Hunter Avenged (Forgotten Brotherhood)
Table of Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
Author’s Note
The Forgotten Brotherhood
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more romance from Entangled… Under a Wicked Moon
Pirate’s Protector
Hunter’s Hope
Magic Dark, Magic Divine
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by N.J. Walters. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Alethea Spiridon
Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by CURAphotography/Shutterstock
MRBIG_PHOTOGRAPHY and serikbaib/Getty Images
ISBN 978-1-64937-499-8
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2023
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.
https://entangledpublishing.com/books/hunter-avenged
Thank you to my readers for joining me on this remarkable journey with the Forgotten Brotherhood and for loving the Brothers as much as I do.
Author’s Note
The world is rich in mythology. Every culture in the history of time has left a legacy—written and unwritten—for those of us who came after. As a writer, I draw on those myths, legends, and beliefs and twist them to create something totally new. So, while you may recognize many familiar creatures, gods, or belief systems in this series, this world is something totally new. Expect the unexpected. It can, and will, happen. This is a work of fiction, as told to me by the characters portrayed within the pages.
The Forgotten Brotherhood
The office was empty, everything of value stripped from the place, but Sven wasn’t searching for physical clues. Closing his eyes, he engaged all his senses.
There! It was faint, but he grabbed onto it, examining it, learning it. Everyone had a unique energy signature. With it, he could trace them anywhere.
Task completed, he teleported to the outer thirty-first floor of the Chrysler Building, his favorite spot in the city. The wind whipped at his long leather coat. The gargoyles were cold, emotionless, and silent.
He felt a kinship with them that brought him here often.
He was also forging a kinship with the Forgotten Brotherhood—stone-cold assassins, men who had nothing left to lose. But they all lived by a code. Kill only those that truly deserved it and let their gods sort them out. Kill them before they killed you. Never, ever, betray a fellow assassin.
They weren’t the monsters lurking under the bed. They were the ones who killed them. And now he was one of them.
He fit right in.
The lights glittered invitingly, the city his for the taking. He flipped up his collar, turned his back, and took a deep breath of the cool spring air. Anticipation surged through him.
He was on the hunt, his first assignment for the Brotherhood.
She could run, but she couldn’t hide forever. He never failed.
In the next breath, he vanished, leaving the gargoyles to watch over the city until his return.
Chapter One
These stilettos were going to be the death of her. Rivka put all her weight on her right foot to give her left one some relief. She’d been wearing the damn things for a month now. It hadn’t gotten any easier.
A headache was brewing in the back of her skull. The pounding of the music was relentless. After spending most of her life in quiet contemplation, she couldn’t get accustomed to the never-ending noise.
Marla, a veteran waitress at Dark Side, strode up and put in her order. “I need two Dom, two Jameson, and three blood martinis.” She moved on the six-inch-heeled red shoes, which were part of the uniform, like she’d been born wearing them. Rivka had to admire that.
Waiting for the bartender to fill their drink orders was the closest thing to a break they’d get for hours. “How are things in the VIP section?” Rivka preferred the floor, less chance of crossing paths with any paranormal creatures. They tended to favor the more private area of the club.
“Big spenders mean big tips.” Marla lifted her tray with one hand and hurried off, cutting through the throngs of people easily and, somehow, managing to look graceful at the same time. It was a talent Rivka hadn’t come near to mastering.
“Order up.”The bartender snapped her out of her reverie.
“Thanks.” Hefting the tray of imported beers with both hands, she worked her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. Coming through,” she shouted over the music.
At five-four, she was used to most everyone being taller. The heels added much-needed height, but it was still a battle. “Here you go—a Corona, Dos Equis, and a Guinness.” She set each drink in front of the right owner. Her exceptional memory was a definite plus in this line of work.
“Thanks, baby.” The one who ordered the Corona had a smile that reminded her of a crocodile—fake and all teeth. “Here’s a little something just for you.” He slid a ten-dollar bill toward her as his other hand slid up the back of her leg.
Jolting, she stumbled back, bumping another patron, who caught her by the arm, steadying her so she didn’t end up on her backside. “I’m so sorry,” she began, but her savior was already gone, moving through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows. Her internal radar pinged. There was something about him—
The hand returned to the back of her leg. “You should join me and my friends. When do you get a break, baby?”
“Never.” His smile turned into a frown. Fearing a confrontation, she grabbed the ten dollars—she couldn’t afford to leave the money behind and doubted he’d be in any mood to tip her later—took her tray and fled to the next table. Plastering a smile on her face, she greeted the group of women. “Good evening, ladies. Welcome to Dark Side. What can I get you?”
