Graves Files: Graves Files, #1

By Thea Atkinson

Name's Vicki Graves. I'm a demon hunter. If you need me, it's already too late.

I hunt the kind of things that will kill you if you don't kill them first. You know: vamps, witches, demons. That sort of thing. And I ain't exactly picky about it either. I'll take out any supernatural I'm told...or die trying.

But this time, the case is personal. Personal enough that I might make a mistake, and then it really will be the death of me.

It's not like I can turn it down, though. Not after waiting all these years to discover what happened to my family. Nobody wants to open up that sort of wound for inspection...but I needed closure. Which is exactly why I'm facing down a seethe of vamps in a dirty, out of town garage. And I half expected that, really.

What I didn't expect?

To be doing it with nothing to protect myself but my sexy high heel boots and a crumpled piece of paper.

If you loved Supernatural and books by Hailey Edwards, you'll sink your teeth into Graves Files.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thea Atkinson
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393282174

Thea Atkinson

Thea Atkinson writes character driven fiction to the left of mainstream; call it what you will: she prefers to describe her work as psychological dramas with a distinct literary flavour. Her characters often find themselves in the darker edges of their own spirits but manage to find the light they seek. She has been an editor, a freelancer, and a teacher, but fiction is her passion. She now blogs and writes and twitters. Not necessarily in that order. Please visit her blog for ramblings, guest posts, giveaways, and more http://theaatkinson.wordpress.com or follow her on twitter http://twitter.com/#!/theaatkinson or like her facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Theas-Writing-Page/122231651163413 a special thanks to Tiffany Atkinson for taking my author photo.

Book preview

Graves Files: Case One

Thea Atkinson

Copyright © 2020 by Thea Atkinson

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1.Chapter1-

2.Chapter 2

3.Chapter 3

4.Chapter 4

5.Chapter 5

6.Chapter 6

7.Chapter 7

8.Chapter 8

9.Chapter 9

10.Chapter 10

11.Chapter 11

12.Chapter 12

13.Chapter 13

14.Chapter 14

15.Chapter 15

16.Chapter 16

More By Thea

Chapter 1

There is one cardinal rule to taking down a vamp.

Drive the stake deep.

Not a problem I have, mind you. I'm not strong the way a man is; I don't have a blanket of muscle beneath my skin ready to unfurl itself on the next bit of demon that comes my way, but I'm wiry, and I get in under the ribcage and thrust up like my life depends on it.

Most times, it does.

Because when I palm that pointy stick, you better believe I'm ready to use it. Even if it's just my little emergency stake I keep tethered to my leg in a holster that looks to the casual glance like it's a fashion statement.

Most hunters who cared to look into the sheath would laugh at the bit of iron wood I stored there. Most hunters preferred the foot long version, the Subway sandwich hero variety of weapon.

Let them laugh. It had saved my bacon more times than I dared count.

It was unleashed now and sitting in my palm as I faced the rusted garage door of an abandoned gasoline station. The man-door on the side was slightly ajar, just the way the sorcerer had said it would be.

I was relieved. So far, so good.

I wasn't taking that for granted. A sorcerer might be human at his core, but that didn't mean any of them were disposed to help a hunter. Past the rule of driving a stake deep for a vampire, I had one more credo that had saved my bacon plenty of times.

Never trust a sorcerer.

The one I'd met wanted a vial of vampire blood. Fresh.

Whatever sorcerers did with vampire blood, I didn't want to know, but it was a useful tender for various spells they could concoct. This particular spell I was purchasing had a very specific magic.

Joy, my dispatcher, figured all men could be bought for the right price, whether they were supernatural or human.

Me? I figured all men could be screwed.

Sometimes, those two things overlapped and became the same thing.

So I'd worn my best cropped leather jacket and high-heeled boots to the meeting. Just in case he got antsy and didn't want to sell to a hunter. Sorcerers were a devious, if not nervous lot. A bit of sex appeal never hurt, especially if it made me look less threatening and got me what I wanted.

Man, the woman who is too principled to use her looks to her advantage in the hunting game was a fool. And while I might truly be a fool at times, but I was nowhere near that principled.

We met at a seedy bar. No surprise there.

Mid-afternoon was a bit odd, to be honest, but if he wanted to buy me a drink to make himself feel less anxious about meeting with a hunter, so be it. I aimed to make him feel nice and comfortable.

You the Graves chick? he said as he approached my table.

He wore a navy hoodie that he pulled down to expose a sharp jaw and five days' worth of stubble. He was the kind of guy who shaved from his cheekbones to his Adam's apple and the hair had crept up to just beneath his eye sockets.

