Beneath a Darkening Moon (27 page)

She strode across the room, guided by the glimmer of light seeping through the edges of the swinging doors, and brushed a hand across the wall, feeling for the light switch. She flicked all of them on, but nothing happened.

“Damn.”

“What?” he said, instantly alert.

“Nothing. Just a blown fuse.”

“The kitchen has more than one light. Try the others.”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” she said sarcastically.

Footsteps echoed, coming toward her. “You mean they’re not working, either?”

“Nope.”

“Where is the circuit board?”

“Near the storeroom at the back—” She hesitated
as she caught the sudden flash of a light under one of the benches. Red light, like something had been left on.

Nothing unusual in that, as her dad had a habit of not turning off the appliances he used regularly, like the toaster. But why hadn’t she noticed it before?

“What?” Cade said, his hand touching hers briefly.

“Something’s been left on, I think.” She took a few steps closer and bent to get a clearer look.

Something inside her froze. It wasn’t a warning that an appliance had been left on, but rather numbers, counting down.

Fifteen …

Fourteen …

Thirteen …

Realization clicked in. It was a bomb, primed and ready to explode—clearly activated the moment she had tried to flick on the lights.

“Oh, fuck,” Cade said. He grabbed her hand, pulling her out the kitchen door and toward the front door. The
locked
front door.

She thrust a hand into her pocket, fumbling for her keys and dragging them out. But she wasn’t fast enough.
They
weren’t fast enough.

Even as she reached for the door, there was a rumble of sound that became a blinding flash and suddenly there was nothing but heat, terrible, terrible heat, as the world went red around her.

C
ADE GRABBED
S
AVANNAH
and thrust her under one of the booths, knowing the protection provided by the table and the seats might be their only chance of survival. He dove in on top of her, covering her body with his as the roar and the heat and the sheer force of the explosion hit. It was accompanied by debris and thick, unbreathable dust. Bricks, glass, and God only knew what else became deadly missiles. The table above them shuddered and cracked as it was hit with debris and metal and remnants of furniture. He cocooned Vannah against him, her body shuddering against his, her heart racing as fiercely as his own. Yet she didn’t make a sound, keeping the fear he could almost taste tightly leashed. Several large chunks of glass speared into their small space, one so close to his arm that it sliced his shirt and skin. Another cut past her cheek, drawing blood before embedding itself into the cushioned vinyl seat.

Then silence fell, filled only with the crackle of fire. For a long moment, he didn’t move, wanting to be certain the main explosion was over, that it was safe.

Savannah was struggling and coughing beneath
him. “It’s okay,” he said, smoothing her dust-covered hair. “We’re okay.”

She shook her head, her body racked by coughs. “The gas,” she said hoarsely, twisting around. Her eyes were filled with fear as she pushed her bloodied hair from her face. “The explosion might have ruptured the lines. We have to get to the cutoff valve.”

Fuck
. He hadn’t even thought of that. Kneeling, he scrambled out from under the table and held out a hand to help her. “Where is the valve?”

The fingers she placed in his were bloody and trembling, yet there was nothing resembling fear in her voice as she said, “Out the back, near the generator.”

He looked over. Half of the inner wall had come down in the explosion. They’d be scrambling over it to get to the valve. He rose and helped her to her feet. “Lead the way, before that fire gets any worse.”

She nodded, her green eyes shocked as her gaze skated around the restaurant. “Oh God—”

“Savannah,” he prompted softly.

She glanced at him, then half-ran, half-scrambled, over the bricks and rubbish, through the twisted remains of tables and chairs.

Yet despite all the damage, they’d been lucky. This section of the diner remained relatively untouched, even if all the windows had blown out. Most of the booths, while covered in debris, were still standing, and several tables near them were even relatively unscathed. It was the booths, tables, and counter on the kitchen side that had taken the force of the blast—and, therefore, had the most damage.

He turned his gaze to the devastation that had once been the kitchen. The bomb had been powerful
enough to destroy the immediate area and blow off that section of the ceiling, revealing the rooms above. Yet it wasn’t strong enough to bring down the main walls.

But if they’d been in the kitchen, or had turned on the lights earlier, when he was more interested in making love to Vannah than drinking coffee, they would be dead.

That bomb had been aimed at her father, not her. Not them.

The back door still hung on its hinges, but only barely. Vannah grabbed his arm, balancing herself as she kicked at the door. It gave way on her third blow.

“Over here,” she said, then started coughing so violently she was almost doubled over. He touched her back, wanting to comfort her, yet knowing there had to be priorities. And right now, no matter what his instincts might be saying, she wasn’t it.

He found the gas valve and turned it off. Then he got out his cell phone and checked to make sure it was still working. It was, thankfully. He dialed Anton’s number and grabbed Savannah’s hand, pulling her away from the smoke and dust into the fresh air.

“Anton,” he said, the minute his associate answered, “I need you to get over to the diner near the corner of First and Main. Someone just tried to blow it up.”

“Hell. Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah. Just get here fast.”

“Will do.”

He hung up. The wail of sirens split the air, approaching fast. He and Vannah should head around to the front to clear the gawkers that always gathered
after a major drama, like gulls drawn to a tasty morsel. But right now, he didn’t give a damn about the gawkers or any remaining danger. Not when Savannah was still coughing.

He glanced around until he found a tap. Luckily, it had a hose attached. “You want a drink?”

She nodded and leaned against the rickety back fence, scrubbing a hand across her face and smearing blood everywhere. “That bomb wasn’t aimed at us.”

