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James Tuck is a professional tattoo artist whose work has appeared in numerous publications. He currently lives with his wife, children, and several dogs in Georgia, where he owns and operates a tattoo parlor. His thoughts on writing, and updates about Deacon Chalk’s next adventure, can be found at www.JamesRTuck.com.

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BLOOD AND SILVER

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Chapter One

But I was having a good day. Scratch that, I was having a great day. My friend Tiff had dragged me downtown to a little carnival that had set up in a parking lot. It took some persuasion on her part; after all, I am a big badass occult bounty hunter. We had ridden rides and filled our bellies with greasy carnival food, laughing in the sunshine and making fools of ourselves. We were surrounded by normal humans, families enjoying themselves. There were no monsters. No bloodshed.

So far the only thing that had threatened my life was a rickety Tilt-A-Whirl and some sketchy-looking hot dogs.

And I'd had a good time. Leaving the carnival, I was happy to simply walk down the street, the warm sun on my back, and a good-looking woman at my side.

I was at peace with God, nature, and my fellow man.

And I should have known some asshole was going to come along and screw it up.

"Are you working tonight?"

My eyes cut over to the small brunette walking beside me. Well, I say brunette, her hair was dyed black and had bubblegum pink cut through it in streaks. Tiff matched me stride for stride, even though at 5'2" she was more than a foot shorter than me. The quick pace flipped her short skirt back and forth, flashing a nice length of leg from hem to calf-high boots.

"Nothing's on the books, but you know that doesn't mean anything." I stepped close to her as we walked. "Don't you have to work the club tonight?"

"Nope, I got Kat to cover so that I'm free." She moved close and her arm slid around my waist. Fingernails painted to match her hair lightly scratched through my T-shirt. A pleasant shiver chased up my spine. Her arm rested above the snub-nosed .44 revolver she knew was at the small of my back. I had a lightweight button-up shirt over it and the big .45 semiautomatic that hung under my arm.

"Maybe we could do Indian food tonight then."

Her free hand rubbed her stomach. "I don't know how you can think of food right now. I am completely stuffed."

"I always think about food when I'm not working." I was comfortable walking beside Tiff. Spring was in the air. Warm but not oppressive, like the South gets in the middle months of the year.

Things had been quiet for a bit, which is why there was time to do things like go to the carnival. Normally I am eyebrow deep in monsters. Work had been pretty tame since last year when I had gone up against Appollonia, an insane hell-bitch of a vampire who had gotten hold of the Spear of Destiny. Of course, that job had nearly killed me, but I was still standing at the end of it. I had survived and managed to kill off a good part of the vampire population in the Southeast. All in all, not a bad day at the office.

That was also the time I had first gotten to know Tiff. The break in action had given me a chance to get to know her better and we had grown pretty close.

We were not dating. I wasn't ready for that. She understood. Hell, she had to. She knew about my family, about what had happened to them. How I had lost them five years ago at the hands of a Nephilim serial killer named Slaine. I hunted him down and found that monsters are real. I found that every nightmare you ever had, every story you ever heard that made you lie awake at night and sweat even though you were cold with fear, every damned thing in the dark that made your heart skip a beat ... it's all real. My thirst for revenge was so great I hunted Slaine anyway, monsters be damned. I chased him even after learning what a Nephilim is.

Nephilim are the offspring of Angels and humans. While tracking Slaine, I came across an Angel. Yes, an honest-to-God Angel of the Lord. Slaine's people were raping her, trying to impregnate her and make more Nephilim, filming it to sell as Angel porn. I killed those sons of bitches and set her free.

After that, I found the bastard who killed my family. Being just human, I was outmatched. He killed me.

Dead.

When I died, the Angel showed up to return the rescue. She infused me with her blood, or whatever Angels have that passes for blood. It brought me back ... Made me more than human.

I am faster, stronger, and tougher than normal. I heal fast, not like a superhero, but a lot faster than humans. Although it all still hurts like a bitch until I do. I can see almost perfectly in the dark, and I can sense supernatural crap. I killed that evil son of a bitch, and I have been killing every evil son of a bitch I can find ever since.

Oh yeah, I'm Deacon Chalk, Occult Bounty Hunter.

I hunt monsters for a living.

To this day, the deaths of my family sit like stones where my heart was. Sometimes the pain of their memory is crippling. It breaks my bones and grinds my soul. It crushes me. All I want to do is go be where they are. I can't buy that ticket myself, that's a mortal sin according to the Pope. Kill yourself and go straight to hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. So I move on and I keep hunting, waiting for the day I run up on something monster enough to take me out, to send me on my way to be with them. To give me the peace that was ripped away from me with their deaths.

The loss of my family is why I strap up and hunt. I carry the pain and rage of their loss every day. It's always there. Always waiting to crawl from the shadows. Always looking to explode and shatter into shards that cut and tear. I miss them every day.

Every.

Fucking.

Day.

And there hadn't been anyone since my wife died.

Until Tiff.

She came along last year in the middle of that shit-storm with Appollonia and the crazy bitch's plan to enslave humanity. Once that was settled, Tiff stayed and made a place in my messed-up life. Somehow, she found a way to make her intentions clear and yet not put any pressure on the situation at all. She knew about my family and what had happened to them. Not the full story, because I still can't talk about it. It's too painful, too sharp. Even without knowing, Tiff still understood. And that was enough for now.

So understand that I was happy when we walked toward the parking lot to leave. All was good and right in this shitty old world, better than it had been in years.

Until we turned the corner and came across a man beating a dog.

The man was large. Dark chocolate skin bulged, thick with muscle. Not quite as big as I am, but a big son of a bitch nonetheless. Fat dreads hung around his head like dirty snakes. They shook as his arm rose and fell and rose again. One hand snarled around a heavy chain connected to a wide leather collar around the dog's neck. The rest of the chain flailed from his other hand, thudding against the dog's sides and haunches.

The dog was curled into a ball, trying to be as small as possible, hiding from the chain as much as it could. Pitiful whimpers mewled with each blow. Blood-slicked shaggy fur picked up dirt and debris from the gravel lot they were in, sticking in layers of brown and gray grit. It was so covered in blood and dirt I couldn't tell what kind of dog it was.

The man stopped beating the dog but was still holding the chain. I could hear his breathing from across the lot, bellowing in and out, short from exertion.

Tiff drew to a stop beside me as...