Hunted (Riley Cray) (6 page)

“Well, I figure you had to have seriously pissed someone off to end up on babysitting detail,” I mused, wrapping my hands around my cup, relishing the warmth seeping into my fingers, before taking a sip.

Some old pain flickered across his face, there one moment and smothered the next by his brilliant smile.

“Nah, it's nothing like that. Just low man on the totem pole I guess,” he said with a shrug.

While his easy smile made him seem relaxed enough, there was something withdrawn in his eyes that said I had hit upon a sore point. Not wanting to alienate the only agreeable human company I'd had in months, if not years, I let the subject go.

Silence descended on the table and I turned my attention to neatly stacking the empty creamers one inside the other, doing anything I could think of to keep my hands busy and firmly planted on my side of the table, rather than tearing Holbrook’s clothes off and ravaging him on the spot. My thoughts were running away with me, and I could feel my cheeks darkening with a mixture of embarrassment and desire.

“You okay?” Holbrook asked, rousing me from a particularly sordid daydream of me riding him while he wore his hat and boots.

Hi ho, Silver!

“Yeah, why?” I said, amazed that my mouth was capable of doing anything besides drooling.

“You look a little...flushed,” he replied, his expression full of professional concern while the curve at the corner of his mouth made me wonder if I’d been making lewd gestures with my hands of exactly what I wanted to do to him.

“Must just be from the cold.”

“Uh huh,” he mused with a smile. I hated that his smile was so damned sexy. It seemed so unfair somehow.

At that moment Betty came over and set down our food, once again saving me from myself. She was quickly being elevated to Sainthood in my mind.

She is getting the biggest tip ever!
I thought as I tried in vain to ignore Holbrook smiling at me from across the table, and instead concentrated on drowning my fries in ketchup.

Popping a fry into my mouth I risked a glance at my companion and couldn’t keep the longing off my face as he lifted a fork laden with chicken fried steak and thick sausage gravy towards his mouth. It was a tossup as to which one I craved the most – his food or his lips. Catching my look he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and after rolling his eyes at me set it down. I watched confused for a moment as he reached across the table to grasp the edge of my plate, pulling it towards him.

“Hey!” I started to protest, falling silent a second later when he pushed his own plate towards me. “Thanks,” I murmured as I lifted the fork and took the first bite of warm gravy with just the right mix of pepper and sausage.

I hummed aloud in bliss as I chewed. It wasn’t as good as my grandmother’s sausage gravy had been, but it came damned close. Holbrook didn’t say anything, just nodded, smiled, and took a bite of his sandwich.

I was relieved when the rest of our dinner conversation was limited to whether the food was okay and how bad we thought the snow might get. Nice safe topics that didn’t include anyone getting eaten or naked.

* * *

The tightening of Holbrook’s shoulders let me know something was amiss before I caught the ashtray and sour sweat smell of Johnson approaching our table. Thick flakes of snow dusted his shoulders and clung to his slicked back hair, melting into the white strands. His face was flushed from his quick jaunt across the parking lot, but he seemed oblivious to the cold, his eyes narrowed with tension and something else that sent tendrils of dread curling through my middle.

“We have a problem,” he said, his voice tight as bright blue eyes settled on me with anger and a hint of what looked to be disgust.

“But I just ordered pie,” I said¬, my gaze lingering on the approaching slice of apple pie, the big dollop of vanilla ice cream on top just starting to melt into the crumbly pastry.

“So?”

“What do you mean?” I began to protest, falling silent at the minute warning shake of Holbrook’s head in the corner of my eye. “Never mind,” I sighed, gathering up my scarf, and digging a crumpled twenty dollar bill out of my pocket.

My longing for pie was soon forgotten once we got back to my motel room. In fact, I doubted I’d ever want to eat again.

CHAPTER FIVE

I SAT ON the edge of the bed in the motel room, the food from the diner sitting as a greasy, leaden weight in the pit of my stomach as I stared at the fuzzy, off-color picture on the small TV screen. I’d turned the volume down after the first few minutes of the report, unable to listen to the gruesome details recited in the cheery voice of the young, pretty news anchorwoman. Besides, the images flashing across the screen pretty much spoke for themselves.

Samson had escaped from prison just over forty-eight hours ago, leaving three guards dead and another two in critical condition. The doctors thought one of them might pull through, but it didn’t look like the other would live more than another day. And now, two more bodies had been found close to the Colorado border in New Mexico.

For the last few minutes a dour-faced reporter had been talking about the latest victims, the garish neon sign of a gas station making the blonde wisps of his hair gleam green and yellow. Something about the out of focus background niggled at a half forgotten memory in the back of my mind, but the more I tried to reach for it the more it seemed to slip away, sinking into the darkness.

Johnson and Holbrook stood huddled next to the door, their heads bowed close together as they talked in hushed tones, not that my wolf hearing wouldn’t be able to pick up what they were saying if I wanted to. They were arguing about whether or not we should move on to another location, and had been for the last ten minutes.

As I watched the camera pan back to the polished blonde anchorwoman, an expression of professional and detached empathy plastered across her perfectly applied makeup, I suddenly felt each and every second of the last several hours. It was as though the grime covering my body was sporting its own layer of dirt and sweat.

“I’m taking a shower,” I declared to no one in particular as I rose from the bed and fished a pair of sweat pants and a faded Denver Art Museum t-shirt out of my bag. “Let me know if you guys decide to hit the road again.”

Snagging my toiletry bag from the counter I ducked into the bathroom before either of the agents were able to respond, and shut the door behind me with a sharp click. For a moment I thought about locking the door, but what was the point? I was getting the distinct impression that Johnson didn’t even like me, so I didn’t think it was likely that he wanted to get a peek at me in the shower. And if Holbrook wanted a look, well, I’d gladly let him do that. And more.