He turned on the tap and brought the hose over. “No.”

She washed her hands under the dribbling water, then grabbed the hose and took a long drink. “Thanks,” she said, handing it back.

“Your face is cut.” He reached up with a free hand and wiped the blood away. Not that it helped much. The cut was relatively deep and bleeding heavily. “I think you’ll need to shift shape to stop the flow.”

“It’s only blood,” she said, repeating his earlier words with a shaky smile.

“Cheeky wench.” With his hand still cupping her cheek, he leaned forward and kissed her. And while passion was evident, there was none of the urgency that had so filled their kisses only a few minutes ago—just a vibrant mix of tenderness and relief. She was okay; he was okay. Everything else didn’t much matter.

When the approaching sirens stopped, he pulled back and dropped his hand. “We’d better get around to the front.”

She half-nodded, took several steps forward, then stopped and groaned. “Dad’s around the front.”

“How do you know?”

She tapped a finger to her head. “He’s seen my truck and is impolitely knocking. We’d better get going.”

He followed her as she walked off. “How does one impolitely knock, telepathically?”

She glanced at him, merriment dancing in her green eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

“I’ve a notion I should say no, but I’m feeling reckless.”

She arched an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes deepening. He threw up his strongest mind-shield as a precaution—for all the good it did him. The noise hit like a hammer and made him feel like he was standing inside a ringing church bell. A church bell that oddly sounded like someone screaming his name. His whole body vibrated with the ungodly noise, but thankfully it cut off as abruptly as it started.

“That,” she said smugly, “is what I meant.”

And she’d done it when his shields were on full. If she could do that so easily, then she could probably do everything else she’d threatened. Maybe he
did
have a lot to learn when it came to telepathy.

“And you have to put up with intrusions like that all the time?”

“No. Most people just ask.” She paused, and her voice, whisper soft, said,
Like this
, in his thoughts. It was a quick caress of sunshine that had him hungering for more. God, conversing with his teachers had never felt so good … so intimate.

Though considering his teachers had been male, it would have been a bit of a worry if it
had
.

If your pack is so strong, how do you keep anyone out? Or keep a telepathic conversation private?

We usually don’t have to worry about either. It’s
considered impolite to read the thoughts of others uninvited or to use private telepathy in groups. Plus, including too many people in a mind-conversation can lead to a major headache for the one coordinating
. She paused.
The only person I can’t actually keep out is my twin
.

He hesitated, but couldn’t stop himself from asking,
And Ronan?

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. Yet amusement seemed to run around him—a gentle wave of delight that somehow made him feel foolish. Though why, he had no idea. After all, what was so damn wrong with the question?

“What is it about Ronan that you dislike so much?”

He’s had you for ten more years than me
, he thought.
He knows you better than perhaps I ever will
. None of which made sense to say. Yet. “I don’t dislike him. It’s just a territory thing.”

“That’s implying I’m a territory that can be won, and when did you decide to make it a contest?”

She raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him. It wasn’t a question he could answer—not until he’d actually had time to think about it himself. To think about what he actually wanted, beyond as much time with her as he could get.

“And why is it,” she continued, “that when male wolves hit a question they don’t want to answer, they resort to the old ‘it’s a territory thing’ excuse?”

“Because we’re one-dimensional and can’t think of any other excuses,” he said dryly.

“So true.” Her gaze left his at the sound of voices—one in particular, loud and gruff. She shook her head and added, “Dad’s organizing the troops again.
Heaven forbid that they actually be allowed to do their jobs without his input.”

“I’ll take care of him if you like.”

She gave him a wry look. “I don’t really need your protection. I never have.”

No, he thought. And it was that independence that had hooked him when they’d first met. She
didn’t
need him—and yet, she’d wanted to be with him, wanted to share all the delights of her life with him, whether they be large or small. And he couldn’t even share something as simple as the truth. He
was
a bastard. There was no doubt about it.

But he was a bastard who was going to keep her alive, no matter what.

“If these people are going after your family, you’d better get your parents out of here.”

“Yeah. I’d been meaning to talk to Dad. It was stupid of me to delay, but I didn’t think they’d be targeted so fast.”

“Whoever is behind all this is playing by rules we don’t understand. Better to account for all possible outcomes than be sorry afterward.”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable, and nodded. “You’re right. I kept my sister safe, but I didn’t do the same for my parents. Stupid, as I said.”

Maybe. But then, she’d probably been working on the same assumption he’d been—that the killer would come straight after them now that they were both in town. Obviously, her game plan was bigger than that.

As they walked around the corner onto Main Street, a big man with thinning blond hair and angry-looking green eyes was coming toward them.

“Sav,” he all but barked. “Are you all right? What the hell happened here?”

He stopped several feet in front of them, giving them both a glare. Cade felt invisible hackles rising. It was that, more than the sudden tension tightening Savannah’s shoulders, that told him this aging, leathery wolf was her father, Levon Grant.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice cool. “But the diner was bombed.”

“Why the hell would someone bomb the diner?”

“It was meant for you, but Cade and I got there first.”

Green eyes fastened on Cade. “And who the hell might Cade be?”

She stepped to one side, and waved a hand his way. “Cade Jones, from the Interspecies Investigation Squad.”

“Really?”

The old man looked him up and down, then offered his hand. But his expression, when it met with Cade’s, was shuttered, giving very little away. Even the anger had disappeared, which was to be expected. He wouldn’t be the pack alpha and town leader if he wasn’t strong
and
a damn good politician.