The DarkWorld SoulTracker Series Box Set Vol I Read online

  The SoulTracker Series Box Set Vol I

  SoulTracker Series Books 1, 2 & 3

  T.G. Ayer

  The DarkWorld: The SoulTracker Series

  The DarkWorld: SoulTracker Series

  The SoulTracker novels is a companion series set in the same world as the DarkWorld: SkinWalker books - Skin Deep & Lost Soul. Mel Morgan’s story can be read as standalone to the SkinWalker books. Both Mel & Saleem, as well as a few other characters, also appear in the SkinWalker books so if you wish to read Kailin & Logan’s story first clink the links and enjoy.

  SkinWalker 1 - Skin Deep

  SkinWalker 2 - Lost Soul | SoulTracker 1 - Blood Magic

  SkinWalker 3 - Last Chance | SoulTracker 2 - Demon Kin

  SkinWalker 4 - Blood Promise | SoulTracker 3 - Blood Curse

  SkinWalker 5 - Scorched Fury | SoulTracker 4 - Demon Soul

  SkinWalker 6 - Fate’s Edge | SoulTracker 5 - Blood Moon

  In the DarkWorld the things that go bump in the night are most likely true. And the problem is they are probably not sticking to bumping around in the night. They are everywhere. Your work colleagues, your teachers, even your friends. They’ve been living that way for a long time. And you haven’t noticed because they don’t want you to.

  You’re much better off not asking any questions.

  Contents

  Blood Magic - SoulTracker 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

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Demon Kin - SoulTracker 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

  Copyright

  Blood Curse - SoulTracker 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

  Copyright

  The SoulTracker Series

  Also by T.G. Ayer

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  About the Author

  Blood Magic - SoulTracker 1

  To Melissa Pearl Guyan

  Thank you for sharing this amazing writing journey with me, for coffees and brainstorming, for shoulders to cry on and kicking butts, and for generally being one of the most awesome friends I have. Heart you!

  Chapter 1

  Mel

  Helplessness is hell. And I knew all about it.

  He cleared his throat. “Will you do it, Miss Morgan? The police said they can’t do anything more. They have other cases to deal with…more urgent ones.” Martin Cross’s words barreled out of him in a downpour of hope, and fear that there was no hope. A strange combination of emotions I could relate to.

  You hope and pray, then you are afraid to hope in case the worst is true.

  “Do you have a job?” I asked, my voice absent of emotion.

  Cross looked up, startled. He hadn’t expected the question. I hadn’t yet answered his.

  He nodded, the movement a handful of jerks. “I’m a mechanic.”

  “Go back to work,” I said, my tone a little sharper than I’d intended. He seemed about to protest, eyes wide, mouth half open, but I held up a hand. “If—and that’s an honest ‘if’—I bring her home alive, you don’t want her to see you falling apart. You need to be strong for her. And I can’t promise how long this will take. It may be a week, it may be a few months. I’ll find her, alive or not….”

  For a moment, confusion darkened his face, twisted his brow. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility that his daughter may never come home. And he didn’t want to hear me say it. I was supposed to tell him everything would be all fine, that he shouldn’t worry and that I’d bring her home healthy and happy.

  But I’m not in the business of leading people on. I track, and the results aren’t always to my satisfaction. Understandably, people don’t like it when their loved ones aren’t found or when they turn up dead.

  But even dead was something. Dead was closure. Something I’d never gotten.

  “You need to be prepared for either result.” My words hovered in the air between us as he shifted his gaze away from me.

  But Martin Cross had made the effort to find me. That said something. His body said the rest. His haggard face and haunted eyes spoke of fear-filled, sleep-deprived nights, of days where hunger and thirst were the furthest things from his mind. His rumpled jeans and stained shirt, oily unwashed hair that stood in clumped disarray from having those stiff fingers scraped through it every so often—it all spoke of endless days and endless nights of staring off into space, replaying the fateful day over and over, wondering what he could have done differently, going over all his if-only’s, falling into bed, unbathed, in yesterday’s clothes only to lie there all night, thinking, twisting guilt and hope, grief and anger into an almost tangible knot that lay in his gut, slowly taking him over.

