Debbie Herbert - Bayou Shadow Hunter

But as if her arms weren’t controlled by her brain, Annie reached around his back and drew him to her.

His back muscles tightened beneath her touch and he drew in a ragged breath. Tombi stilled, as if warring with his sexual desire and his duty in the world outside the tent.

Annie wanted him desperately, just for a few minutes, a little slice of time. She saw how much he gave to the others, how they looked up to him. Didn’t he deserve a few minutes of happiness for himself?

Didn’t she?

Who knew what dangers the night and the hunt might bring?

DEBBIE HERBERTwrites paranormal romance novels reflecting her belief that love, like magic, casts its own spell of enchantment. She’s always been fascinated by magic, romance and gothic stories. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Her oldest son, like many of her characters, has autism. Her youngest son is in the US Army. A past Maggie Award finalist in both young-adult and paranormal romance, she’s a member of the Georgia Romance Writers of America.

Bayou Shadow

Hunter

Debbie Herbert

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my mother, April Deanne Goodson Gainey, who passed away while I wrote this book. I thank her for her belief in me as a woman and as a writer. Miss you, Mom.

Contents

Cover

Introduction Wrong time, and possibly the wrong man. But as if her arms weren’t controlled by her brain, Annie reached around his back and drew him to her. His back muscles tightened beneath her touch and he drew in a ragged breath. Tombi stilled, as if warring with his sexual desire and his duty in the world outside the tent. Annie wanted him desperately, just for a few minutes, a little slice of time. She saw how much he gave to the others, how they looked up to him. Didn’t he deserve a few minutes of happiness for himself? Didn’t she? Who knew what dangers the night and the hunt might bring?

About the Author DEBBIE HERBERT writes paranormal romance novels reflecting her belief that love, like magic, casts its own spell of enchantment. She’s always been fascinated by magic, romance and gothic stories. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Her oldest son, like many of her characters, has autism. Her youngest son is in the US Army. A past Maggie Award finalist in both young-adult and paranormal romance, she’s a member of the Georgia Romance Writers of America.

Title Page Bayou Shadow Hunter Debbie Herbert www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication This book is dedicated to my mother, April Deanne Goodson Gainey, who passed away while I wrote this book. I thank her for her belief in me as a woman and as a writer. Miss you, Mom.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

“Thunder Moon comin’ tonight. Yer life is fixin’ to change.”

Grandma Tia called the August full moon “Thunder Moon” and proclaimed it a time of enchantment. Annie had to admit tonight did appear magical and mysterious. The forest beckoned with its thick canopy of trees draped in long tendrils of Spanish moss that fluttered in the sea breeze with a silver shimmer like a living veil of secrecy.

And so they had burned tiny scraps of paper where they’d written what they wanted purged from their lives. As she’d done every month for most of her life, Annie had written only one thing. The same thing. She held the paper to candle flame, watching it catch fire and curl in on itself before the wind carried it away. It splintered into tiny embers that flickered like fireflies before turning to ash.

Annie sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest and staring out the window, pondering her grandma’s words. She could use some change. Lots of it. If only she could get rid of... No. No point agonizing over that, when she was so close to sleep.

A green glow skittered erratically in the swampy darkness.

Very pretty. Annie turned away from the bedroom window, yawned and slipped into bed, pulling a thin cotton sheet over her head like a cocoon.

Wait a minute... She jerked to a sitting position and peered out the window across the room. Each glass pane framed squares of refracted moonbeams piercing through tumbles of tree limbs. A patchwork quilt of the macabre.

But on second glance, no green, glowing orbs of light dotted the night’s landscape. Must have been a trick of the eye or the flash of a dream. Perhaps it was merely that Grandma had planted the suggestion of something magical happening tonight when they had gone outside after dinner and held a brief lunar ritual. Full moons represented death and change, a time for powerful magic.

A ball of light again materialized at the tree line, not more than twenty feet from their cottage. It burned blue at the center and green at the edges. Annie instinctively touched the silver cross nestled in the hollow of her throat, palm flattening above the rapid thumping of her heart.

A teal stream of light broke away from the orb, forming a tail like a comet hurtling across the night sky. The pixilated specks of color were magical as fairy dust, coalescing into the shape of an arm, beckoning her closer.

Dare she?

Annie scrambled off the bed, feet touching the rough-hewn pine floorboard, still sun-warmed from the day’s ferocious heat. She raced to the back door and slid into flip-flops she kept at the entry. Hand on the door, she paused and glanced to her left. Grandma’s bedroom door was open, and her deep, labored breathing wafted across the cottage. Annie softly tiptoed to the room and peeked inside.

Grandma Tia’s hair was wrapped in a satin cloth that nestled against a white pillowcase. Her lined face was relaxed in a way only produced by sweet dreams. The weight and worry of time and life’s sorrows laid aside in a few hours of respite.

She wouldn’t rouse her from slumber. Grandma Tia’s heart condition meant she needed rest. Annie’s eyes rested on the red flannel gris-gris bag hung on the bedpost. Which reminded her to grab her own mojo bag. She hurried back to her bedroom, retrieved it from beneath the pillow and tied it to the drawstring of her pajama bottoms. Just in case. A quick glance out the window confirmed the green light still hovered a few feet above ground.

Despite the late hour, humidity cocooned her body in a damp embrace the moment she stepped outside. To top it off, the light had disappeared again. She sat on the concrete porch steps and lifted her hair off the back of her sticky nape, waiting and watching.

Probably nothing but swamp gas. The night buzzed with a battalion of insects, and she cocked her head to one side, listening, actively expanding her energy outward to pick up even the subtlest of sound—the wind swirling clumps of sand, the hoot of an owl far away—all against the eternal ebb and flow of the distant ocean tide.

What was she doing out here? Normally, she wouldn’t think of investigating something alone, but, like a cat, curiosity overrode her fear.

Something prickled her skin. The air danced with a faint tinkling—like the fading echo of tiny bells rung from deep within the forest. Annie closed her eyes, gathering the vibration of musical notes, assimilating a pattern: one, two, two, three, two, two, five, two, two.