Changeling Moon (11 page)

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Authors: Dani Harper

BOOK: Changeling Moon
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Fitzpatrick made rapid notes, then surveyed her arm. “I'd advise you to go see Lowen Miller right away about that. It probably just needs some ice but you'll want the injury on record for court purposes.”
“Right. I'll do that.” Zoey cussed inwardly. Helfren would and should be charged as soon as the police found him, but she would have to appear in court and testify. She covered Dunvegan's local court proceedings twice a month and knew the drill. It would probably take up most of a day just waiting in the courtroom for her turn. Geez, what a pain in the—
“Did he leave anything behind, Ms. Tyler?”
“Um, yeah, he left some papers and a business card on my desk.” She pointed to her office and Fitz disappeared inside for a few moments.
When he emerged, he was holding a copy of
OtherWorld News
and looking grimmer than he had a few moments earlier. “Ms. Tyler, I'm not sure I've got all the details about what Helfren wanted from you.” He looked at her expectantly.
“I told you that I was bitten by an animal the other night and that somehow he found out about it.” She met his green eyes, and wondered anew why Dunvegan seemed to be home to so many hot men.
Tall
, hot men. Was there something in the water? She sighed and relented. “Helfren thinks I was bitten by a werewolf, or at least, he's convinced he can make a story out of it for his readership. He talked about writing a book, about doing talk shows and how his publishers would pay me a lot if I turn into a werewolf too. And he got ugly when I didn't fall at his feet and say
make me a star
.”
Bill made a noise that sounded surprisingly like a growl. Fitzpatrick looked troubled, and she couldn't decide if he was upset at Helfren or bothered by the mention of werewolves. “Look,” she said, standing up. “I could use a break here. I don't want this werewolf crap to get started all over again, and I'm sure you don't either. And for purely personal reasons, I don't want to be known as that hysterical editor who believes in Nessie and the Sasquatch.”
Fitzpatrick's mouth twitched ever so slightly and he closed his notebook. “Okay, I hear you. I don't have to write the werewolf part down in the report. But do I know everything now?”
“As much as I do.”
“All right then. Don't forget to see the doc. I'll be in touch.” He put on his hat and left, taking the newspaper with him.
“Is there another one of those?” Bill asked.
“Helfren's rag? Sure, there must be four or five on my desk. If you want one, take it. I sure don't need the souvenir. You know, what I
really
need is some advice on how I might have broken his hold on me.”
He looked at her appraisingly, head to one side. “You don't scare easy, eh? You got some real spirit, girl. No wonder our Connor's smitten.”
What?
She didn't know how to respond to that, and could only nod as Bill warned her to be careful in case Helfren hung around, promised her a few street fighting lessons, then walked away with a copy of
OtherWorld News
tucked under a massive bicep. When he reached the door, he turned and called back to her. “Almost forgot! I came to invite you over. Jessie's firing up the grill tonight at about seven for all our mates. First barbecue of the season, you know. Gotta bring summer in proper. The house is smack behind the store, so you can't miss.” He shot her a knowing grin. “Your vet'll be there too.”
She forced a smile, thanked him, and waited until he'd gone. Locked the office door behind him, counted to ten, then twenty. And exploded. “My vet, my
ass
!” She hadn't heard a word, not one word, from Connor since his hasty exit Tuesday morning. Sure, her reasonable side said he was busy, but after he'd gotten her all hot and bothered and, and,
aroused . . .
wonderfully aroused . . . well, couldn't he at least call or something? And how about an explanation for his abrupt departure? It wasn't lack of sleep that had him putting moves on her and then suddenly tearing himself away like he expected a damn alien to pop out of her.
All the tension of the past hour was channeled into Zoey's rant. And when the tension was gone, she was left facing what she really wanted. To be held and comforted. By Connor.
She sighed and considered calling him, but what would she say?
Hi, I need a hug because this strange guy wants me to turn into a werewolf.
