Jericho James and the Midnight Pack

Book 1: Jericho James

by Jasmine Kuliasha

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Beauty and the Beast meets Supernatural in the first book of this new urban fantasy detective series!

Jericho James is in over her head. 

She's a Private Investigator famed for debunking mythical creature sightings, and she expects her latest case in Stillbridge, Maine to be just another instance of "town who cried wolf." But instead of finding a poorly judged animal in the Northeastern woods, Jericho discovers a family of reclusive scientists. Handsome scientists, no less, working on a cure for a mystery virus.

Intrigued by the virus and utterly captivated by Benjamin--a man with cheekbones that must have been chiseled by God himself--Jericho finds she's dying to learn more about the family and their work. 

And when she accidentally discovers the family's secret, she might just get her wish. 

Follow Jericho James as she solves cyrptid crimes, stops mythical misdeeds, and blocks otherworldly outrages. And maybe, if she has time, find love along the way. 

 

Release date: May 27, 2025

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 352

Sample

Jericho is known as the oldest city in the world, and according to the Bible, it was cursed by God.

My mom wasn’t thinking of the Bible when she named me. She just wanted me to have a boy’s name to put on my résumé and thought Jericho sounded cool. She’d say, “Jericho James, an extraordinary name for an extraordinary girl!” I don’t know about extraordinary, though. A better way to describe my special brand of charmed life would probably be unusual.

Have you ever known someone whom things just sort of happen to? Like a friend who goes to the mall and ends up thwarting a jewelry store heist? Or maybe she sets out for a short hike but meets a park ranger on the trail and winds up tranquilizing and tagging black bears with him? Or she gets her private investigator license as a last resort to avoid working retail but, instead of tailing cheating husbands or suspected parole violators, becomes somewhat famous for solving the crazy animal cases nobody else wants to take?

Yeah, that’s me.

Chupacabra sightings? Call Jericho James. (They were shaved goats. All of them.)

Swamp-monster in the Everglades? I’m your girl. (For the record, it was a giant anaconda.)

Cthulhu sightings off the coast of California? My phone was ringing nonstop with that one. (It was an injured giant Pacific octopus who’s now convalescing nicely at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.)

Cthulhu again, this time in southern Florida? An even crazier, but still normal, set of animal circumstances. Hint: It involved pythons. Lots and lots of pythons. And it was my first time on the news. I got to describe the ins and outs (pun intended) of a mating ball on live TV.

Then something truly bizarre happened: People started looking past my bubbly blonde-ness and seeing my inherent talent for cracking cryptid cases. I’d gained a reputation, and now whenever there was some unusual animal activity, most police stations across the country had me at the top of their call list. Which was how I found myself heading to Stillbridge, Maine, at the frenzied request of a frustrated police captain.

The last time I was in the Pine Tree State was to investigate a Cassie sighting. But Maine’s own Loch Ness–style monster turned out to be a record-breaking fifteen-foot-long Atlantic sturgeon weighing in at over eight hundred pounds. The sheer size of the fish was incredibly strange. But in this job, I’ve found that truth is always stranger than fiction.

This new assignment, however, brought me away from the water and into a small town nestled on the edge of the woods—which is ostensibly every small town in Maine, since the state is almost 90 percent forest. Stillbridge sounded woodsier than most, though, as the self-proclaimed “Gateway to Mount Katahdin and the 100-Mile Wilderness.” The largest mountain in Maine loomed just north of the accurately named wilderness, and Stillbridge was tucked right between them.

A seemingly endless wall of trees blurred past my red VW Beetle as I drove to my destination. Fall had arrived in full force, and the forest was a vivid tapestry of scarlets, oranges, and golds, peppered with deep evergreen. I allowed myself to get lost in the colors for a brief minute—a practically magical sight to my Florida girl eyes—before turning my thoughts back to the police file and news article I’d read earlier.

