Hunt by Numbers Read online

  Hunt by Numbers

  Rogue Spotter

  Book Four

  Kimberly A. Rogers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people or entities, living or dead, business establishments, locals, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kimberly A. Rogers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews, without the prior permission of the author and copyright holder.

  Cover design by Rachel Rossano

  http://rossanodesigns.weebly.com

  Dedication

  To Mom for always being a willing sounding board and helping me realize the Rogue Spotter universe touched more than I first thought. Thank you!

  Contents

  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

  Note from the Author

  Rogue Spotter

  You May Also Like . . .

  Also by Kimberly A. Rogers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you as always to my family who support my efforts.

  I also want to thank my early readers who have been cheering for this story since I first started working on it and introduced them to Mr. 10. And who were among the first to cheer when I started expanding the Rogue Spotter universe. Thank you all!

  Additional shout out to Rachel Rossano for creating yet another magnificent cover!

  Finally, thank you to my Lord and Savior without whom I am nothing.

  Chapter One

  Lauren

  “What do you see?”

  The soft words tickled my ear with their delicious British accent, but I couldn’t afford to be distracted by Mathias and his accent right now. I scanned the crowd milling around us as tourists and locals alike wandered across the Piazzetta di San Marco. Above their heads, the steady glow of numbers filled my vision. 4s, 5s, and 6s for the most part. But, there were so many people that their numbers blurred together into an indiscernible mass if they weren’t closer to me. A distinct disadvantage to my ability.

  We stood at the base of one of two granite pillars framing the end of the piazzetta where it met the lagoon dotted with hordes of boats and gondolas shepherding tourists through the canals. Venice was a gorgeous and ancient city, and I was quite honestly surprised there weren’t more high numbers.

  “Lauren?”

  I blinked, silently scolding myself for not staying wholly focused on the numbers. I scanned them again, willing them to be more discernible. Everything rested on my ability to assess this latest threat. A small knot of tourists, their pointed ears revealing their heritage as High Elves, moved deeper into the Piazzetta toward the Piazza proper and the iconic St Mark’s Basilica letting me catch another glimpse of the first number to head into the more dangerous high numbers . . . A 7, and he was walking toward us. The man’s olive complexion and middling height was almost nondescript with no visible features to pinpoint him as a paranormal. However, the way he moved lithely through the crowd belying his stocky build and barrel chest screamed paranormal to me, especially when combined with his number. Most norms didn’t get above a 5 or 6 unless they were armed to the teeth and currently on a rampage, thank God. He didn’t act as though he had noticed us. Then, he stopped and sniffed the air.

  My heart started beating against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was a shifter.

  Mathias’ hand settled on my shoulder, and he pulled me around the pillar. I looked up into his blue-green eyes in time to catch a hint of concern in their depths before they changed to something very like consternation. Before I could question him, he tilted his head down bringing the 10 blazing above his head further into my line of sight as he touched his mouth to my ear. His breath was warm as he whispered in an undertone, “It’s Titus. Bear shifter.”

  I swallowed hard. Bears could be obnoxiously tenacious. “Face or scent?” I breathed.

  “Both,” came the clipped reply.

  It was worse than I thought. For Mathias to have this reaction, the shifter could only be employed by Weard. I bit my bottom lip as my mind raced with possible ways to get away without drawing unwanted attention. Mathias was no longer looking down at me. Instead, his attention was fixed on the towering block of a building on the far side of the Piazzetta, the Doge’s Palace with its whit stone façade of curved arches and pillars. A faint frown pulled at his mouth.

  Following his gaze, I couldn’t keep from tensing as my gaze caught on movement in the shadows of the arches. Three men hurried out of the shadows of the Doge’s Palace with 8s blazing above their heads, their movements swift and focused. I couldn’t look away as they hurried across the square, passing far too close to our makeshift shelter. Mathias’ hand on my shoulder gripped tighter and compelled me to look up. He brought his hands up to cradle my face just before he ducked down to kiss me.

  There were a few chuckles and whistles from those passersby who noticed us, but my awareness of them faded as the kiss overwhelmed all of my senses. It was almost enough to distract me from our situation until he broke the kiss. I was struggling to catch my breath when I caught a glimpse of three 8s retreating toward the Doge’s Palace as Mathias straightened, and reality threw a cold wave on whatever warmth his actions had stirred to life. They had Titus with them. The crowd instinctively parted before them, and I was able to track their progress until the moment they vanished into the shadows of the palace.

  I let out a shaky breath as I leaned more of my weight against the pillar at my back. My heart still pounded in my chest, though now it was likely due to the combination of a close call with the high numbers and the kiss. If I weren’t so terrified of being caught, I might have laughed at the thought of kissing the only 10 I had ever known. It marked Mathias as one of the most dangerous men in the world, if not the most dangerous given that the others of his species I had met never rose above a 9. If anyone had told me a year and a half ago that I would have any sort of willing involvement with a high number, I would have called them crazy. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had a delicious British accent or not. Oh, how things had changed since I first encountered Mathias in Olympia, Washington.

