Stroke of Midnight (23 page)

She kissed him long and slow and wet and pulled back to look at him.

"I swear I feel twenty-one again when I'm with you, Tara."

"You always will be, to me… that way. Don't you know that by now?"

"Yeah," he said, chuckling as he draped his arm over her shoulder and led her into the house. He turned her to face him in front of the fire, loving the way it made her skin glow. "But I'm getting to be an old man. One night, you're going to have to fix that."

"Not tonight, though." She nuzzled his neck and enjoyed the light shudder it produced. "You've still got a lot of work left to do. Stop trying to seduce me."

"I've got Jack Daniel's in here… and in my system. Still got your grandmother's address. Even have an in-house guardian seer now, who's so good she detoxed my compound road dawg after he'd been to New Orleans with me on a hunt—although I do try to keep Marlene out of our business. So… you wanna talk about my retirement options over a drink?" He nipped her neck and made her sigh, then offered her his throat.

"Yeah," she said on a deep breath against his neck, "but let's not lock in that option for another twenty years. I'm not going there tonight."

She chuckled and nipped him, but didn't break his skin. "My grandmother is almost ninety-eight years old, and this wouldn't be a first-time-out bite on my first full night in the life. What I'd do to you would be coming from a forty-two-year-old woman… who's missed you terribly for two years—you want to give her a heart attack?"

The naked truth in her statement sent a hard wave of desire through him.

"Damn," he said on a heavy exhale as he nipped her shoulder. "I must be losing my touch."

"Oh, no, I guarantee you, you're not," she whispered, unbuttoning his shirt slowly.

"I keep waiting for you to lie to me, again," he said quietly, breathing in the fragrance of lavender in her hair and kissing her ear. "Keep waiting for you to lose it like you did that one time when we were kids in the woods… keep wanting you to tremble, close your eyes, drop fang… and whisper, 'Trust me, Jake, I'll pull out.' You make me lie to you like that annually, woman." He chuckled against her throat and listened to her swallow hard. "That's not fair."

They both laughed as she pushed him away from her neck, but not far.

"Cut it out," she said, a hint of fang now showing. "You're turning me on, and you know it.
That's
not fair. Don't dangle the temptation…"

He watched her run her tongue over her teeth and draw a steadying breath. The fact that he still had that effect on her after all these years twisted him in knots. He loved it. "All you have to do is ask…"

"Twenty-four years behind me, with eternity in front of me, has taught me patience," she murmured. "Now stop it, before I lose it and flatline you."

"As always, you're right. With age comes finesse," he said, now breathing through his mouth as he closed his eyes. "But I'm only human… and I love it when you get close to the edge like this. You have
definitely
perfected the art of patience. I'm still working on it."

It took a moment to stabilize herself. After twenty-four years he still knew how to make her hands tremble at his pulse points. Patience, have mercy; tonight she wasn't sure. She had to stop looking into his hazel eyes. It had been two years too long… if he didn't cut it out, she'd be in his bed every night—a very dangerous option to his destiny. But he wanted her so badly she could feel it through his skin. Hell, she wanted him so badly she was about to pass out.

Creating a diversion from the hunger in his eyes, she kissed down his chest and loosened his belt just to reduce the heat he created within her. But that didn't help much, either: it was supposed to put the whole situation on simmer; instead it had only turned up the flame. Damn… he smelled so good and felt even better. He'd aged
very
well. That was the last thing he had to worry about. She'd let him know in a way he wouldn't forget, would make sure he had no question that he'd become distinguished, more handsome, sexier. She dragged her nose across his muscular abdomen and felt it contract. She could hear his heart thudding faster as she'd done that, and it made her close her eyes tighter when they'd crossed beneath her lids.

"Let's compromise," she said in a hot whisper against his stomach. "I've perfected a few other things that take time." She looked up at him, pleased at the effect she was having on him. "I've learned how to make one night last forever."

He smiled as another shudder claimed him, thoroughly enjoying the effect he was having on her, just like old times. "Yeah… baby, so have I."