A woman’s savaged remains were found in these woods, bitten and clawed apart. Katherine Waller, age twenty-two, on vacation to hike the Appalachian Trail in the 100-Mile Wilderness after graduating from college earlier this year. She was only a handful of years younger than me. I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. It wasn’t the first death I’d investigated, but that didn’t make it any easier. The wampus cat murders of East Tennessee had made the news, too. A six-legged cougar-type beast was a shoo-in for a headline, especially since the attacks mirrored the Knoxville incident in 1918, right down to the slew of stray animals killed… their livers ripped out, but the rest of the carcasses intact. A college freshman was also a victim in the new attacks—a gaping hole on the right side of his body is a vivid image that still haunts me. I arrived to find the mayor organizing a wampus cat hunt, which I was able to talk him out of after a rabid cougar with a bloodstained muzzle was caught and put down. Poor thing must have been insanely iron-deficient, and instinct took over. The killings stopped after that.

This time, the local authorities had determined that the trauma was indicative of a single animal, and the bite radius was in line with either a small bear or a large wolf, though neither was a perfect match. So this poor woman had been hiking alone and was attacked by some sort of creature. No foul play suspected. As far as the police were concerned, the death itself was case closed. Except for the matter of this mystery animal that was bold enough to attack a human, big enough to inflict fatal damage, and still at large.

Since local animal control couldn’t find an animal to control, they called me. Both the policeman leading the case and Katherine’s distraught parents wanted the creature found, identified, and ultimately subdued, which I took to mean dead meat. Large mammals weren’t exactly my specialty, but I had plenty of faith in my abilities—and in the semi-automatic gun I kept on me for emergencies. I hadn’t had to use it yet, and I hoped I never would, but better to be prepared in these situations.

What if it was a new, apparently violent and toothy species, though? It sounded far-fetched, but looking out the car window at the passing forest, I could almost believe that there was some hitherto-unknown creature living there. People were still discovering new species around the world, and no way all of Maine’s woods had been explored.

If I’d learned anything through these cases, though, it was that the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. With Occam’s razor in mind, I pulled into Stillbridge.

As far as towns go, it was unremarkable in its normalcy, but definitely very cute. Main Street, with all its brick buildings and hand-painted signage: cute. The coffee shop on the corner, whose window said ESPRESSO YOURSELF in big, cheery, hand-painted letters: cute. The bed-and-breakfast where I was staying, with its crisp, white wood siding and wraparound porch: cute. Christopher at the front desk, who winked at me when he took my bags: double cute. I glanced at his hand: no ring. I hoped I’d have time to maybe invite him for a drink later, life being short and him being adorable, but… first things first. As soon as my suitcases were settled, I rushed out into the crisp Maine day for some info gathering.

The ground was still wet from recent rainfall, but the fall sun had come out and was shining brightly, making the puddles on the sidewalks glisten. I shivered. Even with the sun, the air was spiked with a brisk coolness that hinted at the winter to come, and this warm-weather girl hadn’t brought anything heavier than a flannel shirt. At least the day was serene—in juxtaposition with my life of chasing wild stories. It might be nice to live somewhere like this someday.

Yeah right, Jericho, like you could ever live someplace this quiet.

I paused in front of the police station, which luckily was not too far from where I was staying. The small, whitewashed building was weather-worn but well kept, and the big black lettering of the station’s sign was clearly (and tidily) handwritten. I had an appointment to talk to the sheriff later that afternoon. Sheriff Jackson—whose father and grandfather were also Sheriff Jacksons, and whose daughter was shaping up to be the first female Sheriff Jackson—was the one who’d contacted me about the case. We’d spoken on the phone several times, but I had a fresh slew of case-related questions for him after reading and re-reading the police file. My arms prickled with goose bumps as I recalled the grisly photos that were included—Katherine’s body twisted at an unnatural angle, her left arm torn off at the shoulder and flung several feet away. Three deep claw marks marred her face, completely mangling her jaw on one side. I blinked, shaking the image from my mind.

The station’s white wooden sides made the building stand out from its vintage, brick-walled cousins that sandwiched it. The entire Main Street had an old-timey look to it, which I enjoyed. I leaned against a weathered telephone pole that had been peppered with posters, absentmindedly fingering some of the tacked-up papers. There was a sale at the local pizza place. A lost dog. An advertisement for babysitting services. But sticking out from behind the general notes, I noticed another, mostly hidden paper. I lifted the babysitting page and revealed Katherine’s faded image, front and center on a MISSING poster. Her once auburn hair had become a caramel-blonde on the rain-washed flyer. She was smiling and wearing a graduation cap. She looked a little bit like me.

