Shadow Hunted

By Rebecca Hamilton and Heather Marie Adkins

The third book in the instant New York Times bestselling series by Heather Marie Adkins and Rebecca Hamilton!

Once a whip-smart detective and a powerful Shadow, Brooke Chandler has been stripped of both memories and identity. She now spends her days scrubbing floors, reduced to nothing more than a servant girl.

But even with no memory of her previous life or how she ended up a slave, Brooke won’t remain trapped for long—not with friends and enemies alike vying to find her.

Her escape attempt lands her in the deadly, beautiful land of Faerie, where nothing is as it seems—possibly including her father, The Winter King. Here, she rediscovers her past life, full of allies and foes all waiting for her return.

Faced with the opportunity to flee, Brooke must decide which fate terrifies her more: staying where her enemies wants her dead, or returning to confront the ones who want her jailed for murder.

See why Laurell K. Hamilton and Karen Marie Moning fans can’t get enough of this dark urban fantasy romance!

Scroll up to one-click to continue the series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evershade Publishing
• Release date: Apr 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949112504

Rebecca Hamilton

New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance for Harlequin, Baste Lübbe, and Evershade. A book addict, registered bone marrow donor, and indian food enthusiast, she often takes to fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. Represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA, Rebecca has been published internationally, in three languages: English, German, and Hungarian.  You can follow her on twitter @InkMuse

Book preview

1

The housekeeper jerked a foot from beneath her skirts, kicking my bucket of water sideways. Dirty, icy suds splashed all over the hem of my rough, homespun dress—one of only two outfits I owned—and spilled across the stone floor I’d just finished cleaning.

I’ve warned you about leaving your things in the middle of the hall where others can run into them, the housekeeper said coldly, looking down at me over her long nose. Her pale skin had a bluish tint to it, and her grey hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Black eyes glittered with contempt and just a hint of smug authority. Now hurry up and clean this mess, girl, or you’ll get no dinner.

Yes, ma’am, I said, forcing down the anger that rose in my chest, even as my knuckles whitened around the scrub brush in my hand. I wanted to smash it into her face, but even the slightest bit of insolence would result in me being locked in my room with no food for two days. And I couldn’t afford to have that happen, not when they barely fed me enough as it was.

The housekeeper swept down the narrow staircase, the hem of her much thicker, much warmer dress swishing as she went. I watched her through my curtain of silver-white hair, wondering if it would be worth it to push her down the long, winding steps.

But even if the tumble killed her, I would have the mistress to contend with when she finally came back to this godforsaken place. I trembled a little at the thought of the old crone, with her cloak of feathers and her fathomless black gaze that held all sorts of cruelty in its depths.

No, it wasn’t worth it. Better to just keep my head down, do the work, and stay alive. My life was all I had, and I wouldn’t let these people take it from me.

Sighing, I squeezed as much liquid from the skirt of my dress as I could, then went to work mopping up the dirty water from the floor I’d already spent hours scrubbing. I didn’t have time to run back to my room for a change of clothes—dinner was in less than an hour, and if I didn’t finish my duties on time, I wouldn’t get any.

I finished cleaning the floor, then put the bucket away and rushed outside so I could bring the hall rug back in. I’d put the bulky floor covering up on the clothesline to beat out the dust, behind the ugly stone castle I called home. The rug swayed in the breeze as I approached it, and that same draft caused my damp clothes to slap against my flesh, chilling the fabric even more. Thankfully, cold didn’t really affect me, but I didn’t like the way the wet fabric chafed my skin.

The crash of the waves against the rocks below matched the turmoil in my stomach, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I stepped past the clothesline and approached the edge of the cliff on which the castle sat.

I stood there for a moment, watching the dark blue waves beat relentlessly against the bottom of the rocky cliffs. The weather here was always some shade of miserable—cold, cloudy, and windy. The choppy waters didn’t instill confidence, let alone make me want to take a swim, and I was convinced the sun didn’t show her face here because she was afraid she might catch some of the misery that seemed to coat this place like a sickness.

Not for the first time, I squinted at the horizon, trying to imagine what might lie on the other side of the water. I’d never seen a ship pass, nor had I seen another person on this rocky island aside from the housekeeper and myself. And, of course, the mistress who sometimes visited with her pet raven.

I hefted the long, black rug into my arms, doing my best not to let it trail in the dirt as I took it back inside and up to the second-floor hallway where it belonged.

Unlike the island, the castle was far from barren. Oil paintings of bloody war landscapes and grim warriors lined the walls, and tapestries of the same nature covered full rooms in a vain attempt to keep drafts to a minimum. Various statues dotted the halls, crouching in the shadows with faces that told me in no uncertain terms that they could kick my ass.

