Harlequin Nocturne March 2016 Box Set (6 page)

CHAPTER 11

M
onica had just decided to turn back and head for home when the first muttered cackling reached her ears. DiNero kept a bunch of peacocks that were allowed to roam freely over the estate. They weren't particularly exotic, not compared to the big cats or rare Russian foxes, but they were pretty. And they screamed, Monica discovered when the sound rose.

She didn't think twice but ran toward it, changing direction when another scream came. Her boots pounded the bricks, but then she dodged off the path and ran through the grass, past several habitats and into darkness. There was light from the house in the distance but she had to blink rapidly to try to get her night vision working. It didn't happen fast enough. She tripped over something and went sprawling.

It was a dead peahen, its throat slashed and long runnels carved into its body. Just beyond it lay another, a carcass rather than a bird, most of it missing. Monica rolled with a small groan and pushed up from her hands and knees, already expecting something to rush at her from the darkness.

Instead, she heard another chattering set of screams from the distance. She didn't want to run with her knife in her hands—that was a good way to end up stabbing herself. The best she could do was hope that whatever was killing the birds wouldn't see her before she saw it.

The menagerie hadn't been set up in grids or blocks, so she had to circle around one of the habitats, this one with a tall, domed cage. Inside it, small gray monkeys screamed and chattered. None of them appeared hurt and she couldn't see any breaks in their cage, so she kept going. She was heading for the exterior wall, heart racing, when something hurtled at her out of the darkness.

Something growling. Something with eyes that flashed red and sharp teeth that snapped at the air in front of her, coming so close she felt the breeze of it on her eyelashes. Claws raked her side, pulling the blow at the last second so she could roll away with her shirt flapping in shreds. Pain stung her, but she was still able to get her hands up to push away the thing on top of her.

Too dark here to see more than shadows. All she could do was twist and turn, getting an arm up to keep the snapping jaws from getting at her throat. Monica screamed, anticipating the crunch of teeth on her forearm, but it didn't come. She kicked upward and out, connecting.

The thing, which smelled of grass and dirt, growled but didn't retreat. It fell on top of her again, crushing her into the ground. She felt hair and limbs and another press of teeth, but by then she'd fought her knife free of the belt sheath. No hesitation, Monica slashed upward. Her aim was off, but she still connected. Her knife stuck and she pulled it free. This time, the thing howled and backed off.

She needed light, but back here close to the exterior wall, she was in a giant blind spot. Her head spun from hitting the ground, and bright sparks of pain made everything a blur anyway, but she did see a shape, a head and a half taller than she was. She smelled blood. She slashed again, her grip weaker this time, but the thing smacked her knife from her hand.

Whatever it was hit her in the face, not claws but a curled...fist? A hand? All she knew was the crisp feeling of hair on her face and the solid thunk of flesh on hers. The blow drove Monica to her knees. She rolled, and the next hit her shoulder hard enough to drive her face forward into the ground again.

This time, she didn't get up.

* * *

She was in the cave again. Pitch-black. The stink of death. Rattle of bones. Carl was dead; she'd seen him in the last flare of her light before it had been smashed. Her husband was dead, and she would be next, unless she fought.

She fought.

Fists and feet and teeth. Her knife. Slashing. Blood, pain, screaming.

Everything blurred.

* * *

She woke up screaming, throat raw. Something held her down and she writhed, fighting it until she realized it was the soft weight of a comforter. She'd been sweating beneath it, wearing only panties and the tank top she'd gone out in earlier. Her hair had come free of the elastic and tangled over her shoulders.

For the first few seconds, Monica still didn't know where she was. Then it came to her—the bungalow at DiNero's menagerie. She'd gone out, then she'd heard something...the peacocks, screaming. She swallowed hard at the thought of the beautiful birds being torn apart.

She'd gone to find out what had happened. Something had attacked her. She had to get up.