RED MOON RISING

LORI HANDELAND

CHAPTER 1

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A red moon rising through a sultry evening sky is a rare and stunning sight. Such a moon will forever remind me of the first time I saw a skinwalker.

Staring at the nearly full moon lifting past the trees surrounding my isolated cabin, I shivered. I told myself I was spooked because I was alone. Growing up in a house filled with brothers, the word "alone" had never been in my vocabulary. Maybe that was why I chose to be a writer. I needed some quiet time.

However, living in Chicago, where every man in my family was a cop, I was lucky to get two minutes to myself. Another reason I'd escaped to Arizona.

Night pressed against the windows. I watched the trees and I waited. Something was out there, had been there every night of the seven since I had arrived. I'd never seen a thing, but I felt… watched. I might have blown off my unease as deadline fever, except every morning, in the damp earth at the edge of the clearing, there were tracks.

My cell phone shrilled, and I emitted a sound that was half gasp, half shriek. My heart thundered hard enough to make me dizzy as I punched the on button. Before I could say hello, my agent started talking.

"Maya? Honestly, I've been waiting all day and half the night to call. I know how you hate to be interrupted when you're working. So, how's the book coming?"

I winced. It wasn't. I didn't have a word written. Hell, I didn't even have an idea. I also didn't have the advance I'd already been paid. I'd used the money to do a little thing I liked to call eating and sleeping off the streets.

I was in big trouble.

"Terrific, Estelle. Best work I've ever done."

"Uh-huh."

Estelle was no one's fool. Not even mine. Which was the reason I'd hired her.

"How many pages today?" she asked. "The book's due in a month, you know?"

I knew.

I glanced out the window again. The trees swayed. The moon pulsed. I was completely alone as I'd always dreamed of being. I had nothing to do but write. So why wasn't I?

Because my greatest fear had materialized. I'd lost it. Whatever the "it" was I'd had in the first place that allowed me to write some twenty action-adventure novels under the name M. J. Alexander.

I made a living. Kind of. I wasn't rich, and probably never would be, but I had a job I loved. Or at least I had until last week.

"I don't know why you felt the need to fly all the way to Arkansas," Estelle said.

"Arizona."

"Whatever."

Estelle, a born-again New Yorker, originally from New Jersey, was vague on the details of any place west of Trenton.

"You're so isolated there."

"I'm at the edge of the Navajo nation. There are thousands of people a stone's throw away."

A very long throw, to be honest. I hadn't seen a single Navajo, or anyone else for that matter, but she didn't need to know that.

"Don't they keep them behind a fence or something?"

"A reservation isn't a prison." Even though Estelle couldn't see me, I rolled my eyes. "The government granted the Navajos their homeland long ago."

Unlike many tribes that had been relocated to much crappier land than that which they'd been driven from, the Navajo resided on their traditional homeland. Damn near a miracle considering the U. S. of A.'s record in Indian affairs.

"I don't understand you anymore, Maya. You're not the adventurous type."

True. I'd always been safety girl, never take a chance, never rock the boat. I didn't ski; wouldn't own a skateboard. I drove the speed limit at all times. And skydiving? Yeah, right.

I'd behaved out of character by selling everything I had and moving halfway across the country. This was probably the biggest adventure I'd ever have, and I was already sick of it.

I liked my life to follow a plan; I didn't care for any surprises. Which was probably why my sudden writing block was freaking me out.

My family faced danger every day, so I preferred mine on a page, safely tucked away in a book. My mother had been killed going to the store for milk. She'd stepped off a curb and
bam
—out went her life. How's that for adventure?

Since I was six, whenever the phone rang, whenever someone knocked on the door, I caught my breath, expecting the worst. So what in God's name was I doing here?

I was desperate. I had to do something to jump-start the muse, and moving to the middle of nowhere was the most excitement a woman like me could withstand.

"I'll be fine, Estelle," I murmured, even though she wasn't really asking about me but the book, and I doubted the book would be fine. Still, I wasn't ready to admit that. Not yet.

