The Hunted

  The HUNTED

  ALSO BY L. A. BANKS

  Minion

  The Awakening

  The HUNTED

  A VAMPIRE HUNTRESS LEGEND

  L. A. BANKS

  ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN NEW YORK

  THE HUNTED. Copyright © 2004 by Leslie Esdaile Banks. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Banks, L.A.

  The hunted : a vampire huntress legend / by L.A. Banks.—1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-32030-2

  EAN 978-0312-32030-0

  1. Richards, Damali (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women in the performing arts—Fiction. 3. African American women—Fiction. 4. Women martial artists—Fiction. 5. Vampires—Fiction. 6. Brazil—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.A64H86 2004

  813'.6—dc22

  2003069723

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  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 series—Vince, 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 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 of Rio 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-down Oxford 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 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 façade 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, Señor, 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 anyt
hing left to ship home,” the other CIA man said, shaking his head at the remains. “That will 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, Sehor, 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 of Belem, 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 near Rio 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 the US 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 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?

  —Damali 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. A Corona was in order . . . no, perhaps a Red Stripe beer. Fuck it. Make it Jack Daniels.

  “Whatchu having, pretty sis?”

  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 to—revenge, 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 in Rome . . . 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—and very white teeth. She took another swig. Such a waste, and she’d have to dust his ass. But at least some mother’s child 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, tonight—something 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 the Isis dagger stashed in her right boot began to feel war
m 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 is yet.”

  “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.