Zoey shook her head—
—and nearly jumped out of her skin when the village siren went off. Decades ago, it had been an air raid siren to warn against bombers that never came. Now it signaled to the volunteer fire brigade that there was a blaze somewhere. Grateful for the diversion, she grabbed her camera bag and headed for her truck.
Chapter Eleven
Z
oey dumped her bag onto the bistro table in her kitchen. Didn't even bother to check the fridge—
as if
there would be anything interesting in it anyway—and headed straight for the couch. She was tired, dirty from head to toe, and smelled like smoke after spending the afternoon watching the Dunvegan Volunteer Fire Department battle a tractor fire that had spread to a farmyard and several outbuildings. She'd gotten some good photos and some useful story material but all she wanted right now was to get off her feet. That, and close her stinging eyes for a while before the migraine that was brewing on the right side of her head could erupt. . . .
The dream ambushed her at once. The gray grizzled wolf burst through the balcony doors in a shower of glass. She leapt from the couch, hoping to make the hallway door but the creature cornered her effortlessly in the kitchen, glaring at her with those damn glowing eyes and snapping at her with foam-flecked jaws. Zoey held one of her metal bistro chairs in front of her, with thoughts of clubbing the monster with it, but it was too close. If she lifted the chair to swing it, she'd leave herself vulnerable just long enough for those wicked teeth to reach her. Instead, all she could do was hold the wolf away from her as he lunged. The chair began to grow heavy, almost too heavy to hold up, as the wolf bit at the metal legs. It was so close she could see the scars crisscrossing its face. “Help, I need help in here!” she yelled but couldn't seem to make a sound above a whisper.
Suddenly an unearthly howl filled the room. It was long and loud, and seemed to vibrate right through her to resonate in her bones. Another wolf appeared behind her attacker. Zoey recognized the great silvery beast by the blanket of black over its shoulders and feared it was here to join in the kill. But to her surprise, the grizzled wolf roared and spun, twisting its body as it did so to lunge at the other's throat. The savage growls and choking snarls were deafening as the creatures battled. There was no squeezing past the fight, so Zoey aimed for the quickest way out of the kitchen and climbed onto the table. She had one leg out of the window, feeling for a toehold so she could climb over to the neighbor's balcony when blood suddenly sprayed the wall beside her, splattering her face and arm. She snapped her attention to the now silent apartment where her attacker lay lifeless just a few feet away. The great silver and black wolf lifted its bloodied muzzle and stared at her with pale gray eyes. The eyes darkened to the color of storm as the massive creature took a step toward her.
Omigod, omigod.
She pulled back without thinking and lost her balance, her fingers sliding from the window frame. She was falling, falling—
Zoey awakened on the floor beside the couch with a scream caught in her throat. She choked and sputtered her way to the bathroom to get a drink. Only then could she draw a full breath, leaning on her elbows over the sink.
Omigod. That was a frickin' whopper.
She spent an extra long time in the shower, trying to rinse off the residue of the nightmare as much as the smoke and dirt. She really didn't want to go to the barbecue. The dream had left her off-balance—
weirded out
, as the sports reporter was fond of saying. But staying in the apartment wasn't all that appealing at the moment either. Besides, she'd feel guilty if she disappointed Bill and Jessie, especially after Bill had personally come to the office to issue the invitation, and then had ejected that insane reporter for her. Still, as much as she probably needed people around her, some semblance of normalcy after the disturbing dream, she wasn't sure she was up to seeing them.
She stood in front of her closet, studying her choices and shook her head. “It's not the damn barbecue, Zoey Tyler. It's Connor you don't want to see.” Okay, she
wanted
to see him but wasn't
ready
to see him. Not until she could sort out her emotions, think clearly. She was still miffed that he'd left so abruptly—but one of the volunteers battling the blaze had shed some light on Connor's life. He'd told her about his pair of champion roping horses, which had broken into a grain shed a few days ago, gorging on barley until they foundered themselves. “They were near gone when I found 'em, almost went for my gun instead of the phone. But Macleod's got a way of pulling critters back from death's door and he didn't disappoint. Stayed the rest of the day and all that night, nursing them along until he was certain they would make it. Damn miracle worker, that guy.”
