Sinner, p.1
Sinner, page 1
Contents
Copyrights
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
48. Chapter 48
49. Chapter 49
50. Chapter 50
51. Chapter 51
52. Chapter 52
53. Chapter 53
54. Chapter 54
55. Chapter 55
Afterword
Also by S. J. West
Copyright © 2026 by S. J. West
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Jnxarts
First edition [2026]
Chapter 1
Don’t be fooled. Monsters do hide underneath your bed. They do make the creaking noises you hear at night. The most devious ones lurk at the edge of shadows, waiting for you to make a mistake before they pounce and devour you whole. If anyone tells you monsters aren’t real, they’re either lying or naïve.
Real monsters aren’t always the ones from my world; humans can be just as evil, sometimes even worse. Strangely enough, they all share one trait: they tend to attack when you least expect them to. My job is to hunt down these monsters when people pay me and to punish them if they don’t change their ways.
A vampire in my building hired me to find the werewolf who recently bit her. Physically, she’ll be fine; the only thing bruised is her massive ego. Charlotte Knight is the only vampire I know who gets squeamish at the sight of blood. She’s also the only one who refuses to drink her meals straight from the source. Luckily, her boyfriend works at the local blood bank and brings her a fresh supply of A+ blood every day.
Tracking down the wolf who attacked her wasn’t difficult. Werewolves are braggarts, and Marcell Dane is the most vocally boastful of them all. His pack has lived in New Orleans since the city was founded. His family is a legacy, but that doesn’t give him the right to attack anyone he pleases.
Tonight, Marcell lurks in the shadows of an alley across from Buddy’s Bar and Grill on the fringes of the French Quarter. I’ve been watching from the top of an adjacent building for the past half hour, waiting to make my move. Contrary to what TV shows and movies depict, werewolves have a terrible sense of smell—probably because their breath smells like the bottom of a butcher’s garbage can.
Marcell is clearly waiting for someone inside the bar to come out, but who? With nothing better to do, I decide to bide my time until this little mystery unfolds. It’s only two o’clock in the morning, and I’m not ready for bed yet. Hopefully, a tussle with a werewolf will tire me out enough to get some restful sleep.
The bar door swings open, and a man stumbles out, drunker than a skunk. He nearly lands headfirst on the sidewalk, like a baby taking its first steps. People who can’t handle their liquor shouldn’t get blackout drunk in New Orleans; it’s a surefire way to get mugged, stabbed, or worse.
Marcell observes his prey for a few seconds before growling in satisfaction.
Really? This is the guy he’s been waiting so long for? He doesn’t look all that special.
I take another look at the man as he stumbles into the nearest lamppost. He tilts his face up to the light, offering me a clearer view of his features.
He’s cute. Really cute.
His skin is the color of richly creamed coffee. A short beard and mustache cover the lower half of his face. I’m too far away to see the color of his eyes, but I imagine they’re probably brown. He’s dressed casually in a white polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers, not exactly the type I’d expect to be on a werewolf’s radar.
The man grips the lamppost as if it were his only support. Given his drunken state, he definitely needs all the help he can get.
Marcell cautiously pads onto the empty street, careful not to make a sound that would alert the man to his presence. In all honesty, the wolf could probably have a marching band playing behind him, and his victim still wouldn’t hear him coming.
Not caring whether I’m heard or not, I push myself off the ledge of the second-story building that’s been my perch and land in a crouched position on the sidewalk.
Marcell whips his head in my direction, baring his teeth and boldly growling at me.
Since he was so kind to smile, I decide to return the gesture.
“Really, Marcell, is that any way to treat a lady?” I stroll toward him, keeping an eye on both him and his prey. I cup my hands, one on top of the other, and spread them apart to reveal the flaming green orb I’m holding. Instant fear flashes in his eyes.
The target finally seems to notice what's happening around him. Given his confused expression, he's probably trying to figure out if he's seeing reality or just a drunken hallucination. If a werewolf facing off against a slim, purple-haired girl holding a ball of green fire is within his realm of possibility, then this guy must have a seriously twisted sense of reality.
“You know who I am and what I can do.” Even in his wolf form, Marcell should understand the danger he’s in. “Either step away from the human now or face me. The odds aren’t in your favor. I suggest you move on and cut your losses.”
Marcell swings his head back toward the human. To my surprise and horror, he pounces on the man, pinning his shoulders to the concrete with his front paws. Just as he lowers his head to rip the stranger’s throat open, I shoot my fireball right at his furry ass.
Marcell howls in pain as his fur ignites in a flurry of green flames. He darts down the street, executing a decent imitation of an injured hellhound.
