Eden Hunter - The Complete Trilogy Read online

  Eden Hunter: The Complete Trilogy

  D.N. Erikson

  Copyright © 2018 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.

  Published by Watchfire Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  Watchfire Press

  www.watchfirepress.com

  www.dnerikson.com

  Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design

  www.bookflydesign.com

  Eden Hunter: The Complete Trilogy/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.

  Contents

  Get the Free Prequel Novella

  Soul Storm (Book 1)

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Soul Fire (Book 2)

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Soul Bite (Book 3)

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Epilogue

  Also by D.N. Erikson

  Get the Free Prequel Novella

  To sign up for my free author newsletter and get your free copy of the Eden Hunter novella Soul Break, visit dnerikson.com/soul.

  Soul Storm (Book 1)

  1

  I tossed and turned on the worn leather couch, staring out the living room window at the gentle ocean as I waited for sleep to take me.

  It did not oblige.

  Tonight felt like the exact kind of night where everything seemed okay, but where, somewhere deep in your soul, you knew everything was about to go wrong. I shifted my gaze toward the slanted ceiling that stretched twenty feet above my bare living room.

  Sleep still refused to come—just like most nights.

  Dying once will do that.

  But, like most people, I’d also been dealing with a little work-related stress. Granted, my issues were more unusual than the standard nine-to-five annoyances.

  There’d been a shortage of souls available to harvest on the island over the last couple months. It’d happened last year around this time, too.

  Maybe it was a summer thing.

  But whatever the root cause, my employer didn’t take missed quotas lightly.

  And I was very much in danger of missing mine this week.

  With my cheek smooshed against the armrest, I surveyed the room. Other than my sofa, a lamp, and all the clothing I owned—some worn jeans, a few vintage t-shirts, a couple pairs of low-top sneakers—the living room was as empty as a grave-robbed tomb.

  Just how I liked it.

  A girl doesn’t buy herself beachfront property at the jungle’s edge for no damn reason.

  A scritch-scratch on the stairs outside made my arm hair stand on end.

  Live on the precipice of the known world alone for too long and every small noise got the imagination churning.

  Killer warlocks, coming to learn my secrets with mind control magic.

  Vampires ready to slit my throat to gain access to what only I knew.

  Or maybe just an ambitious and morally bankrupt alchemist, coming to see if the island’s only Reaper had a stash of souls hidden under her floorboards.

  They’d all be out of luck. The only things I had on hand other than the couch were whiskey and black coffee—and the souls were locked safely away. But the scratching outside didn’t stop.

  Instead, it got louder.

  I swung my feet off the couch and peered out the window, seeing little in the moonlit darkness beyond the winding marble staircase leading up from the beach. I reached beneath the couch for my Reaper’s Switch—a four-inch switchblade that was my only weapon—feeling its cool plasti
c handle touch my fingertips.

  The scratching grew closer.

  It’s just a monkey, Eden. Or a tree sloth bumbling in from the jungle.

  But then I heard the unmistakable, guttural howl of a beast answering the call of the moon.

  A werewolf was outside my door.

  As quietly as possible, I rose from the couch, clutching the Reaper’s Switch. Stiff denim chafed my thighs. These jeans needed to be washed, badly.

  After slipping my sneakers on, I stole across the bamboo hardwood into the adjacent foyer. The living room merged into the villa’s entrance almost seamlessly, with only the stubbiest of walls sticking out to separate the two areas. I pressed myself against the hearty oak doors, the cool wood brushing my cheek as I stared out the peephole.

  The werewolf’s scarred face wore a wild-eyed stare. His clothing hung in tatters around his semi-naked body. No one I recognized. His transformation wasn’t yet complete, but he was already grunting and shaking in a manner no human—other than a meth-head—ever did. Thick, knotty veins circling his forearms hinted at the rough, primal strength wolves were legendary for.

  Werewolves were one of the oldest species of magical creatures on Earth—a brand of creature classified by arcana archeologists as primordial beasts. Being of rather archaic lineage, their instincts tended to be of a baser nature, and they still possessed the raw genetic physical skills necessary to survive in a nasty and brutish world.

  The ugly, scarred man howled at the moon again. Coarse brown hair sprouted on his face. His nose twitched feverishly as his head swiveled through the warm night air.

  Shit. He could smell me.

  His full weight smashed against the front doors.

  The thick oak cracked at the hinges, buckling inward and slamming against my forehead.

  I stumbled backward.

  Blood pumping, head spinning, my instincts told me to run.

  But I had nowhere to go.

  The door caved in after a second effort from the wolf.

  The half-transformed beast hurled the cracked wood aside like cheap plastic.

  “Eden Hunter.” His eyes blazed with a fierce red glow. Thick brown hair now covered most of his body, and his jaw had taken on a snout-like shape. He had a strong, musky odor, like he’d spent the night rolling in his own pee.

  A few minutes more and his feral nature would take over.

  Then I’d be screwed.