  My name is Lauren Hope . . . and I’m what’s called a Spotter. I spot the people who are or can be threats. I see numbers floating over their heads that indicate their threat potential. The higher the number, the more dangerous the person, and the greater the threat. No other paranormal has this ability, and that makes it a very dangerous gift due to the fact that there are just as many people who would love to control me as there are who would kill me to keep their deadliness secret. Exploitation or destruction weren’t the kind of choices I wanted to make, so I spent my entire life hiding what I am and keeping my head down. Until I met Mathias.

  A small cynical voice still occasionally piped up with a longing for the simple days before Mathias showed up at Halliman’s, the premier PR firm for the paranormal community, on loan from Weard Enterprises . . . the preeminent security company in both paranormal and norm society. Technically, he had been sent there to flush
me out of hiding since Weard was now in the business of openly hunting innocent paranormals for their unique abilities. We had been on the run almost a full year now, fleeing first across the States, before making our way to Scotland where I learned the truth about Mathias’ own unique abilities. He was one of the last of the Myrmidons, a heritage doused in infamy to the point that Mathias shouldn’t even exist. There were many who would kill him out of fear if they knew he was of the same species as Achilles.

  I quickly silenced the voice. I never would have survived on my own this long as the target of Weard without Mathias. And, he wasn’t even the one who had exposed me. Weard had only sent him to try and confirm what they already suspected.

  Mathias pressed another quick kiss to my lips, then wrapped his fingers around mine and tugged me forward. He moved with unhurried casualness through the crowd easily joining a knot of tourists. All of them were 5s with a couple of 6s near the front of the group, and every last one of them was chattering with a British accent. Mathias at least would fit right in. I had to take three steps for his every one since he towered over my slender five foot two by a foot. It was exasperating at times.

  As he led the way along the fringes of the group, I caught whispers of conversations that weren’t preoccupied with admiring the historical beauty of Venice. There were murmurs of Weard pushing its bounds, and a couple of them exchanged nervous looks before glancing around and then whispering something about war. I swallowed hard and quickly directed my gaze to admiring the face of the Doge’s Palace as we made our way along its front. It wasn’t just the talk of war that bothered me. When we fled to the British Isles after escaping Weard’s trap in Olympia, Washington, Weard had resorted to fabricating claims of my being a criminal complete with news coverage and my face plastered across the paranormal media.

  I reached up nervously to touch my dark hair with my free hand, wishing I hadn’t left my shawls packed away when we arrived in Italy. My Turkish heritage had granted me the dark features and olive-toned complexion to blend in with my pick of countries in Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and around the Mediterranean. Yet, wearing a shawl over my hair usually did the trick to finish convincing people that I just had one of those faces. I never wore the shawl when working at Halliman’s so it was enough of a difference that it usually worked as a simple disguise for me. If one of these paranormals recognized me from the news coverage at the beginning of the year, it could ruin what little distance we had managed to put between Weard’s dedicated hunters and ourselves.

  Mathias’ grip tightened on my hand as the gondoliers called to tourists, and part of the group split off just before the bridge to walk down the stone steps leading to the gondolas. We didn’t follow. Instead, we walked up the neatly arched stone bridge and paused at the top. Mathias maneuvered his way to the railing, then pulled me around in front of him. I stared down at the greenish-blue water just as the tip of a gondola appeared from beneath the bridge.

  Remaining a warm presence at my back, Mathias braced his hands on either side of the railing. “It’s called the Ponte della Paglia. Best place to view the Ponte dei Sospiri, the Bridge of Sighs.” He pointed at the enclosed arch bridge connecting the Doge’s Palace to the building across the canal, white stone both beautiful and intimidating with even the two square windows covered by stone bars.

  Remembering that we were pretending to be a newlywed couple happily enjoying an Italian holiday, I forced a smile. “Why is it called the Bridge of Sighs?”

  “You can thank Lord Byron for that. He claimed there was a story that the prisoners being marched from the Doge’s Palace into the New Prison would pause on that bridge and sigh as they gazed out on their last view of beautiful Venice before they were taken down to their cells. Never more to gaze on the jewel of Italy’s crown, the Queen of the Adriatic, Venice.”

  My smile grew genuine as I murmured, “You’re poetic. Ever considered getting into theatre?”

  Mathias chuckled. “Poetic it might be, but it was hardly realistic. You can’t see a bloody thing from that bridge.”

  He handed me a camera, which I immediately used to take a picture of the bridge. As I lowered the camera, my eyes caught on the gold tattoo wrapped around my right arm. Stretching from about mid-forearm to my wrist, the tattoo looked like a spiral bracelet ending with a fox’s head that rested directly across my right wrist. A souvenir of our time in Thrace and Greece this spring, and now a sign that I was permanently attached to a Myrmidon.