I jog over to the unconscious stranger as blood pools on the sidewalk from a wound on the back of his head.
What am I supposed to do with him now? I could leave him here, but there’s no guarantee Marcell won’t circle back to finish what he started. Since my actions will likely ignite a clan war anyway, I might as well go all in and save this fool’s life.
I crouch next to him on the cracked, uneven sidewalk and poke him hard in the chest.
“Hey!” the man grumbles, crossing his arms over his torso like I just violated him.
“Dude, I need you to open your eyes.” I shake his shoulder to rouse him.
His eyelids flutter open. “Wh-what happened?”
“I think you slipped and fell backward. Your head is bleeding all over the sidewalk.”
If he remembers seeing a wolf attack him and me launching a fireball at it, he might chalk it all up to his inebriation. Humans rarely want to confront the real supernatural creatures of their nightmares; they’d rather believe that small tug on their sleeve is just the wind instead of a ghost.
All those fangirls who think vampires are romantic don’t understand that a sweet vampire is about as oxymoronic as a gentle serial killer. From my dealings with the vampires in New Orleans, almost all of them are obnoxious, selfish jerks.
The man places his right hand on the back of his head and cautiously touches his wound. He winces in pain and pulls his hand away to examine the blood dripping from his fingers.
“If I help you,” I say, standing, “do you think you can get to your feet?”
“Yeah,” he replies in a hoarse voice, probably thirsty for another drink, “I think so.”
I offer him my hand, and he accepts it with his clean one. After a few false starts, he finally gets to his feet. When he begins to sway, I brace my shoulder under his arm and place my hands on his torso to steady him.
“You’re a horrible drunk,” I mutter. “Do me a favor—next time you want to drink this much, do it at home.”
“Normally, I do,” he says with a sloppy grin, “but I ran out of whiskey and decided I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Were you looking to hook up with someone?”
He frowns at the suggestion. “Not really. You see, I’m saving myself.”
I can’t help but laugh. “What are you, a virgin? If you’ve made it to your thirties with your cherry intact, kudos.”
The man laughs as he stumbles backward two steps. “That cherry was popped a long time ago. I meant I was saving myself for someone special.”
“Then I suggest you go to better places than Buddy’s Bar and Grill if you want to meet someone special. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Rex,” he says, pulling a black billfold from his back pocket and handing it to me. “Detective Rex Stone at your service, m’lady.”
Rex hiccups in my face, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey. I open the leather holder and find his crescent-shaped badge inside. He isn’t lying; the name on the badge is Rex Stone, and he is indeed a detective in our prestigious NOLA police force.
I don’t bother handing his badge back to him. Instead, I slip it into his back pocket for safekeeping.
“Who, may I ask, are you?” he inquires, tapping the tip of my nose with his index finger.
“Eva Chambers,” I reply, becoming more irritated by the moment. “Look, Rex, where do you live? Is it nearby, or do I need to call a taxi for you?”
“I live…” He squints around, then points a wobbly finger straight ahead. “I live that way.”
“I’m going to help you get home, but after that, you’re on your own.”
“Thanks.” He hiccups again before taking a wobbly step forward. “You’re too kind.”
“If you really knew me, ‘kind’ probably isn’t the first word you’d use to describe me,” I mumble, annoyed that this fool has suddenly become my responsibility.
As I help Rex find his way home, I hear Marcell’s howls of pain echoing through the empty streets.
My grandfather is going to have a fit when he hears about what I did. Odds are he’ll need to make a hefty “contribution” to the local werewolf pack to keep the peace, but I don’t care. He has money to burn. Besides, he’ll be proud of me once he learns that I have a New Orleans detective indebted to me now.
In a city filled with sinners, having a cop who owes you a favor can be more valuable than gold.
As we walk down the sidewalk, Marcell’s howls suddenly cease. Moments later, I see him rounding the corner ahead, his black fur still blazing as he runs directly toward us.
I shove Rex against the nearest building, freeing both my hands.
“Marcell! Stop!” I command, though I know my words will likely have no effect. His eyes have turned blood red. When a werewolf enters a blind rage, nothing can stop him, and right now, Marcell is on a rampage. It’s unclear whether he’s targeting Rex alone or if my interference has made me a target as well.
I only have seconds to react. To survive this attack, there’s only one thing I can do.
My mother, Hela, the Goddess of the Underworld, granted me the power to separate a soul from its body and send it directly to her realm. Much to her disappointment, I’ve only used this power once. I know she wishes I would use it more often, but I’m not like her. I don’t take pleasure in ending someone’s life and condemning them to be her slave for all eternity.
