Debra Webb - Urban Sensation

Rowen was next on the madman’s kill list and Evan understood what the message he’d left behind meant. He didn’t like bringing Rowen along, but he couldn’t, especially now, risk letting her out of his sight for even one second.

Six people were dead and the one and only clue any of the murders yielded was the tattoo found on the victims.

The rain had started to fall once more. A storm had descended, bringing with it wrathful and ominous thunder along with the accompanying jagged bolts of vengeful lightning. Dark amassed in the sky, providing relief from the sun for him, but giving Boston the dismal look of a city grieving for its loss. The city looked murky, depressed…and eerily crying out for justice.

A city under siege by unknown sinister forces.

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Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and with the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing full-time and in 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

Rowen O’Connor—Boston homicide detective. Rowen O’Connor has six dead bodies, all drained of their blood, and not a single clue as to a perpetrator—at least not a human one. The last thing she needs in her life right now is the man who broke her heart.

Evan Hunter—Former FBI agent. Evan Hunter went into seclusion three years ago after an explosion almost killed him. But this dark, brooding man is not the same one Rowen once knew.

Bernard Cost—Medical Examiner. Dr. Cost hasn’t been able to help Rowen’s case. Maybe he isn’t looking closely enough.

Bart Koppel—Chief of Homicide. Koppel just wants this case solved but he wants Rowen to keep quiet about the “V” word. He appears more concerned with the politics of the case than with finding the killer.

Viktor Azariel—Self-proclaimed vampire who lives in a fifteenth-century castle he had moved all the way from England. He is connected to at least two of the victims.

Merv Gant—Rowen’s partner. She trusts him with her life, but she can’t tell him her secrets.

Lenny Doherty—Boston homicide detective. Rowen’s team got Doherty by default. He seems reliable enough, if not overly ambitious.

Jeff Finch—Boston homicide detective. The new guy. Rowen isn’t sure she trusts Finch. He’s an unknown variable.

Gateway—A shadow operation under the FBI’s umbrella that investigates so-called psychic phenomena. Most of the original members are retired or dead…except for one who is unaccounted for…. He could be anyone, anywhere.

Prologue

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

Vibrations shattered through his brain. Pain followed in their path, exploding in the very cells of gray matter, inhibiting his ability to concentrate on anything but the horrendous agony.

Evan Hunter felt his way through the darkness until he reached the door. The misery writhed inside him…building with each step he took. He prayed for death, even when he knew it would not come. Too easy, he’d decided long ago.

Whatever his sins, God had apparently concluded that he deserved this ceaseless torture.

Not even sleep provided relief anymore.

Only silence…only distance. And the mind-numbing drugs his doctor had prescribed, which he now refused to take.

Nausea roiled, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as a second onslaught of tremors in the air set off its usual chain reaction of physical suffering. His entire body seized, shuddered with the intensity before he wrested back some semblance of control.

He jerked open the door and blinked against the invading glare of the night. He grunted at the burn searing his retinas before he squeezed his eyes shut. Where were his shades? He’d forgotten about the full moon. Forgotten about the clear night sky and all its punishingly bright stars.

“Mr. Hunter?” a voice whispered.

Evan resisted the instinctive urge to open his eyes again—couldn’t handle any more exposure just now. No need to look. He would have recognized the voice and the scent of his visitor even if he hadn’t gotten that fleeting glimpse of his silhouette in the moonlight before closing his eyes.

“I…I have your supplies, sir,” the man croaked.

Evan didn’t speak, just stepped back for Marty Kenzie to scurry inside far enough to leave the two bags of supplies on a table a mere four steps from the door.

“Payment is there,” Evan told him, his voice low, guttural from the pain, as he groped in his pocket for his protective eyewear. The sound of skin rasping along cotton fabric echoed harshly against his eardrums. His fingers curled around the shades, dragged them from his pocket and slid them onto his face. With that barrier in place, he risked opening his eyes once more.

His hand shaking with trepidation, young Marty Kenzie picked up the envelope containing the money for the food, as well as payment for services rendered. That same uneasiness incited his heart to pound so hard in his thin chest that Evan worried for the boy’s well-being. When he had shoved the envelope into his pocket, Marty worked up the courage to turn around, to allow his anxious gaze to settle on his employer.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

Evan said nothing to that.

Marty crossed the four steps back to the door as swiftly as he dared, careful to keep his gaze on that single, narrow route of escape. He was afraid of Evan…of who and what he was. But he kept coming back because Evan paid him more than anyone else had or would.

“Marty.”

The young man stalled in the doorway. His posture screamed of just how badly he wanted to keep going…to flee for his life. The terror that had been mounting since he’d stepped up onto the rustic porch made his limbs tremble.

“Yes, sir?” Marty offered quietly without turning around.

“Next time, only knock once.”

Marty nodded, then rushed away, careful not to step too heavily…cautiously avoiding the boards he knew from experience squeaked beneath his underweight frame. He flung himself into the old car he hoped to be able to replace once he finished his masters and started his career in architecture. He remembered in the nick of time not to slam the car door. Sweat had by now risen on his skin, forming a film that heightened the anxiety already radiating through him.