Did that kind of thing happen often? Small wonder the vet was exhausted. He really hadn't looked well when he left. She supposed she could cut him a break for not making a more—what could she call it?
Socially adept exit?
Smooth transition between kissing and leaving? She picked out a turquoise blouse that she knew set off the auburn tones of her hair. “But he could damn well call, couldn't he?”
It shouldn't matter. If she never saw the man again, it really shouldn't matter. After all, it wasn't like they had a relationship or anything. Technically, all they had between them was a little kissing. . . .
Kissing.
Who had come up with that word? What a lame term for something so incredible. What the man had done was more along the lines of making love with his lips. Just thinking about it made the heat rise to her cheeks. And speaking of heat . . . What was it with his body temperature? Being near him was like reclining in front of a bright fireplace; a deep and languid relaxation always stole over her. And she had certainly responded to him. No matter that she told herself she didn't want or need a relationship right now, that she was busy, that it wasn't convenient, that she was certain there were reasons, very good reasons if she could just think of them, for not getting involved with Connor Macleod. Her response to him exposed all of those sensible thoughts as the flimsy excuses they were. Because the connection went deeper than a mere physical response, although that alone had been so strong she could still feel it. It was as if some part of her actually recognized Connor, knew him. Psychic gift or heart's intuition, it had been just as clear when he was drinking coffee at her kitchen table as when she was in his arms.
Maybe she was dragging her feet about the barbecue because if she saw Connor there, she'd know why he hadn't been calling. If he avoided her, if he was too casual, maybe distant, then she'd know that he wasn't interested in her. That he'd pulled away from her and left because he didn't want to be too involved.
“That would suck,” she said aloud as she put on a pair of turquoise earrings. But knowing where she stood was better than wondering, and she'd never been one to back away from something she feared. Okay, there was that one time at the advanced ski hill when she'd thought better of going down, but wasn't that just common sense? She'd simply decided her skills weren't yet equal to the steep run and took the lift back to another slope.
So it was the bunny hill. . . .
She'd definitely decline any further engagements with wolves too. The effects of this afternoon's dream were starting to fade a little but she still had to repress a shudder. And something about it was puzzling her. She could account for the grizzled wolf—after all, it was the one that had attacked her in real life. She expected to see it in her dreams. But what was the meaning of this new wolf, the black and silver one? She'd never seen anything like its distinctive saddleback markings. Did they mean something? And why was this strange wolf popping up as regularly as the real one?
The new wolf had pale gray eyes. Zoey had expected green or brown or something, well, more
animal-like
. But then, huskies had strange eyes, blue or even clear white for instance, so maybe gray eyes were not all that unusual. Still, she had a niggling impression she was missing something, something she ought to know or—
“Good grief. I don't need to sit around here all night and think about wolves,” Zoey chided herself, and gathered up her keys and her purse. Bill's barbecue suddenly seemed very appealing. There would be people. Lots of people. Good food, of course, but more importantly, lots and lots of people. Conversation. Laughter. And no wolves.
 
Although it was just behind Main Street, the Watson home boasted a surprisingly large backyard surrounded by a tall hedge of blossoming lilacs. Zoey could see the roof of The Finer Diner rising beyond the flowered bushes. An enthusiastic yellow Lab met her at the gate.
“Hi,” she laughed and fondled the dog's ears. The dog led the way through the crowd, wagging its tail. Zoey smiled and waved at a number of people she knew until the dog halted in front of the enormous stainless steel barbecue. Smoke and steam billowed up from the open lid as if from a blacksmith's forge and she could barely see the petite black woman turning steaks behind it. The dog barked, as if announcing Zoey, and the woman looked up at once.
“You made it, girl!” Jessie hurried around to hug her tightly.
“Thanks for inviting—” Zoey flinched as her upper arm protested the pressure. Jessie was small but powerful.
Her friend released her at once with a frown. “That rotter
did
hurt you. Bill told me about what happened today. Lemme see that arm.” There was no time to object. Jessie simply seized her loose sleeve and rolled it up as smoothly as if it were a window shade. She grimaced at the purple imprints of large fingers on the inside of Zoey's arm just above the elbow, the skin around the prints darkening ominously as well.