After stopping at two more tables, she made her way back to the bar and put in her order. Rather than watch the crowd, she stared at the stranger reflected back at her in the mirrored wall. It was still a jolt to see her hair cut short
. It had been her one claim to beauty—thick and long and flaming red. Now it was a glossy black. Her nose tingled and her eyes welled up. Pride was a sin, and it was only hair. “Get over it,” she muttered, blinking several times.
The hair and the stilettos weren’t the only changes. Thick mascara, dark shadow, and liner made her eyes look mysterious and large. Contact lenses had replaced her glasses. Her lips were a deep shade of blood red—part of the dress code for the women.
She couldn’t wait to get home and wash it all away.
When her tray was filled, she headed back into the fray, careful to avoid the table with the groping male. She couldn’t stay away forever. They were paying customers, but it was best to give the guy time to cool down.
The back of her neck tingled. Acting naturally, she worked her section of tables while surreptitiously scanning the room. The club was wall-to-wall people. Every table was occupied, and the dance floor was hopping. With the flashing lights, it was impossible to tell if anyone was specifically watching her, but someone was. Her intuition never let her down.
Her first impulse was to run, but if it was someone hunting her, they’d see that move as confirmation of her identity and chase her.
As she scanned again, she caught sight of the groper from earlier glaring at her. Relief flooded her, making her knees weak, and she gave a quick prayer of thanks. He’d been the one watching her. It wasn’t an angel or some other paranormal bounty hunter on her trail.
“Are you ill?” The question held a hint of compulsion. Thankfully, she was immune to such tricks. Deacon was the head bouncer. At almost seven feet tall, dark-skinned, and huge, not many challenged him. He was also an old vampire, but she wasn’t supposed to know that.
“I’m fine, sir.”
He frowned and tilted his head to one side, studying her. Great, the last thing she needed was attention.
“Ah, I’ll just get back to work.” She sidled away, not daring to breathe a sigh of relief until he disappeared to another part of the club. Her shift wouldn’t end soon enough.
It was time to reevaluate.
She’d come back to New York, back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, even though she wasn’t guilty of anything.
For millennia, she’d put her head down, accepted her low-level angel status, and done the drone work most angels disdained. Her hard work had been rewarded when she’d been put in charge of the Angel Foundation—an angelic organization that gave humans a helping hand to follow their dreams.
It was all in ruins. Some higher-up angel had used her. Not that she’d blindly followed orders. No, she’d done her due diligence, investigated the human recipient of the grant. Everything had seemed in order.
Instead, the woman almost died and an ancient creature—a drakon—had been awakened. She’d done her best to warn Raine Carson and her drakon and prayed they were safe. Only someone with great power could have set something like that in motion, maybe even an archangel. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out she’d been set up as the scapegoat. No way was she going peacefully to the slaughter.
Everything she’d worked for was gone, and someone had to pay.
…
Sven Knutson relaxed against the plush bench seat in the VIP section of Dark Side and tracked his prey as she moved around the lower area of the club. It had taken him six long and frustrating months to run her to ground. She was clever, he’d give her that, but he was relentless.
His search had taken him around the world—Hong Kong, Istanbul, London, Melbourne, Vancouver, and now here. She was the cleverest target he’d ever hunted, moving often, changing her look in each place, keeping to herself. Living among people but becoming close to no one.
He could relate. He had family whom he’d die for but wasn’t close to. And whose fault is that? His father and mother had won a second chance at life and love after a hard-fought battle with the gods. While he was happy for them—no one deserved it more—he was no longer the son they remembered. That boy had died a long time ago. His hands curled into fists, the muscles in his shoulders knotting. It took a concerted effort to relax them.
Rivka looked nothing like the description he’d been given, but the faintest trace of her energy signal matched. It was unmistakable and undeniable. It was pure luck she’d bumped into him without him having to figure out a way to get close without making her suspicious. The last thing he wanted was to spook her.
The waitress, who’d introduced herself as Marla, placed the unopened bottle of spring water he’d ordered in front of him. Paranoid maybe, but he never took unnecessary chances. And he’d never acquired a taste for liquor. He laid a fifty-dollar bill on the table and pushed it toward her. “Keep the change.”
She flashed him a smile. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
As she walked away, his gaze was drawn back to his prey. Rivka was an angel, but she looked like pure temptation in her ridiculously high, red heels. Unlike the other women working here, she tottered on them from time to time, always regaining her balance before twisting an ankle. They might not be practical, but they sure as hell emphasized the length and shape of her legs.