  I watched him, hands on the graffitied wooden table, fingers twisted so tight the knuckles gleamed bloodlessly, nails bitten to the quick and jagged at the corners. He unraveled his fingers for a moment to pick up the folder in
front of him, turned it around and pushed it toward me. I didn’t move.

  He’d moved the file only an inch. He didn’t think I’d believe him, didn’t think I’d take the case. And maybe he was right.

  Still, I planned to listen, at least.

  I pulled the file toward me and opened it. A worn photograph sat on top of a thick stack of papers. A little girl in blue jeans and blonde pigtails smiled back at me. She was missing two front teeth. I didn’t answer him. Couldn’t give him hope. Not yet.

  Again, I didn’t answer his question. I glanced up and met his red-eyed gaze. “Do you have it?”

  He nodded, reached into his pocket and handed me a crumpled-up Kleenex. I knew what it was before I unraveled the paper. A tiny little off-white incisor sat within the folds of the white tissue paper. Apparently, the tooth fairy had missed her rounds.

  Or maybe the kid had missed the tooth fairy?

  I set the Kleenex beside the file and moved the photograph to one side. A copy of the police report lay on top of printouts of emailed correspondence with the detective in charge. If anything, Cross was methodical. The last stack of papers said Cross was also a doer. A plastic sleeve sat thick with Missing Persons fliers.

  Samantha Cross. 6 years old. Missing.

  I handed the fliers back to him, and he nodded more to himself than to me. When he met my gaze again, I swallowed imperceptibly. His hope was a near visceral thing. And I was wearing the mantle of it on my shoulders, would continue to bear it until I knew what had happened to Samantha.

  Now, we sat in a truck stop a few miles outside of Chicago, far enough away from prying eyes. I’d chosen the darkest booth furthest from the window. I preferred to keep to the shadows. No sense in advertising my presence.

  When he lifted his gaze to mine, I felt a tug of sympathy. I knew that look, saw it all the time. Almost every time someone comes to me, it’s the expression in their eyes that answers my final questions. And now his eyes were filled with terror and hope, desperation and hope. As if he didn’t dare consider the possibility I could help because there was always a chance I couldn’t. He thought I would fail. I could see it in his bleak expression. The threads were beginning to unravel and very soon he’d lose what little faith he still had left. I wouldn’t let that happen. I prayed I wouldn’t let that happen.

  Missing people can be found. Not all missing people are found.

  I’m good, maybe even the best I know of. I find people for a living. My business is dependent on people losing people. The idea doesn’t sit so well with me, but it is what it is. Not that I need to find people for a living. I could very well choose to find things. Finding cutting-edge nuclear warheads stolen from the government, locating lists of undercover cops within drug cartels—I can do that. Do the job, find the target, no questions asked. But things hold no interest for me. People do.

  I find people. And I don’t play to lose.

  I lost once. Big time. Too big to forget, too big to close the file. I’m still searching, and someday I will find my sister. Until then, I will find other people’s lost people.

  “Do you think you can find her?” Cross’s voice rasped, and he coughed behind crooked fingers.

  What he was really asking was if I’d find her alive. I’m a tracker, not a seer. No amount of wishing on my part would predict or guarantee Samantha being found alive.

  I rose, and Cross got to his feet, too. Manners, even in a mechanic, are a good sign. “I’ll call you if I find anything. And go back to work,” I said, before walking out the door. From the corner of my eye, I saw the nod he gave me. I hadn’t answered his question, and he seemed to have accepted my decision not to.

  I climbed into my truck, satisfied. He’d go back to work, and he wouldn’t call. I hadn’t mentioned payment. Cross didn’t exactly look like a trust fund baby. I sighed. This one’s going to be pro-bono.

  Now, all I needed to do was find Samantha Cross.