“Marcell!” I press my palms together, praying to Odin that I won’t have to strike him down. My prayer goes unanswered by my indifferent ancestor—the bastard.
I have no choice.
I have to kill if I want to survive.
The moment I pull my hands apart, Marcell screeches to a halt, mesmerized by the glowing green flames flickering between my palms.
No words are necessary; no incantation is needed to snatch Marcell’s spirit from his body. The glow of the Underworld itself beckons his soul, promising an eternity of peace.
It’s a lie, of course. He won’t find any peace in the Underworld, but that’s none of my concern.
As Marcell’s body collapses onto the black asphalt, the light of his soul hovers over it for just a moment before shooting into the flames between my hands. I feel a rush of energy as he leaves the world of the living and enters the realm of the dead.
“What the hell just happened?”
I turn to Rex. His eyes, still slightly glassy from alcohol, now show awareness and curiosity that weren’t there before. He witnessed everything, and that will undoubtedly lead to trouble.
I walk over and extend my hand to him. This time, he regards my offer of help with wariness. I can’t blame him. If I had just seen someone take down a werewolf three times their size without even touching him, I wouldn’t trust that person either.
After a few moments, Rex takes my hand and stands up on his first attempt.
“What are you?” he asks warily, glancing at Marcell’s lifeless body. “And what was that thing?”
“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a drunkard, asking him to forget everything he just saw,” I quip. “Seriously, chalk this up to a drunken hallucination. You’ll be happier if you do.”
I begin to walk away, but Rex tightens his grip on my arm, stopping me.
I really dislike being grabbed.
I stomp on his right foot—foolishly protected by flimsy gray sneakers—and jab him in the ribs with the elbow of the arm he grabbed.
Unsurprisingly, he lets go, groaning in discomfort—just the icing on my good manners cake.
“Don’t ever grab me or any other woman like that again,” I growl. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he winces.
I feel a slight pang of guilt for causing him pain, but sometimes pain is the only way a person can learn a crucial lesson that might save their life one day.
When he stumbles back two steps, my guilt deepens, prompting me to carry on with my good deed for the night.
“Come on.” I gently help him by placing one of his arms over my shoulders while wrapping a steady arm around his waist. “I’ll get you home, but after that, you’re on your own.”
As we walk past Marcell’s corpse, it shifts from wolf to human. The black, lopsided, three-barred “H” on his chest marks him as one of my victims. Hopefully, no one in the pack will recognize it as a variant of my mother’s emblem. Otherwise, I’m in trouble.
“Werewolves are real?”
Rex’s surprise is palpable. He was just an ordinary man before this night. Now, he’s been thrust into my world, and his life will never be the same. For a brief moment, I feel a twinge of pity for him.
What did this seemingly harmless human do to deserve a werewolf’s wrath? What could he have done to provoke Marcell into a murderous rage?
All I know is that he’s a cop. Has he discovered something the NOLA pack wants to keep secret? That’s the only explanation I have until I learn more about Rex Stone. But do I really want to get involved in his life, or should I walk away and forget everything I’ve learned?
The fact is, Rex is a dead man walking unless I help him. If the pack really wants him dead, he won’t live long enough to drink himself into another stupor.
“Are we getting close to your place?” I ask, choosing to ignore his question.
“We’re almost there. I live on the next corner, just a block up.”
The sooner I can drop him off, the quicker I can forget this night ever happened. I don’t want to get involved in whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. He’s not a paying client. By all rights, we should have never met. He’s a complete stranger. Why should I care if he lives or dies?
Rex’s place turns out to be a house that is home to three separate apartments. The building is painted sunrise orange with gray trim. Of course, his apartment is on the second floor. After a precarious climb up a rusty iron staircase, we finally reach his front door.
“Do you have your key?” I ask.
“It’s open.”
I look at him sharply. “You do realize you live in one of the most crime-infested cities in America, right? Why on earth would you leave your door unlocked?”
Rex shrugs, closing his eyes as if the world has suddenly started to spin.
“Maybe I just don’t care what happens to me.” He sighs, his breath reeking of sour whiskey. “Maybe you should have let that wolf kill me. It might have been a blessing in disguise.”
“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” I grumble. “Maybe next time, I’ll walk away when I see a stranger in trouble.”
Rex opens his eyes and looks into mine. There’s a sadness in his expression that I can’t comprehend. I’ve never known such pain, and I pray I never do.
“Maybe you should,” he replies.
His knees begin to buckle, but I manage to keep him upright long enough to open his door and help him onto the small gray couch in his living room. His head thuds against the arm of the couch, causing him to grimace, but it’s not enough to keep him awake.