  “I don’t remember inviting company.” I stood my ground, wearing a confident smile as the words drifted into silent nothingness.

  The wolf stalked forward, but I resisted the urge to run. Fleeing would trigger his primal instincts. I’d need to slow him down before I could escape.

  Seeing his markings up close, I could see this wasn’t just any wolf, either.

  This was an alpha—one who had killed many times before. Probably for hundreds of years.

  His soul tasted blackened and corrupt, like a poorly grilled steak combined with a nuclear winter. I tried to spit the taste out, but it lingered, my tongue dry as desert bone.

  Sometimes I hated being a Reaper. Tasting people’s life stories sucked.

  “To what do I owe this astounding pleasure?” I asked with a defiant smirk.

  It was all bluster. My stomach felt like it was filled with molten jelly.

  “Consider this notice of your early termination, Eden Hunter,” he said, delivering the message like a process server. His fur-covered hands hung by his sides. I watched his nails grow into yellow, talon-like claws as the seconds ticked by. “Last questions?”

  How nice of an assassin to ask. But he’d clearly been given orders by someone who outranked him—and, as such, he was obliged to obey their commands.

  I guess one of those instructions had been to grant me a few last words.

  “Now that you mention it…” I brought my head up to meet his gaze. A jagged scar raked through his matted fur, zig-zagging from his half-formed snout to the corner of his left eye. “I do have one question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  Confusion washed over his remaining human features, and he looked away, staring at my picture-less walls for an explanation.

  The brain has trouble processing unexpected requests.

  We expect the world—and conversation—to follow certain rules. I was supposed to scream or beg for my life or tell him to fuck off. But posing a trivial question made no sense. Which forced him to stop and think.

  Not much of an opening, but it was enough.

  The Reaper’s Switch deployed with a snap.

  I slashed him deep in his right leg.

  Blood sprayed against the bare white wall.

  He reeled backward, a whine slipping from his furry lips.

  But I didn’t stop to see how injured he was.

  I just sprinted toward the glass staircase hugging the living room wall, hoping my second life wasn’t about to end.

  2

  I took the clear glass steps two at a time and cut a hard right into what would’ve been the guest bedroom—if I’d ever bothered to have guests. I could still smell the drywall and paint from when I’d fixed the empty room up four years ago.

  I threw the large oceanside window open and glanced outside. Two-story drop, plenty of rocks to hit if I missed the sand. But staying inside wasn’t more appealing. Downstairs, the wolf roared, his transformation accelerated by my attack.

  I tossed the Reaper’s Switch out first. It hit a rock with a sharp crack and bounced into the foliage ringing the villa.

  Great. Well, at least I knew where not to jump. With a deep breath—and a silent prayer to my goddess—I took the plunge.

  The wind streamed through my hair. I landed in a dense grove of bushes and rolled toward the black sand, breaking my fall without injury. Inside, the werewolf unleashed a final roiling howl. After scrambling for the Reaper’s Switch—which I mercifully found without too much effort—I began running like hell up the dark beach.

  The switchblade’s broken plastic handle cut into my palm as my feet pounded over the moonlit black sand. Slivers of starry light glinted off the four-inch stainless steel magical blade. The beachy aroma of sea salt drifted through the late summer air, carrying the squawks of monkeys and toucans.

  So, you know, just your average romantic night in paradise. Add a couple candles, an expensive red from a great year, and you’d have the perfect setup for a slow-burn kiss. The kind from a romance paperback.

  Luckily, I read thrillers.

  Unluckily, when I turned around, I saw a snarling werewolf charging down the villa’s marble stairs, determined to separate my head from my neck.

  Not happening, buddy.

  I’d died once already, and I’d seen nothing but black—until I hadn’t. And I had little intention of visiting the Elysian Fields—and its Dante’s Inferno inspired worlds of hierarchical hell—ever again.

  My stiff jeans rubbed my thighs raw as I sprinted toward the service road.

  I just needed to make it to my bike.

  But, even with a wounded leg, the would-be assassin ate up a yard of beach with each loping stride, his paws thundering across the dark sand with the ferocity of a post-typhoon tide.

  My sneakers sank into the wet sand, further slowing my escape. The service road was still a half-mile off—too far away. With the endless Pacific stretching out to my left, and the darkness of the feral jungle bounding me in on the right, I saw only one option remaining.

  And it sure as hell wasn’t escape.

  I exhaled sharply and turned around, brandishing the knife in a defensive stance.

  “Who the hell sent you?” I yelled, trying my best to sound fearsome. But when you’re under five-six, and your attacker is six and a half feet of primal sinew and bone, bluffing rarely gets you very far.

  The wolf howled in response as the moon reached its apex over the perfect aquamarine waters. It wasn’t a full moon, but a single razor-sharp claw
to the jugular would cut my borrowed life short all the same. I silently cursed the magical bonds forbidding me from wielding weapons—my pitiful Reaper’s Switch excluded.