And now she’s dead.

I shuddered in the sunlight as a chill passed through my shoulders. Then I yanked the poster down.

“It was a monster, ya know.”

The voice came from behind me, pulling me out of my reverie. “What?” I turned and shaded my eyes against the afternoon sun with my hand.

A young boy with a mop of black hair and round glasses a little bit too big for his face pointed at the paper in my hand. “What killed her. It was a monster. Maybe a dogman. Maybe the Tote-Road Shagamaw.” He pointed to his shirt, which had an image of a muscle-bound bear-moose bursting out of the words STILLBRIDGE ACADEMY SHAGAMAWS.

I couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Uhh,” I said intelligently. I did not want to talk about this with a kid.

The boy suddenly looked unsure of himself and jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He turned to face the sidewalk, nudging at some pebbles with a ratty red tennis shoe.

Now I felt bad. “What do you mean?” I asked.

The boy contemplated the pebble a moment longer, as if he was deciding how to respond. He nodded to himself, then looked up, pushed his too-big glasses higher on his nose, and sighed. “My mom doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m crazy. But I hear them at night.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened a recording app, showing the screen to the boy as I pressed RECORD. He nodded his consent. “Tell me more,” I said into the phone.

He stepped closer but avoided my eyes as he focused on the sidewalk behind me. “My house is the last one on the street, at the edge of the woods. I can see all the trees right from my window. That’s where I hear the sounds. It sometimes starts with a snapping, like, like when you step on a stick and it breaks. Then snarling, scratching…” He raised his hands, fingers curled into little claws, slashing them through the air while trying to roar in a low voice. He turned his attention back toward me, the sounds trailing off as he looked into my eyes. “You don’t believe me, either.”

Hurt was written all over his face. Poor kid. I knew what it felt like to not be believed. I bent down so my eyes were level with his. “I definitely believe you heard something. What’s your name, buddy?”

“Mikey.” Mikey eyed me dubiously.

“How old are you, Mikey?”

He scowled. “I just turned ten, and I’m old enough to know what I’m talking about. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’m not stupid. I know what sounds all the animals around here make. These are different.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you should be in school right now.” I smiled at him gently.

“Oh. We get out early on Wednesdays. All of us used to walk home together, but since that lady was killed, most of the other kids get picked up by their parents. I don’t have a dad, though, and my mom works all day, so I still walk.”

“Does it bother you to walk alone?”

Mikey shrugged. “I’m safe out here. The monsters are in the woods.” A cloud passed overhead, as if punctuating his sentence. He continued, adjusting his glasses again. “You’re that detective lady, right?”

I nodded and raised an eyebrow. “What made you think that?”

I didn’t dress in any way that screamed detective. The closest thing I have to a uniform is yoga pants and a tank top, but only because that’s what I wear most often, like every other warm-blooded female into the athleisure lifestyle. My nail polish isn’t what you would consider “professional,” either. My color choices are exclusively based on witty names. Keep your pastel pinks and ruby reds—give me Ice Cream and Shout, Indi-Go-Round, and Not Red-y for Bed. Today’s was One in a Melon—a particularly warm and intense pink.

The boy responded with a small smirk. “All the grown-ups have been talking about it, how a special detective was coming here. I saw you coming out of the hotel, so I just figured that’s who you were.”

“Hey, that’s some decent detective work yourself.”

He grinned, and his attention quickly shifted back to his red tennis shoes. “Anyway, I thought you should know about the monster. I tried to tell my mom that I know what I’m talking about, but she still thinks I’m crazy.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah?” His eyes met my face again.

I leaned closer and whispered like we were a couple of conspirators on the street. “People call me crazy, too. But you know what? I’m glad. I’d be offended if someone ever called me normal.”

Mikey smiled up at me. “In that case, catch you later, crazy!”

I laughed. “Right back atcha, buddy. Have a good walk!”

He turned to leave but suddenly whipped his face back around. His smile was gone, his expression hardened and serious. “Don’t go into the woods.”