  Chapter 2

  Mel

  My phone buzzed and I grabbed it from the seat beside me, while keeping my eyes on the road. I swiped it open, gave it a quick glance and raised my eyebrows in surprise. Martin Cross. Considering he hadn’t appeared to me to have exceedingly deep pockets, I’d assumed his case would be one of those out-of-the-goodness-of-my-heart jobs.

  But Cross was confirming that my payment had been deposited, and I should see it reflected in the account tomorrow. For once, I was happy to have pegged someone so wrong.

  I threw the phone back on the seat and peeked at the rearview mirror. It never hurt to be cautious considering I’d pissed off enough paranormal criminals in my time, but no one was following me.

  As I drove to the outskirts of town, I wondered again why I bothered with these visits. I could hear Drake’s voice. “Why do you waste your time? The man probably doesn’t even know you’re there.”

  Drake Darvon was my best friend and my sparring partner. He was also a gargoyle. Real live blue-blooded in-the-flesh gargoyle. Drake didn’t realize I went because I needed to. Because something deep inside me drew me to Samuel.

  I pulled up in front of the house, a part of me refusing to enter the grand old home, the other part wanting to rush in there and take Samuel away from it all. To take him away and fix him and make him whole again. It still felt like my fault, even though everyone, including Samuel himself, insisted it wasn’t. But if I hadn’t been so persistent, if I hadn’t wanted to find my sister Arianne so badly and finally bring her body home for some closure, maybe Samuel would still be whole. Maybe he would still be around to guide me.

  Not that I needed his training anymore, though. Samuel Fontaine had once been the Master Teleporter. There was only one person who exceeded him in his ability to cross the Veils and enter the Other worlds. And that was me. A secret only Samuel and I knew.

  Both Omega and Sentinel could never be privy to that piece of information. Samuel contracted to both organizations, so he was allowed on occasion to do his own search and rescue jobs. My friend Storm, benevolent caretaker of young people in need that he was, had arranged for Samuel to train me, to help perfect my teleportation, thus putting in motion a friendship of a lifetime.

  But Samuel couldn’t be hoodwinked. He’d forced me to admit that my front as a simple teleporter was a sham. He’d seen beyond that facade, to my ability to astral-project. Then he’d taken it upon himself to train me.

  How to teleport better, faster, smarter.

  And how to astral-project with more accuracy, to feel for wards, to move with ease through the ether. And to this day he was the only one who knew exactly how powerful I was. How far I could jump, how strong my self-protection had become, that I’d learned to move through most magical wards.

  I rested my head on the steering wheel. Maybe I should just start the car and go home. Maybe Drake was right and coming here only made things worse for Samuel and for me. No. I punched the steering wheel, as if it was Drake arguing with me. I’d come this far. And Samuel deserved some company. I got out of the car, controlling the urge to slam the door shut. Fishing in my jacket pocket for my keys, I jogged to the porch, as if by walking any slower I would give myself the chance to change my mind.

  Beneath the elegant French columns, with their flaking paint, I hesitated only a moment before I slipped my key into the lock, the rest of the bunch jangling against each other as I moved. I was about to turn it when the giant oak door swung inward so hard I had to let go of my keys or go flying inside with them.

  Cassia stared at me, her honey-gold eyes as expressionless as she could make them. “Hello, Melisande.”

  “Hi, Cass.” The skin at her eyes tightened. She hated it when I shortened her name. But it didn’t matter. She pretty much hated everything I was and everything I stood for, all on account of the fact I ruined her life. I wasn’t in the mood for a stare-down so I tugged my keys from the lock, and took special note of the dark glare Cassia gave them, as if I had no right to have them. I brushed past her and headed for the stairs.r />
  “He’s not taking visitors,” she said, her voice dripping ice as she pushed her tightly spiraled curls away from her face.

  I stopped—my foot on the first stair, my hand on a banister badly in need of staining—and glanced back at her. I smiled sweetly. “Well, good thing I’m not a visitor then, isn’t it?” I watched as blood rushed to her dusky cheeks.