I hit the end button, cutting off my agent mid-word. Then I powered down the phone and threw it onto the couch, before sitting down at the desk.

Blah, blah, blah
, I typed onto the empty blue screen of my laptop.

"Well, at least I wrote something."

I'd taken to talking to myself a lot over the past week. If that kept up I just might be certifiable. At least then I'd have a reason to miss my deadline.

I picked up the headphones I always wore when writing. Listening to instrumental music kept out the real world and helped me focus on the fantasy one. Or at least it used to. Lately, I'd found myself hearing the music and not the magic.

Tossing the headphones onto the desk, I left the laptop behind, drawn again to the window. Tinged the shade of fresh blood, the moon made me uneasy. Was it an omen?

I snorted and rubbed my arms against the spreading chill of the night. Despite what I'd believed about Arizona, evenings were cool in the northern part of the state, at times reminiscent of the biting wind that blew off Lake Michigan even in the summer. I was used to cold, but that didn't mean I liked it.

A flicker of white in the night made me lean closer to the window. For an instant I thought I saw my own reflection, until the apparition on the other side of the glass grinned, exposing long, crooked, yellowing teeth that weren't my own.

I blinked and the face was gone. I couldn't breathe. Had that been my imagination or…

I glanced at the door, trying to remember if I'd locked it. The knob rattled, but didn't turn, answering both my questions. Not my imagination and I had locked the door. A better question might be: Why in hell hadn't I brought a gun?

Because I couldn't carry one on the plane. And that was good. That was right. But I'd give unimaginable amounts of money for the weight of a Glock in my hand.

Backing away, I worried the window might shatter, and then what would I do? I grabbed the fireplace poker and held up the iron rod like a bat.

The knob rattled again. "Who is it?" I shouted. "What do you want?"

A scratching came at the door, followed by pathetic, doglike whining. While what I'd seen through the glass hadn't looked completely human, the face hadn't been canine, either.

I crept closer to the door, heard a whisper, as faint as the trees rustling in the breeze, a word I couldn't quite make out. I was drawn closer and closer. I reached for the knob. The chill of the brass made me straighten and snatch back my hand.

"Uh-uh," I muttered. "I saw that movie."

As well as every other teen scream flick boasting an idiot heroine who opened the door and went outside, or down into the basement, maybe up the steps into the attic, where she met her horrific and bloody doom.

"I'll just stay in here with my cell phone and my fireplace poker, thank you."

As a kid, I wasn't supposed to watch those movies. But whenever my dad had been at work, my brothers had ruled, and they'd loved them.

An uneasy glance around the room and my eyes lit on my cell phone. I could call someone, but who? My family was thousands of miles away. Nine-one-one wasn't an option in this neck of the woods. I could dial the nearest sheriff's office, but what would I say?

I'd seen a face, heard a whisper. By the time the authorities arrived, whatever had been on the other side of my log-cabin walls would be gone.

I pulled a chair into the middle of the room and sat where I could see both the window and the door—for the rest of the night.

Morning came, along with my sanity. I
couldn't
have seen a face. Even if I had, it was probably some kid playing a joke. I refused to consider what a kid would be doing so far out in the wilderness. Right now, I didn't know what
I
was doing here.

Opening the door to bright sunshine, I kept the fireplace poker in hand. Just because idiot heroines got killed in the dark didn't mean I wouldn't get killed in the daytime. Still, I couldn't sit in the cabin forever, as much as I might like to.

I walked around to the window, knelt and discovered the clear impression of a man's bare feet in the dirt.

The prints led to the front door, then across the yard toward the woods. At the edge of the clearing they mixed with the wolf tracks that had become more abundant with every passing night.

How did I know they were the tracks of a wolf? Because no dog I'd ever met had feet that big.

I knelt again, touched my fingers to the dirt, which appeared damp, though it hadn't rained. When I lifted my hand, my skin was tinged with mud the shade of the moon I'd seen last night.

I stared at it for several beats of my heart before I understood that the earth beneath my sneakers was awash in blood.