“Katherine was missing for about a week before her remains were found,” Sheriff Jackson said, offering me a paper cup full of steaming black coffee. I gratefully accepted, wrapping my hands around the cup for warmth. It was surprisingly colder inside the station than it was outside, maybe to keep delinquents spending the night in the lone jail cell on edge.

“The body was a shock to us all, real nasty injuries as you know. I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on anyone. Anyway, we tried to keep the official investigation going, but the chief was eager to chalk this one up to an unlucky encounter and call it done. Luckily, the animal being on the loose means we could bring you in.” The sheriff smiled at me with a mouthful of slightly yellow teeth.

“Yeah… lucky,” I said, taking a small sip of the coffee and trying to hide my grimace at the lack of sugar. “So I’ve talked to the other officers on the phone, and I’m meeting the hunters that found Katherine’s body next. I also plan to chat with the guy at the B and B where Katherine stayed, but I’m not quite sure where to turn to after that, besides just marching on into the woods. Is there anyone else it might be worthwhile to check with?”

The sheriff reached up and scratched the back of his neck, frowning as he thought. “Well… he might not be the best person for conversation, but there is an old fella who actually lives out in the woods. A hermit, of sorts. Keeps to himself most of the time. If he didn’t come into town for feedstock every once in a while, I’d say he was a figment. I can give you a general direction to where he stays, though I haven’t been out that way in years. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors. His name’s Kermit.”

I choked a little on the coffee.

“Kermit… the hermit?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose you could call him that.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculous name, though Sheriff Jackson just eyed me strangely, like a rhyming moniker shouldn’t surprise anyone. Oh well. I thanked him for his offer on directions to Kermit the hermit’s place in the woods, and his generous container of case files and recorded interviews, and made my way back to the bed-and-breakfast.

Finally cuddled up in the cozy four-poster bed with a hoard of pillows, I played the interviews given to me by the sheriff, as well as the few I’d recorded on my phone. It had started to rain on my way back, and the gentle sound of droplets pattering on the window combined with the comfort of my pillow-nest threatened to put me to sleep, but I blinked my eyes stubbornly. I ran my fingers through my shoulder-length hair, fanning it around my head like a golden crown on the pillowcase. The full moon, already shining brightly despite the early-evening hour and the rain, illuminated the small room with a pleasant, almost pearlescent glow. I listened to an animal expert, Joseph, speaking about the bite wounds.

“… No, nothing like this. It’s similar to a couple o’ things. Similar to a lone wolf, maybe similar to a bear. But if you forced me to pick between ’em, I couldn’t. It was something big, though, that’s for certain.”

It just didn’t make sense. Large animals don’t generally disappear without a single trace, and everyone I’d spoken to had universally agreed that it was undoubtedly an animal attack, though no tracks were ever found. That contributed to the differing opinions when it came to what type of animal, with three schools of thought:

1. Bear with a unique bite structure

2. Wolf (a really big one)

3. Unidentified species (Mikey’s “monster”)

There were plenty of black bears in Maine, and I supposed it wasn’t out of the question for one to be different from the norm. I’d also done some research on wolves. While there weren’t any known wolf packs in the area, occasionally wolves did meander down from the Canadian woods to the north. Case in point, the local legend about the “dogmen” Mikey mentioned. The creatures who’d attacked a family home in Palmyra years ago were clearly either Canadian wolves or coyotes. General size was an issue now, though. Both the coroner and this animal expert pronounced that whatever had attacked Katherine was definitely larger than a wolf.

Something tugged at my memory, causing me to sit up and open my laptop. Weren’t there actual giant wolves once? I sat cross-legged on the bed with the computer on my lap, tucked my hair behind my ears, then typed “giant wolf” (the technical term) into the search bar. An entry on dire wolves was one of the first hits. Yes, yes, that’s right! I had watched a show that featured these guys once when I first started my journey into being a cryptid critical. Dire wolves were prehistoric cousins of today’s wolves, and about twice as big and strong. They were thought to be extinct, but then again, so was the coelacanth until some unwitting fisherman hauled one up on his boat.