I tried to avoid touching those granite monoliths as much as possible, since the visions they gave me haunted me interminably. The violent visions far outweighed the innocuous, and I still woke up in cold sweats from a particular scene I’d picked up in the dungeon—humanoid creatures being tortured, their screams echoing off blood-spattered stone walls.

After I replaced the rug, I hurried to the last hallway so I could finish my tasks before dinner. I didn’t have much time, so I called on the strange, foreign power that sometimes sizzled along my skin, using it to coax the dirt from the floors as I scrubbed them.

This power existed all over the island, as much a part of my surroundings as the air I breathed. When I concentrated, I found I could absorb the energy and twist it to my will.

At first, I tried not to do it often, because the power would tingle beneath my skin until I used it. Not only was that highly uncomfortable, but I figured if the housekeeper or the mistress caught me covered in magic, I would be in a world of trouble. I’d seen them use the strange magic before, but some inherent instinct told me this kind of power wasn’t meant for the likes of me.

Yet, it seemed as if I couldn’t help but absorb it—it just happened, as natural as taking a breath.

I yearned to know more about this power, sure it could be used for many things if one just knew how. Maybe it could even be used to escape this miserable excuse for an island. But I didn’t even know my own name or where I’d come from, so where would I go if I could escape? I’d simply woken up on this island one day and had been put to work immediately. I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been here at this point. The days blended into a never-ending, dreary existence.

My stomach ached with hunger when I finally hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. The smells of roasted meat, cheese, and bread made my mouth water, and I entered to see the housekeeper already taking her trencher of food up to her room, where she always ate alone.

Don’t forget to clean up the dishes when you’re done, she said, waving her hand to the pot and pan on the stove.

Yes, ma’am.

When I approached the bowl of boiled oats and onions that waited on the counter for me, I tried not to be disappointed. After all, I’d known the other food wasn’t for me. It never was.

The dull spoon felt heavy in my hands as I shoveled the tasteless fare into my mouth, hoping it would fill my stomach enough to quiet its grumbles. But even after I’d scraped the bowl clean, there was still a hollowness in my gut that couldn’t be quelled.

I took my empty dish to the sink to wash it, the barest hint of cooked meat teasing my nostrils as I passed the stove. My stomach roared in response. Against my better judgment, I swiped my finger through the thin layer of grease in the pan and licked it off.

Moaning a little at the explosion of flavor on my tongue, I barely restrained myself from grabbing the pan and licking it clean. If the housekeeper walked in and caught me doing so, she’d beat me until my back was raw. Occasionally, I got bits of milk and cheese at mealtimes, but I was never allowed to help myself to anything, not even when I milked the cows.

Instead, I scrubbed the grease and grit from the dishes and longed silently for better things.

Even death would have been preferable to this.

* * *

On my way back to my room, I paused outside the library. Unlike the mistress’s rooms at the top of the castle, I’d never been barred from here, even though the books inside looked old and valuable. But they were all written in a language I couldn’t read, something I’d found when I’d been told to dust the shelves. Because of that, I’d never bothered coming back here during the little free time I had.

What if you can read them now? a little voice whispered in the back of my mind just as I was about to continue down the hall.

After all, when I’d first arrived here, I hadn’t been able to understand the strange language the housekeeper spoke. But over a period of weeks, my mind had somehow adjusted, and I now understood her perfectly.

If the books were written in the same language, perhaps I would be able to read it. And if not, maybe if I tried a little bit every night, my mind would eventually adjust. Although I still wasn’t sure how I’d been able to decipher the housekeeper’s language, it stood to reason that this strange ability would apply to written language, too.

Suddenly, I wanted more than anything to be able to read those books. Reading could be an escape from reality. One I desperately needed.

Stepping into the library, I inhaled the musty scent of old pages and leather. The only light came from the dim glow of the moon that filtered through the windows, so I had to step carefully as I made my way past the study tables and toward the shelves.

I didn’t dare light any of the candles in the wall sconces, lest I draw the housekeeper’s attention, or worse, the mistress herself. She tended to drop in unexpectedly for visits, as if she were checking in on me, though I couldn’t fathom why. After all, I was just a lowly servant.

Lowly servants can’t light a candle with a thought.

I stiffened when that statement flitted through my mind. No, I wasn’t just a lowly servant. The housekeeper and the mistress might call me that, but I was something more. And if I could just remember my past, I could figure out who I was and why the mistress had trapped me on this island.

My desire to read stemmed from more than just the need to escape this miserable existence. I wanted to escape this entire place. Surely there was more to the world than this. The dull island we lived on couldn’t be all there was to life. But what else was out there?

One of these books has the answer, I told myself. I could feel it in my bones.

I scanned the shelves briefly, then picked a book at random. When my fingers brushed against the gold leaf laid into the leather spine, a vision hit me so hard I stumbled back into one of the tables.

