she could manage this.

  To re-establish her magical connection, she placed her hand on his shoulder. His skin was still ice cold and dry to the touch. “Richard, who did you fight with? Who shot you?”

  “My unfaithful slut of a wife.” His thin lips pulled back in a gruesome smile. He jumped down off the gurney.

  She tried to ignore the flash of teeth through his ruined cheek as well as the dead man’s junk. “We’ll make sure she pays for her crime,” she promised him. “Now, get back on the gurney and we’ll let you rest.”

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “No. I don’t want to rest. And I don’t need you to make sure of anything. Oh, no.” His chuckle came from a dry throat. “I’ll take care of her, don’t you worry.”

  That response wasn’t all that unusual, either. The need for revenge was a common theme among murder victims.

  Kimber drew upon the Unseen and felt her magic surge within her. “Richard Whitcomb, I command you to lie down.”

  He stared at her. “No.” With a grimace he reached up and gripped her hand. He removed it from his shoulder but held onto it. He looked down at their fingers then began tightening his hand. His head came up and he stared at her from his one eye, malevolent pleasure shining there despite the film of death.

  She winced at his hold. “Richard, let go.”

  “Can you make me, necromancer?”

  That was not his voice. Someone—or something—else spoke through him.

  Bishop moved forward. As he reached for Whitcomb, the zombie released Kimber and pushed her into the detective. She and Bishop stumbled back. Richard headed for the door.

  “Whoa, there!” The M.E. grabbed the zombie by one arm and yanked him to a stop. “You’re not goin’ anywhere but into the ground, my man.”

  Whitcomb snarled. He struggled against the doctor’s hold, but the older, portly man clearly had some strength beneath the flab. The two security guards and Bishop jumped in, quickly manhandling the zombie onto the gurney. While they held him, the M.E. strapped him in with duct tape while the stenographer looked on.

  Every once in a while the woman glanced at Kimber. Her eyes showed her fear and distaste over the situation, as well as a certain amount of distrust. Kimber couldn’t blame her—if she’d been at a reanimation and the zombie had run amok, she’d wonder about the necromancer’s skills, too.

  “Kimber, what the hell?” Bishop faced her, his expression making the craggy lines of his face more pronounced. Rioting emotions enhanced the blue in his usually smoky gray eyes. “What just happened?”

  Whitcomb started shouting obscenities and struggling against his bonds of tape. Even though the security guards remained beside him, Kimber kept an eye on him while she answered the detective. “I honestly don’t know. There’s something more inside him than just his soul.”

  Whitcomb’s single-eyed gaze slid to her. “Wouldn’t you like to know what I am, necromancer?” His slow grin sent a shudder through her that she did her best to suppress. He must have seen something, though, because he chuckled. “Not a
s cool a cucumber as you’d like your friends to think you are, eh?”

  “We have what we need,” Bishop said. “Finish it.”

  “She can’t!” Whitcomb’s shrill laugh bounced off the walls. “Little bitch isn’t powerful enough.”

  “Now, see here…” The M.E. moved closer. “You keep talking like that and I’ll duct tape your mouth.”

  Whitcomb’s eyebrows climbed. He looked from the older man to Kimber and back again. “You got it for her bad, don’t you, doc? She is awfully juicy, I agree.” His gaze shifted to Kimber again. “Bet you’re a hot little slut in bed, aren’t you, necromancer?” He looked at her breasts and then lingered on the juncture of her thighs. “Yeah, baby. That’s one sweet pussy.”

  “That’s it.” The M.E. tore off a piece of tape and reached for the dead man’s mouth.

  Whitcomb lifted his head and sharp teeth snapped down onto the doctor’s hand. The M.E. cried out and jerked his hand away to the sound of the zombie’s maniacal laughter. Kimber saw the drip of blood before the doctor turned and hurried to the hand wash station.

  Kimber put both hands on Whitcomb. Her palms tingled from the supernatural energy animating his body. It surged toward her like before. This time she was prepared and tamped it down with her own magic. She stared into his ruined face and intoned, “Richard Whitcomb, I consign you to the grave. Your soul is released once more to its everlasting journey.”

  He continued to struggle and curse, but there didn’t seem to be as much strength behind his efforts as before.

  “Go to your eternal rest, Richard.” Kimber ignored the curses he flung her way. She focused all her energy on him and felt the tingling in her hands begin to decrease. It was working. She caught sight of the fresh blood tingeing his mouth and realized she could use that. “By blood and magic, I consign you to eternity.”

  The fight went out of him like the strings cut to a marionette. Kimber kept her hands on him a few seconds longer, just to be sure. Once she was certain there was no more magic flowing between them, she withdrew her hands and blew out a breath. Now that she was no longer a magical conduit, exhaustion dragged at her. All she wanted to do was go home and climb into bed. She knew, like always, she’d have nightmares after tapping into the Unseen. She just hoped this time they weren’t worse than normal.