“The dirty bugger,” declared Jessie. “It hasn't been a day and just look at the color of these marks already. Have you iced this wing yet?” She called her husband to take over grilling duties and ushered Zoey into the house.
Within a few moments, there was a bag of frozen peas curved around Zoey's injured arm and an icy glass of mango slush in her other hand. “I have to admit that feels a whole lot better,” said Zoey. She drew on the straw thoughtfully, savoring both the fruit and the shot of vodka that enhanced it. “In fact, this is probably the best I've felt all day. Thanks.”
“No problem. I've had lots of practice. Bill and I both wrestled for a number of years, and we took turns patching each other up. Well, mostly I patched up Bill,” Jessie laughed. “He gets so reckless, so crazy when he's in the ring. Me, I never got hurt too bad—I preferred strategy to the straightforward approach. That's why I can still take him down.”
Zoey stared at her. “
You
can take Bill? But he's so
huge
!” she blurted and covered her mouth in embarrassment.
“You think size matters? Haven't you ever heard of Yoda, girl? Brains and agility will beat brawn and muscle every time. And let's not forget the Force,” grinned Jessie as she held out some white pills and a glass of water to Zoey. “This'll help with the pain and swelling. Mind you, that's your one and only drink if you take them.”
“Gotcha. Did you meet while on the wrestling circuit?” asked Zoey as she peered at the pills. Acetaminophen. She considered the glass in her hand, looked again at the pills, then shook her head. She didn't drink much as a rule but tonight she wouldn't mind a couple more mango slushes or maybe a good dark beer in tribute to her Irish heritage. She was certain she'd seen someone holding a Guinness earlier. . . .
“Not on the usual circuit, that's for sure. Bill was from London. My family was from Louisiana, so we were more than an ocean apart. But we had both signed on with an international group that was doing a three-month stint of tag-team matches in Europe. By the time the tour was up, Bill and I were married.” Jessie chuckled. “My mother had conniptions at first, but once she met Bill and saw us together, she had to admit it was meant to be. She's doted on him ever since.”
“And you too, I see.”
“And me too. Like I told you,
meant to be
. We're still hot for each other after all these years. And speaking of hot—I've been slaving over that barbecue too long.” Jessie shrugged out of her overshirt, leaving just a bright coral cami and Zoey noticed a large colored tattoo covering her friend's shoulder and upper arm: A leaping wolf, silvery against the deep mahogany of her skin.
“Oh my—that's gorgeous!” breathed Zoey and meant it, even if wolves weren't her favorite animals at the moment. The tat was a work of art, intricately detailed. There was even expression in the lupine face. She was about to ask why Jessie had chosen a wolf when suddenly the screen door flew open behind her and Connor was there. Holding her arm gently in his strong hands, examining the bruises with a feather touch. Swearing softly under his breath, his eyes storm-dark with anger. Bill was right at his elbow.
“I told you he's a rotten bugger,” said the red-haired man. “I shook him around a bit but Zoey got her licks in. Nearly split his thick skull for him, she did. Still, I wish I'd thumped him a bit more now.”
Connor's voice was low and hard. “I'd like to thump him myself.” He straightened slowly and searched Zoey's face, cupping her elbow carefully in his hand.
“Sorry to disappoint you both, but I've got first thumping rights, the minute I complete my black belt in Karate or Kung Fu or something.” She removed her arm from Connor's big hand, ignoring the tiny thrill that zipped through her at the thought of what that hand could do. . . . “And I'm okay, thanks. My arm's not broken, not even sprained. It'll work just fine for swearing in to testify against that rat bastard.” There was a long pause and she felt another tingle, one that wasn't caused by being in close proximity to a tall broad-shouldered man. She didn't need her psychic talent to tell her that Connor was angry—that was plain from his expression. The devil help Helfren if they met face to face anytime soon. But there was something else, something niggling at her senses. She tried to open herself to it—

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