  It had been so humid this morning that I had left behind my jacket, opting instead to only wear a sleeveless cotton top with my jeans and boots. So far, no one had seemed to notice the tattoo or its significance. A small benefit to being involved with a man whose species wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Still I kept my voice low as I asked, “Are you sure this is wise? A bear shifter . . .”

  The words died on my lips as Mathias moved his hand, so he now caressed over the tattoo. The tingling sensation of his touch was almost enough to distract me. Almost. I tilted my head to look back and up at him. A mischievous smile pulled at his lips. “Mathias, try to focus.”

  He traced his thumb over the fox’s head.

  Rolling my eyes, I chided, “Not on me, dear. On the question.”

  He stepped closer as the crowds continued crossing the bridge, their excited conversations buzzing at a volume to make eavesdropping practically impossible. He lowered his mouth to my ear once more, still lightly tracing over the tattoo, and murmured, “Titus was an exception. The dragon prince has neither love nor tolerance for hunters of Weard in her city. She believes they have contributed to some of the preservation issues plaguing Venice. True or not, her unchanging distaste for Weard makes Venice a safe place for us to hide.”

  “By standing in front of the dragon prince’s palace?” I couldn’t help pointing out. All of this went against my long habits of staying unseen and unnoticed by keeping out of the way of high numbers. Intentionally going somewhere I knew high numbers abounded still made my skin crawl with the urge to run in the opposite direction.

  Mathias chuckled and kissed my cheek before he pulled me after him. We let the crowd carry us over the bridge. He looped an arm around my shoulders and responded in an undertone, “Has anyone told you that you worry a mite much?”

  “Only in a British accent,” I countered drily even as my eyes were drawn from the colorful faces of buildings to the boats on the canal to our right. A few of the gondolas were empty, waiting for tourists to take the risk. Gondoliers clad in the classic striped shirt, black pants, red sash around the waist, and flat straw hat waved as they called out in a mix of Italian, English, and even some fae languages. Those calling out in fae tended to be winged sprites; although, there was a hobgoblin whose tail flicked over the edge of a gondola like a lazy cat’s. I quickly looked away before we made eye contact. I did not want to be recognized.

  Mathias’ grip around my shoulders tightened as my pace instinctively tried to quicken. He ducked his head to whisper, “It is more dangerous to always run than to rest in safe places. We’re all right.”

  I didn’t quite believe him. The cynical voice in my head countered that he didn’t worry about high numbers because he was the only 10 in existence. He didn’t understand what I had lived through as a lowly Spotter. I shut down that thought immediately. One thing I had learned while running with Mathias was certain—being a high or low number didn’t corner the market on pain and loss. We were both the last of our kind for all intents and purposes. And, it was only by adapting that either of us survived this long.

  I wasn’t totally comfortable with hiding in a dragon prince’s shadow. The one I had met in Thrace had been terrifying enough since royal dragons can identify other paranormals’ species just with a single fleeting encounter. However, I feared Weard’s intentions more. And, I did trust Mathias.

  He must have felt some of the tension seep from my shoulders as he kissed the top of my head. Turning us toward the gondolas, he grinned down
at me. “Come on, let’s enjoy Venice while we’re here.”

  * * *

  Lauren

  It was a dream I had not had since going on the run with Mathias. Yet, it swallowed me so completely that I soon forgot it was nothing more than a nightmare.

  Everything was dark. I stood on tiptoes and pulled at the windowsill to see out the window. There were shadows moving in the dark. I could see the fuzzy glow from their numbers, but not the numbers themselves.

  “Lauren!”

  I dropped to the floor in fright and raised my hands over my eyes. I didn’t like the new numbers.

  “Lauren,” came the soft accented call. Mama’s hands were warm as she tugged my hands down so I had to look at her. Her dark eyes looked so sad.

  “Are the bad numbers coming?”

  Mama didn’t answer; she just brushed my hair back. I caught a glimpse of a man standing to the side, but then Mama distracted me by touching my cheek so I was looking at her again. I placed my small hands on her cheeks, wishing I could make her happy again.

  The man called in a hoarse whisper, “Natalia, we must go now.”

  A tear rolled down Mama’s cheek before she unfastened her sapphire necklace and fastened it behind my neck. Distracted, my attention and hands dropped to touch the teardrop pendant. Mama never let me wear it before now.

  “Lauren, look at me, sweetie.”

  I looked up and Mama gave me a smile that shook. “You must be a brave little girl for Mama, do you understand?”

  I nodded solemnly.

  Her smile faded as she leaned in close, lowering her voice, as she added, “You must never speak of the numbers. Remember, Lauren?”

  Eyes widening, I bobbled my head in a nod. Mama always said not to speak of the numbers. They were special, and they were dangerous. The numbers had to be a secret.