I tapped the laptop absentmindedly, studying drawings of the latest addition to my list. Dire wolves were huge, probably larger than a linebacker in most cases. In fact, if you ran into one of those at night, in the dark shadows, it might be entirely possible to mistake it for…

I laughed out loud and ran my fingers through my hair. I’d long ago learned that anything was possible. But these attacks, these sightings? They always turned out to be normal animals.

Always.

I woke up the next morning to a beautiful fall day. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining, and the air was crisp. I opened the window of my room and inhaled deeply. Everything smelled like petrichor and pine. I kept the window open to let the morning air filter in while I compiled my to-do list and reviewed my notes from the previous day.

I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open. I pulled it onto my lap at the edge of the bed and tapped on the keys. The article about dire wolves lit the screen as the computer groaned awake. I shook my head and closed the laptop with a sigh, then looked over to my handwritten notes.

Kermit’s name sat beside an unchecked box, along with “visit crime scene.” I’d been putting off the trip to where the body was found because (a) I’d seen all the pictures, and (b) I knew that any clues outdoors would have been long gone by the time I arrived, so waiting a few extra days for nicer weather wouldn’t hurt. But with no other real leads, and the fact that I couldn’t wait forever for the hermit to come into town, I knew it’s what I had to do. A fall breeze from the open window kissed my hair and a little chickadee landed on my windowsill, chirping happily, as if to drive the point home.

By the time I’d finished compiling my notes, packed a day bag, had my all-important cup of hot, sugary coffee (I espresso-ed myself), ate a granola bar, and let Christopher at the front desk know where I was going (safety first), it was already noon. I walked toward the woods, pausing by a school at the edge of town. It must have been recess, because the playground beside the trees was packed. The tinkling sound of childhood laughter made the air sparkle as kids ran and played, their exuberance palpable. I wish I had that much energy. I was already fantasizing about another cup of coffee.

As I continued past the playground, two girls jumping rope sang loudly, drowning out the other kids’ joyful play.

Wolf, wolf, where is the wolf?

He is coming to take your sheep!

Wolf, wolf, where is the wolf?

He’ll come and get you in your sleep!

Wolf, wolf, there is the wolf—

He has come and eaten your sheep!

Wolf, wolf, there is the wolf—

He’s here to get you in your sleep!

Wolf, wolf…

The song became muffled as I stepped into the shade of the trees, but the girls’ voices rang in my head. Kinda morbid, but a catchy tune.

I had just lost sight of the playground when I heard the leaves crunch behind me.

Something grabbed my wrist, and I quickly jerked my hand free as I whirled around, reaching with my other hand for the knife I kept at my side.

“Whoa!” squeaked little Mikey as he put both his hands up and took a step backward.

“Shit!” I breathed deeply and felt my heart pounding in my chest. Mikey said nothing, but just stared at me with wide eyes. Jericho James, you can’t say “shit” in front of a kid, even if he did just scare it out of you. “Shit!” I reiterated wholeheartedly.

Mikey shook his head as if he knew what I was thinking, dislodging his glasses in the process. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard that word before. You just startled me.”

“I startled you?” I asked incredulously. I didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Mikey, what are you doing here?” He didn’t answer but pushed his glasses back up and tugged on my hand, silently urging me a few feet back to the edge of the trees. I walked with him until the playground was in sight. The girls were still singing.

Wolf, wolf, where is the wolf?

“Don’t go into the woods.”

I sighed and opened my mouth to respond, but Mikey continued, “I heard the monster again.” The rest of his words poured out in a hurried rush, “Since you took a recording of me before, I thought maybe I could take a recording, too. Like, maybe that could help? So yesterday I borrowed my friend’s playback mic.”

Mikey pulled a bulky, metallic pink microphone out of his backpack. He held it up proudly. “I didn’t even need to wait long! The monster came back last night.”

The monster. I looked at my watch, then back at Mikey’s expectant face. “Nice detective work, kiddo. Let’s hear it.”

Wolf, wolf, there is the wolf—

Mikey rolled the microphone around, exposing a panel of buttons on the back. He hit PLAY. For a moment, there was nothing but the sounds of rain and static; then suddenly an eerie, high-pitched screech erupted from the device, splitting the air around us. The otherworldly scream diminished into a low groan, followed by cracking an. . .