How dare you borrow from my personal collection, the mistress growled.

Her face was youthful, her long, black hair free of silver streaks, but I knew it was her by those cold black eyes and the black feathered cloak that wrapped around her willowy form. She towered over a male servant dressed in a drab grey tunic as he trembled behind one of the desks. Next to a single lit candle, a book lay open on the table.

M-my apologies, Mistress, the man stammered. I was simply trying—

The mistress struck fast, her talon-tipped fingers shooting out from beneath her cloak. The man barely had time to cry out before she ripped his heart straight from his chest. His body went crashing to the ground, an arc of blood spraying across the table and the book, guttering out the candle as the mistress bit into the bloody, still-pulsing organ.

I strangled on the scream trying claw its way up my throat and barely managed to choke it back down. My heart pounded so hard that my chest hurt as I tore from the library and flew to the meager sanctuary that was my bedroom.

I would never go back to that library again.

2

The next morning, I sat beneath a tree and watched magic rise from the grass. It curled around the legs of the mistress’s four cows like a strange, sparkling mist. Closing my eyes, I breathed it in, allowing it to fill me up much like the cows were filling up on grass.

Every morning after milking the cows, I brought them out to the pasture and sat with them for a bit before heading back to the castle to do the rest of my chores. There were no predators on the island, so there was no real need to sit with them. Which was too bad, because I would have much rather done so than be stuck inside the castle walls, sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing until my hands were raw.

But this brief slice of morning was the only time I felt unencumbered by hardship, so I took what little freedom I could get. Plus, absorbing the power helped take the edge off my hunger.

I soaked in energy until my veins sizzled and a faint glow began to emanate from beneath my skin. That was my cue to let up, because I didn’t want the housekeeper to catch on to what I was doing.

Stretching out a hand, I reached for the waves slapping against the shore, which was only a quarter mile from the meadow. I used my magic to play with the swells of water, making towering crests, then reducing them before they could damage the shoreline.

The cows watched disapprovingly, their tails swishing with unease. In the beginning, they’d been stubborn and recalcitrant, but I’d learned how to use the strange power to calm them, so they were accustomed to my antics now. Despite their mild irritation, I had to release the overflow of energy somehow. The waves in the distance seemed my best bet since they weren’t visible from the castle itself, and it wasn’t completely obvious that it was my magic influencing them.

Something rustled in the grass next to me, and I jumped, thinking the housekeeper had somehow snuck up behind me. What if she’d seen me using the power?

My heart pounded as I whipped my head toward the sound. Instead of black skirts and a dark scowl, I found myself looking at a strange bird with a white body, grey wings, and a black-tipped tail. A spot of red marked the underside of its yellow beak as it tilted its head to regard me. I’d never seen a bird like it—there were only ravens here.

Hey, kid. The rough, gravelly voice of a middle-aged man echoed in my head, and I jumped, startled. Glad to see you’re still alive.

W-who are you? I looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but there were only the cows, and now the bird, which was still staring at me.

Was the voice coming from him?

It’s me. Oscar. I’ve been your guardian since you were seven years old, the voice said as the bird ruffled its feathers. You don’t recognize my voice?

Sorry, but I think you have the wrong girl. Maybe I should have balked at a talking bird, but given everything else I’d seen on this island, it didn’t seem so unusual. Even if the cows had never spoken to me. I paused, then on a whim, added, All I know is this island.

Fuck, the voice said. The bird was silent for a long moment. His voice seethed with fury as he continued. She must have taken your memories. She had no right.

Who? I asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of my voice. Were my silent prayers for help being answered by some unseen god? You mean the mistress?

Her name is the Morrigan, the voice growled. And your name is Brooke Chandler. You’re a police detective from Chicago, Illinois, and you were in Salem investigating some murders. The Morrigan took you and trapped you here as payment for a bargain you didn’t fulfill.

I leaned back against the tree and pressed the heel of my hand against my spinning head. A detective? Salem? Where was that?

Pressure squeezed my temples, as though my mind was trying to remember, but whatever memories Oscar was trying to conjure were firmly out of my reach. All I could do was focus on his words.

I’m here to...pay off a debt? I asked, my spirits rising with hope. Did that mean my servitude was finite, and I’d eventually be allowed off this island?

Yes. The bird swiveled its head, seeming to look around. But the bitch is craftier than I’d anticipated. She brought you to this island, out of time, so that you’d remain her servant forever. Since time doesn’t pass in this place, there’s no way for you to mark when your years of servitude are over. She would have been able to keep you here for eternity if I hadn’t found you.

The hope vanished, my heart plummeting like a stone. How do I know this isn’t some kind of trick? I asked sharply. You could have been sent by the mistress to test me, to see what I know.