Not the most handsome of sorcerers, I had to admit. His glance slid from my face to the high-heeled boots and I swear to God he licked his lips.

I swallowed down my revulsion and kicked a chair out for him. Better to be amicable, at least for now.

You got what I need? I said.

He shoved his hand down to his crotch and clutched it over his faded jeans. The fingers were black, I noticed, grimy with soot and dirt and something else that I hoped wasn't dead man's fat.

I got everything you need right here, he said.

I pulled my chair up close to the table and folded my arms across the surface.

Bring it on in, then, I said and flashed a crooked smile.

The Adam's apple plunged as he dragged his chair so that he was nestled under the table, eager and hoping for a little feel as part of the exchange.

Price has changed, he said.

Of course it had. I'd have expected no less. I lifted one eyebrow in query.

Gone up, he said in answer to the obvious question.

Up? I said. By how much?

It's a hell of a spell, he said instead of answering. Takes days to prepare.

It's a piece of paper, I said. And I'm already paying premium.

Is it fresh? he said.

Drained just last night.

I reached into my pocket and extracted the vial I'd brought with me, the price of the spell. It was covered over with a white label so the sulfurous black fluid didn't raise attention. I spun it in place as I set it on the table between us.

The liquid inside moved the way hot tar did, but I knew from experience it was cold and slimy.

His gaze flicked toward it, then toward my chest.

I said the price went up.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, and nodded. Maybe I'd overdone it with the leather and boots.

I got fifty bucks on me. I can't give you any more than that.

He shook his head. You, he said and reached beneath the table to grab my thigh. I ain't taken a hunter to bed since the forties.

I hadn't got safely to the ripe age of 26 in this business by letting a man, supernatural or otherwise, cow me.

No sense pining for something long gone, I said. You want a roll in the hay?

I hooked both my booted feet around his waist beneath the table, using the leverage to hold him still as I pulled my iron wood stake from my holster and showed it to him.

He laughed, of course he would.

He stopped laughing when he found he couldn't free himself from my grip. He flat out choked when I slipped the stake under the table and pricked his crotch with it. It was sharp, aided by the smallest coating of silver to keep the tip from breaking. It was just as useful on werewolves as vampires.

I've never known a man, sorcerer or not, to balk at a threat to his wood.

Alright, alright, he said and held up his hands to chest height so the other patrons wouldn't notice. I'm going to go into my pocket and get it.

Of course you are, I said.

He passed over the spell with a slithering smile.

You're a piece of work, he said with a shake of his head and an admiring smile. Had to test you, you understand.

I do.

He threw a look over his shoulder and then back to me.

Maybe you need more spells, he said. Same price.

You mean a vial? I said to be sure he and I were on the same page.

He chuckled. There's more than one vial right on tap next door.

I narrowed my gaze. What do you mean?

Small nest right next door. Killing locals by the dozen. He pushed himself to his feet and slipped the vial into his hoodie before tilting his fingers to his brow in salute. He yanked his hood up and left without looking back.

Score.

Vamps in the day time?

Double-score.

I decided to saunter over to liberate the community from the menace tout de suite without even stopping by my trusty Tahoe for a change of clothes.

Sleeping vampires? I'd be in like a summer breeze, out like stink.

I'd be revving up the Chevy and tearing out of there with a righteous spell in hand long before dusk. And now, there I was. Standing in front of the building, watching the facade to be sure there wasn't any Renfields lurking about.

The old garage stank outside like grease and oil. Once, I was sure there were no lookouts hoping to become one of the undead, I headed to the half open man-door and shouldered my way in to discover that inside it had the funk of weeks-old unwashedness and battery acid. There was that nasty tinge to the air that told me blood-drinkers were indeed somewhere within.

So the sorcerer hadn't been lying. I had to give him props. Thought he'd be all pissed about being rejected so terribly.

When I trod in something slippery greasing the cement floor, I nearly went ass over kettle. Arms flew out akimbo, the stake in my palm butting up into something that jerked me sideways and left me staggering for balance.

If not for the Harley motorcycle nearby, I'd have spilled into the mess like so much rice from a bag.

That's when I realized the goo coating the soles of my boots was a viscous blend of mucus and melted fat. And that the thing my stake had nicked was a vampire who rose out of the shadows behind that motorcycle the way Bela Lugosi did from his coffin.

He skittered along the edge of my stake as though he was grease on a griddle.

Dammit, I said, although to be honest, I doubt he was listening to me.

His lips curled back as he let go a low-throated growl.

Drool strung out from his lips to my arm and for a moment, it glistened in the sunlight streaming in from the gap in the door. A hissing sound rose to the air as acid chewed its way through the tanned hide that covered my skin.

One by one, six other vampires crept out from the shadows and