Besides, let’s be honest, if Samson wants to get his teeth in you, a flimsy door isn’t going to stop him
, my inner voice added.

Stubbornly pushing down the stab of fear that lanced through my gut, I turned on the water in the tub and wriggled out of my clothes, noticing that they definitely bore the aroma of fear and arousal.

If I keep this up, all Samson will need to do to find me is follow the stench.

Mumbling curses under my breath, I contemplated just burning my clothes and buying new ones each day.

After testing the water with my hand I flipped it over to the shower and stepped into the narrow tub. Hot water sluiced over me, washing away the sweat, but unable to erase the icy fear that lodged in my throat, bringing hot tears to my eyes. A choking sob escaped my throat, the sound lost in the rush of water.

Sliding down to the bottom of the tub, I wrapped my arms around my knees and wept. I wept for Samson’s latest victims who had died alone and afraid, for the girls who had died before me all those years ago, and for my innocence that had been so ruthlessly torn away on the soiled carpet of a cheap apartment.

* * *

The scent of blood surrounded me, cloying with the tang of copper, as it flowed hot across my skin. Things moved slick and warm through my fingers, things that I should never be able to touch or see. The wound in my stomach gaped wide like a grimacing maw, spilling the contents of my abdomen into my trembling hands.

Samson loomed above me, his normally chocolate brown eyes now shining a haunting gold as they gazed at me out of a face I barely recognized. I was having trouble making sense of what was happening, my thoughts slow and reluctant to form into anything resembling coherence. I couldn’t tell if the sluggishness in my brain was from the amount of blood running down my sides to pool beneath me, or from the shock that I was dating a werewolf.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should have been worried by the sheer volume of blood flowing over my fingers, but I couldn’t focus on anything beyond the golden eyes staring down at me and the smear of blood, my blood, across Samson’s lips and chin. I’d kissed those lips a hundred times, felt them touch me in places no one else ever had, but never in a million years imagined that I would see them stained with my blood.

“W-what’s happening?” I asked, my voice sounding tinny and small, as if it was coming from somewhere far away.

“You’re dying, Riley,” he said, his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed, looking far more libidinous than they ever had when we were having sex. “And when you’re dead, I’m going to eat you.”

A bone-jarring shudder ran through me, but whether it was from his words or the chill settling into my limbs, I wasn’t sure. I tried to push him off of me, but my wet hands kept sliding off his shoulders.

Why are my hands wet?
I wondered, trying to focus my gaze on where my hands pushed ineffectually at his chest.
Oh right, they’re covered in blood,
I thought, staring at my pale fingers, leaving dark smears on his t-shirt.

The sight of the blood on my fingers made me think of a pair of bright red woolen gloves I’d had as a kid. I’d lost them one year while building a snow man and cried all afternoon over having misplaced them. My grandmother had made hot cocoa and oatmeal cookies to comfort me, and then my grandfather had let me pack his pipe with sweet smelling tobacco. Even all these years later the smell of pipe tobacco revived memories of Papa, and how safe I felt curled up in his lap.

I wonder where those gloves are now, I thought, feeling sleep looming on the edges of my awareness, dark and seductive like Samson had been the first time I met him. He’d been so charming and witty, always quick to laugh, but there had been something dark beneath the warm chocolate brown of his eyes that was so alluring. I now knew what that darkness had been.

My head rolled to the side, a warm trail of tears sliding down over the swell of my cheek as I thought of those lost red gloves and my grandmother, dead and cold in the ground for two years now, taken away from me by cancer. I supposed I was glad she was gone, that she wouldn’t have to hear about the awful way I died once my roommate Emma found my half eaten carcass on our living room floor.

That would have made her so sad, and Nana should never be sad.

My thoughts were spiraling away into hysteria, becoming as insubstantial as smoke, but I was too tired to try and reel them in. A rattling, wet sounding breath bubbled out of my throat and I tasted blood on my lips. My eyes were heavy and filled with dancing motes of darkness as I stared at the remnants of our dinner, wax coated cartons spilling Lo Mein and Mongolian beef across the carpet.

There goes my security deposit, I thought, even as the effort of thinking began to be too much.

“Goodbye, Riley,” Samson whispered, leaning over me to press bloody lips to my cheek in a sick facsimile of a kiss. I wanted to pull away but my limbs were leaden, too heavy to move. Pulling back slowly he left a smear of wetness across my cheek.

I watched, unable to look away, as Samson reared back, preparing to strike, and then froze, his head whipping around towards the door. His face contorted into an expression of fury, a thundering growl rumbling up out of his chest. I could hear voices and laughter in the hallway, but didn’t dare to breathe a sigh of relief. The voices stopped outside the door, and at the sound of a key being slid into the lock Samson jumped up to his feet and darted across the room faster than my eyes could track.

As my roommate and her boyfriend opened the door to our apartment the living room window exploded outwards. The sound of shattering glass was lost beneath Emma’s scream, and soon even that faded away as I closed my eyes and felt myself slip into the darkness.

* * *

I didn’t notice when the hot water ran out, but I was shivering beneath the deluge of cold water when the knock on the bathroom door broke through the maelstrom of my tortured memories.

“Riley? Are you all right?” Holbrook called through the flimsy door. Distantly I noticed that his accent thickened when his emotions ran high, and at that moment his warm molasses voice was tinged with worry. “Riley?”

“I-I’m here.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I hiccupped, swiping at the tears streaming down my face, or maybe it was just the water from the shower. I couldn’t tell anymore.

“Can I come in?” he asked, concern creeping back into his tone, chased by a hint of, was that embarrassment?