Sarah Spieth and MG for all the . . . well, you know.
Cheri Whitehouse for offshore banking info.
Mud Mymudes for all the botany corrections, beta-reading for accuracy, and dog stuff.
Greg Phelps, MD, for the hospitality in Knoxville, the beta-reading, and invaluable help on the project!
The Beast Claws, best street team ever! You pushed this book without ever reading it. Your trust in me and my stories is humbling.
The Hooligans. You know how much I love you. If this book is a success, then you made it happen.
Let’s Talk Promotions at ltpromos. You nearly killed yourselves over this book. I adore you!
Mike Pruette for website stuff, marketing stuff, and the best T-shirts ever!
Joy Robinson for the artwork on the T-shirt and on the website. LOVE the trees!
Janet Robbins Rosenberg, my fantastic copy editor who caught the terrible time line error. A week with two Thursdays . . . I am still shuddering.
Lucienne Diver, my literary agent with the Knight Agency. You believed in this book even when I had given up on it. Thank you. Just . . . thank you.
Jessica Wade, editor at Penguin Random House. There are no words. You gave me time to get this book right. You pushed me and hammered me and then sliced and diced this book and . . . I love it. This book exists because of you. Because you made me make it right.
My thanks to all the wonderful people above. If there are mistakes in this book (and there will be) they are mine alone.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE JANE YELLOWROCK NOVELS
ALSO BY FAITH HUNTER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM Skinwalker
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Edgy and not sure why, I carried the basket of laundry off the back porch. I hung my T-shirts and overalls on the front line of my old-fashioned solar clothes dryer, two long skirts on the outer line, and what my mama called my intimate attire on the line between, where no one could see them from the driveway. I didn’t want another visit by Brother Ephraim or Elder Ebenezer about my wanton ways. Or even another courting attempt from Joshua Purdy. Or worse, a visit from Ernest Jackson Jr., the preacher. So far I’d kept him out of my house, but there would come a time when he’d bring help and try to force his way in. It was getting tiresome having to chase churchmen off my land at the business end of a shotgun, and at some point God’s Cloud of Glory Church would bring enough reinforcements that I couldn’t stand against them. It was a battle I was preparing for, one I knew I’d likely lose, but I would go down fighting, one way or another.
The breeze freshened, sending my wet skirts rippling as if alive, on the line where they hung. Red, gold, and brown leaves skittered across the three acres of newly cut grass. Branches overhead cracked, clacked, and groaned with the wind, leaves rustling as if whispering some dread tiding. The chill fall air had been perfect for birdsong; squirrels had been racing up and down the trees, stealing nuts and hiding them for the coming winter. I’d seen a big black bear this morning, chewing on nuts and acorns, halfway up the hill.
Standing in the cool breeze, I studied my woods, listening, feeling, tasting the unease that had prickled at my flesh for the last few months, ever since Jane Yellowrock had come visiting and turned my life upside down. She was the one responsible for the repeated recent visits by the churchmen. The Cherokee vampire hunter was the one who had brought all the changes, even if it wasn’t intentional. She had come hunting a missing vampire and, because she was good at her job—maybe the best ever—she had succeeded. She had also managed to save more than a hundred children from God’s Cloud.
Maybe it had been worth it all—helping all the children—but I was the one paying the price, not her. She was long gone and I was alone in the fight for my life. Even the woods knew things were different.
Sunlight dappled the earth; cabbages, gourds, pumpkins, and winter squash were bursting with color in the garden. A muscadine vine running up the nearest tree, tangling in the branches, was dropping the last of the ripe fruit. I smelled my wood fire on the air, and hints of that apple-crisp chill that meant a change of