She winced and cried out softly when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her head pounded, the back of it tender and swollen where she'd hit the ground. A stinging line on her throat had come from the thing's teeth, she remembered that much. Another set of four slashes on her side hurt, too, but they'd been cleaned and bandaged, so she couldn't see how bad they were. They didn't feel deep enough to be terribly serious, she thought and wondered why on earth she hadn't been torn to ribbons.

The thing had been big and strong and angry, and yet it had not actually tried to kill her. It couldn't have. She'd have been dead if it had. She was certain of it.

As it was, her entire body ached. When she got up and went into the bathroom, her reflection showed a pattern of bruises already gone black. She eased up the tank top to look at the bandages, which had been expertly applied. Gauze and medical tape, not adhesive bandages. The edges glistened with antibiotic ointment. She pulled her shirt back down and turned to go back to the bedroom—and let out a shriek.

She'd punched Jordan twice, first in the nose and then in the throat, before she could stop herself. He stumbled back with a shout, and Monica muttered a stricken apology.

He watched her warily, his eyes watering. She hadn't made him bleed—at least there was that. She might've laughed at the look on his face if everything didn't hurt so bad and if she weren't so freaked out by what had happened. That and the dream. Always the dream.

A strangled sob had forced itself out of her throat before she could stop it. She found herself pressed against him, though if she'd reached for him or he'd pulled her close, she didn't know. What she did know was that his hand stroking her hair felt good, as did his arms around her. Even the pressure of his body on her aching bruises lessened the pain.

When he picked her up and carried her to the bed, she expected him to lay her down, but instead Jordan sat on the edge of it and held her on his lap. Monica was no small woman and had never been fond of being made to feel delicate, but something in the way he cradled her only made her bury her face against the side of his neck.

“How did I get back here?” she asked against his skin.

Jordan hesitated before answering. “I found you. What the hell were you doing out there by yourself?”

She bristled at his tone, but when she tried to pull away, he held her close. “You're hurting me.”

“Sorry.” He loosed his grip, but not enough to let her go. “You're going to be sore for a while.”

“No shit,” Monica said. “Something attacked me.”

“You shouldn't have been out there alone,” Jordan said.

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

Jordan slid his hand to the back of her neck and buried his fingers in her hair, tipping her head back hard enough to make her gasp—and yes, it made her body ache, but that wasn't why. His eyes narrowed.

“Obviously, you can't,” he said in a low voice.

Monica didn't try to struggle. Part of her knew he was right. Her role here had never been to hunt down the creature on her own, but to determine what it was so the Crew could come in and work together on it. Still, she pushed at his chest, though she couldn't get away from him.

“I was out walking, trying to think. Then I heard the peacocks screaming,” Monica said. “What did you expect me to do? Not try to see what it was?”

His mouth was very close to hers, though how it had happened, exactly, she couldn't say. He was going to kiss her, and yes, she was going to let him. Because that was what took away the pain and the fear, and because in his arms she could forget that she'd gone up against something that might've killed her, and this time, despite how hard she'd fought, she had not killed it. Something had saved her, and it had not been herself.

She couldn't think of it. And he wasn't kissing her, so she pulled his mouth down to hers. She gave him her tongue. At his soft groan, Monica pressed herself against him, writhing and ignoring the pain.

He pinned her wrists suddenly and held her away from him. “Monica. Don't. You don't really want this.”

“Want? Maybe not,” she said. “
Need
, Jordan.”

And she did need it. Needed to fuck away the memories and the pain and the fear, the anxiety. She shifted, twisting, to straddle him. He still held her wrists, keeping her from pushing against his chest, but that didn't stop her from grinding her crotch down on his.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Jordan said.

Monica slowed but didn't stop the steady rocking of her hips against his hardening cock. “I can handle it.”

She leaned to flick her tongue along his lower lip. He didn't release his grip on her wrists, but he did soften. Then he pulled her toward him. He kissed her, hard, until she gasped.