The skirt she wore was so short it was barely legal. The black leather emphasized her slender hips and tiny waist. The scanty top covering her breasts was the same color as the shoes. The outfit was enticing and fit with the vampire theme of the bar.
All the waitresses wore the same sexy uniform, but it was different on her. Even provocatively dressed, there was something innocent about her. He almost snorted at the idea. The contrast was appealing, though, and a challenge to a certain kind of male.
He wasn’t the only one watching her.
A large male stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “Problem?” Sven asked. He’d kept on his long leather coat and his battle-axe sat against his back, within easy reach. He also had a combat knife tucked in his boot. Not that he needed any weapons to defend himself. He’d been born fighting.
“You tell me.” The big man wore black pants and a red vest that showed off a whole lot of dark, muscled skin and marked him as an employee.
Sven studied his energy signature. He was more than a bouncer for the club. “Vampire.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “The name is Deacon. And you are?”
“Enjoying an evening out.” It wasn’t anyone’s business who he was or why he was here. He wasn’t the only one searching for Rivka.
His gaze tracked to the bottle of water. “Big spender for the VIP section.”
Sven tugged a handful of bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. “That should cover any expenses.”
“Keep your money. Don’t make me have to come back here.” Warning given, Deacon left.
Alone again, he scanned the far end of the room and homed right in on Rivka. She was smiling at a group of women, her expression natural and open. Even with the ridiculous makeup, she appeared young and fresh.
What a lie. His intel was scanty, but she was a hell of a lot older than she appeared. Probably older than him, and he’d been around about fifteen hundred years.
What had her life been like before she’d gotten involved in a plot against the Brotherhood? He’d stood in the small, dingy rooms she’d taken refuge in over the past months, unable to picture her in any of them. It went beyond her energy signature, beyond her angelic aura. The woman glowed.
His lip curled in a sneer. A pretty face could hide pure evil. He’d dealt with gods and goddesses, tracked enough humans and paranormal creatures to have firsthand knowledge. With a quick twist, he opened the water and drank deep. It did nothing to cool the fire burning inside him.
He set the bottle on the table, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an inexpensive bracelet. It was the kind of trinket a woman might buy at an outdoor market or one of those fancy new age shops. The round beads were silv
er and semiprecious gems—amethyst, rose quartz, and clear quartz—strung on a stretchy band. He’d found it under the bed in her room in Istanbul, lost or overlooked in her haste when she’d fled.
He ran his fingers over the beads, letting them soothe him. For too many nights, they were all he’d had of her, the only connection. Her scent had clung to the bracelet for a time but had faded until the barest hint remained. If she wore it again, it would smell like her.
“Fuck!” He curled his fingers around the trinket. It’d be easy to crush it. His hand tightened. Swearing again, he tucked it back in his pocket for safekeeping.
The woman had bewitched him. Nothing else could explain his obsession with her. Maybe it was the familiarity. He’d always kept a distance from his prey, hunting swiftly and dispatching them or taking them back to his goddess for judgment. It wasn’t boasting to say he was the best. Yet, somehow, someway, this small woman had eluded him for months. And not only him. Heaven had sent angels in search of her. He’d crossed paths with several of them.
Rivka was an enigma, a low-level angel with the power and skill to evade the best paranormal trackers. A woman who reeked of innocence yet was accused of being part of a plot against the Brotherhood.
Who was the real woman?
The waitress sidled back to his table, her smile forced. He tamped down his anger, aware it had to be radiating. His lack of discipline appalled him enough to snap him back to himself.
“Another water. Please.” The fifty he slid toward her garnered him a smile. He reached into his pocket and touched the bracelet. The tension eased out of him, and anticipation flowed in.
…
Rivka glanced at her phone for the third time in the past half hour. It was going to get her into trouble. Employees weren’t supposed to be on their phones during work hours. She shoved it back into the pocket she’d sewn into the waistband of her skirt.
Time had come to a standstill. There were hours to go until her shift ended, and she was rattled from earlier. Paranoia had kept her alive. It was time to pack up and flee…somewhere. She had no idea where she was going from here. Money was a problem. As an angel, she’d never needed any. All her requirements were met while she was in Heaven, and her venture here on Earth had been fully funded. Sure, she had powers she could tap into, but she might as well hold up a neon sign pointing to her location—angel on the run here. Stuck doing things the human way sucked, but she’d adapted rather well, if she did say so herself.