The voice in my head let out a hoarse laugh. That’s my girl, he said. Always questioning. That yellow beak turned toward the shoreline. If you keep walking along the beach, toward the cliffs, there’s a special moss that grows on the rocks. Eat it. It will restore your memories.

Or it could poison me, I argued. If it were true, and the mistress had modified my memories, would she really be so dumb as to put me on an island where a memory-restoring substance grew?

I had a feeling you might say that. How about this? The bird opened its mouth, throat bobbing, and I watched in disgust as it spat out three items—a cuff link, a bullet, and a button. You’ve never been easy to convince. Why don’t you take a look at them and see what their memories tell you? But be quick. This bird is only a magical construct, and I barely managed to get these through the barrier as it was. I don’t know how long you have before the items expire.

I stared at the odd assortment, my eyebrows tugging together. You want me to read memories from these? How did you know I could do that?

I already told you—I know you, Brooke. Now stop wasting time. Your enemies are doing their best to ruin you in the real world, and if you don’t come back soon, you might not have a life to return to.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the bird flapped his wings, then disappeared. There one moment, gone the next. I blinked, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing, but the three objects nestled in the grass proved otherwise.

Grimacing, I pulled a small cleaning rag from my skirt pocket, then wrapped up the items and tucked them away. I was careful not to touch them—I didn’t want to see the memories now. I would do it later, in the privacy of my bedroom, where there were no cows or birds or evil housekeepers to look over my shoulder.

It could be a trap, I told myself as I headed back to the castle to start my chores. Whatever memories these show me could be false. Planted by somebody with nefarious intentions.

But the weight in my skirt pocket was comforting. My steps grew lighter, the pressure on my shoulders easing a bit.

For the first time in a very long time, I thought there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Despite my cynicism about the objects Oscar had given me, I could hardly wait for the end of the day. I flew through my chores. Once or twice, I even found myself humming under my breath. I made myself stop when I noticed, because I didn’t want the housekeeper to think anything was amiss. Knowing her, she’d become suspicious and start paying closer attention to my activities.

Or she might just load me up with more work to squash my spirits, I thought, my lip curling as I dusted the furniture in an empty sitting room. I didn’t know why the mistress—no, the Morrigan—cared so much about keeping everything so clean when nobody came to visit. She could have just closed the rooms and covered the furnishings to keep them from gathering dust.

Though I suppose then she wouldn’t have a use for me.

By the time the sun set and I’d finished the dinner dishes, I could hardly stop myself from skipping back to my room. I slept in the south wing of the castle in little more than a closet that contained a hard cot and a wash basin.

I’d never been sure why I had to sleep in such a dismal hole when there were plenty of larger rooms in the servants’ quarters, but if what Oscar the bird had said was true, the way they treated me here would make sense. The Morrigan wasn’t content to have me pay back the debt I supposedly owed her. She wanted to make me suffer, too.

And she had. The bitch.

I lit the wax candle on my bedside table by using a spark of power, then settled onto my cot. My heart beat faster as I pulled the handkerchief out and untied the small bundle to reveal the contents.

My fingers hovered over the objects, and I bit my lip, hesitant. Which should I touch first? The cuff link, the bullet, or the button? The bullet looked the most dangerous, the diamond cufflink the most expensive…and yet, I found myself picking up the simple plastic button and turning it over in my fingers.

A vision hit me instantly—one of a girl, maybe twenty years old, with silver hair and lavender eyes standing in a dark alley.

A ripple of shock went through me as I realized I was looking at a younger me.

I barely recognized myself—the reflections I’d glimpsed in the castle mirrors showed a haggard, painfully underweight woman with limp, dull hair—not this firecracker who moved like the wind. Her eyes crackled with battle fever as she aimed her gun and shot a pale-skinned, fanged humanoid in the chest. He exploded in a shower of ash.

Vampire, a voice whispered in my head, giving me a name for it.

I slumped against the wall, breathing hard as the vision faded.

Vampires. I could kill vampires—and after that memory, I’d been hit with a certain knowing of what they were: undead creatures of the night. Pride sang through my veins, a foreign emotion I couldn’t recall experiencing before. I wasn’t a victim, a slave, or a lowly servant.

I was a warrior, like those strong, sturdy people in the mistress’s portraits.

Fingers trembling, I picked up the bullet, wondering what it would show me. At first, I saw nothing, but as I rolled the smooth, cool metal between my fingers, a vision grabbed me.

A stocky man sat at a scuffed-looking office desk, staring hard at a computer screen. His lips were pressed into a tight line, his face haggard. Anger burned in his gaze as he glared at the screen, as if what he was seeing on there was letting him down somehow.

Dammit, he cursed, slamming