“I'll hurt you,” Jordan said into her ear, then slid his teeth along her throat.

His tongue stung the cut there, and she hissed. He gave a low growl and nipped her. Monica jerked, the pain so mingled with pleasure she couldn't be sure which she felt more of.

She shoved him back onto the bed. Still kissing him, she pushed up his shirt, ran her hands up his sides. He jerked when she did, and that was when her fingers encountered the soft padding of gauze bandages.

Head spinning, confused, Monica sat back. “Jordan? What...?”

Oh God. Oh my God.
She tried to stumble back, to get off him, but he'd again grabbed her tight. Panic flooded her.

The smell of grass and dirt, the flash of red...the same as she'd seen in his eyes. She'd used her knife against the thing that had attacked her, and now here he was with wounds in the same place... She fought him, but he held her tight. His breath covered her face, and she closed her eyes instinctively, waiting for the press and sting of teeth, this time slashing her throat open instead of nibbling.

“Monica, look at me.”

“What the hell are you doing?” she cried. “What are you?”

He let her go so fast she fell back, but they were still tangled together, so she had to fight her way free of him. Panting, dizzy, she backed up from the bed, trying to think about what she could use to defend herself against him, but all Jordan did was sit there.

“What are you?” she asked again in a low, strangled voice.

Jordan shook his head, shaggy dark hair falling over his eyes for a moment before he gave her a grim look. “Why don't you tell me?”

He'd seen the looks before. Disgust, fear. His parents had tried to shield him from most of it, but that hadn't been much better. Isolated from friends and even family, Jordan's high school years had been lonely and full of self-doubt. It had taken him years to learn how to keep the hungers at bay—for food, for sex, for violence. But he had, and damn it, he didn't deserve to be treated like some kind of serial killer for something he couldn't control.

“I don't know,” Monica said in answer to his question.

He thought she meant to bolt, but for now she was staying still. Fists clenched. Every muscle tense. He could smell her anxiety, and it made his stomach hurt.

“No?” he asked, deliberately snide. “Here I thought that was your job.”

Her eyes had been wide, but now they narrowed. “Are you the one...?”

“No!” Angry that she'd even think it for a second, Jordan got off the bed. It stung to see how she moved away from him, so wary. Her gaze flicked to the knife he'd laid on her dresser.

He was on her before she got even two steps toward it. He could've hurt her if he'd tried, but he wasn't trying. She didn't struggle. She looked up at him instead.

“You attacked me,” she said.

“I didn't know it was you. It was a mistake.” The excuse sounded lame, but it was the truth. “I heard the peacocks screaming, the same as you. I thought I could find what was killing the animals. I thought I could...”

“Kill it? With your bare hands?” Beneath his fingers, Monica's arms stiffened, and he let her go. She stepped back from him, but only a step.

Jordan's fingers curled, the tips pressing the faded scars on his palms. “I could've tried.”

“This is crazy. It's crazy,” she repeated and continued almost as though she were talking to herself, “People don't become things. It doesn't happen. Lycanthropy is a mental disorder, sure, but it's not...real. You can't really be...”

“I'm real,” Jordan said flatly and pushed past her toward the door, where he paused to look back at her. “I've got a fucked-up genetic disorder that makes it hard for me to control my impulses. It forces physical changes, and most of the time, I can stop them, but sometimes I can't. Sometimes I don't want to, like last night, when I was thinking I could finally get whatever's killing the animals. But I am real, Monica.”

She shook her head. “I don't... I can't...”

That was it. He'd had it. This woman had blown into his life like a fucking hurricane. He'd never asked for it.

“Fuck this noise,” Jordan said. “All I ever wanted was to do my job and be left alone. You can believe in monsters, but you can't believe in me?”

He didn't realize how much he'd wanted her to answer him until she didn't, but all she gave him was her silence. His fingers curled again, pressing old wounds before he could force them to open. Then without another word, Jordan left her there alone.