Stroke of Midnight (24 page)

CHAPTER 2

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A hair-raising growl made me slowly lift my head. I came nose to snout with a black wolf. His lips were pulled back, exposing sharp, discolored teeth. There was something odd about the eyes, but I couldn't figure out what.

I had a hard time thinking straight, even before his breath washed over me, bringing the scent of meat. I fought the gagging reflex. Right now I really shouldn't move.

I tried to remember every tidbit of information I'd read about wild animals. What to do? What to do?

Was I supposed to play dead? No, that was for a bear.

Run? That was for animals unable to catch me, of which there were very few.

Wolves? The old memory banks were as empty as the pages of my next book.

Suddenly the beast snarled and I shrank back. I was going to die. I should close my eyes, but they seemed glued wide open.

Instead of tearing off my nose, the wolf swung his head to the side, his eyes narrowed at a spot behind me.

"Down!" a voice shouted.

My inertia fled and my face hit the dirt. A gunshot exploded above me. My ear pressed to the earth, I heard paws scrambling, feet pounding. I could see nothing, because at last I'd closed my eyes, and now I couldn't get them open.

I needed to race inside where I could call someone, anyone, preferably a SWAT team, Special Forces, the cavalry, so I lifted my head—and discovered I was alone. A few feet down an overgrown path I saw a pile of…

My mind shied away from identifying whatever the flies were so interested in. I got up, ran into the house, slammed the door, locked it, and shoved a chair under the knob for good measure. Nothing would get in through there. But—

I glanced at the window, which was much too small for man or wolf to fit through. Still, what I wouldn't give for a set of storm shutters similar to those covering the windows of my father's hunting cabin in Upper Michigan.

I'd put them on my wish list Storm shutters, Glock, Uzi, rocket launcher.

I needed to leave this place, jump in my car, speed down the road to a town where I could surround myself with hundreds of people, but I couldn't go anywhere like this.

I smelled the tang of blood on my skin, tasted the rusty flavor of fear at the back of my throat. After a final glance at the locked and barricaded door, then the too small window, I hurried into the bathroom.

There I stripped and removed every trace of blood with a washcloth, then brushed my teeth until they tingled. All the while keeping my ears cocked for any out-of-the-ordinary sounds from the other room.

As clean as I could get without an hour-long shower and a visit to the dentist, I stared at my stained clothes and sighed. I'd have to burn them. Wrapping myself in a towel, I left the bathroom.

Someone grabbed me.

I had an instant to register that the front door was wide open before the towel fell to my ankles. I drew in a huge breath and a hand clamped over my mouth.

Training kicked in. A girl didn't grow up with four brothers and not learn how to fight and fight dirty.

My heel went for his instep, but it wasn't there. My elbow jabbed back, aiming for the throat. He dodged. I tried to swing around to face him, the heel of my hand speeding toward his nose. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back.

"Very nice," growled the same voice that had shouted, "Get down."

Well, who else could it be?

I wanted to ask, but he had managed to keep his hand over my mouth. I struggled, but that only served to reveal that having a naked stranger in his arms made this man very happy indeed. I froze as either a gun, or something else, poked me in the rear end.

"That's better," he murmured, his breath brushing my ear, before he nuzzled my hair and took a deep sniff at the curve of my neck. "Now, if I let you go, will you be good?"

I had a bad feeling I knew what "good" meant, and I wasn't giving in gracefully. I nodded, and as soon as his grip loosened, I spun around, ramming my knee toward his crotch.

But he wasn't where I expected him to be, and my leg hit air. I nearly fell on my face. Catching myself, I snatched up the towel and wrapped it tightly around my body.

The man lounged against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched me. He was some kind of soldier, or a wannabe. His T-shirt was camouflage, so were his pants. Face blackened with greasepaint as dark as his eyes, he'd covered his hair with a knit cap that matched the outfit.

I couldn't tell what he looked like beneath all that paint, but he was big—over six feet four inches of corded muscle and taut, sun-bronzed skin. Not an extra inch of flesh anywhere, unlike me.

I pulled the towel closer to my chest, but there wasn't a whole lot of material to spare. Small and petite, I wasn't.

At my movement, his gaze dropped to my breasts, slipped to the lowest edge of the towel, where the vee of my thighs was most likely visible.

I cleared my throat. "Hey, pal, I'm up here."

He met my eyes and smirked. I wanted to slug him right then and there. "What kind of man gets a hard-on after scaring a naked woman half to death?"

"That's a rhetorical question, right?"

My temper, one of the many curses of being a redhead, ratcheted up a notch. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

The man pushed away from the wall, and I took a single step backward before I could stop myself. I couldn't let him see how unnerved I was.

But instead of grabbing me again, he strolled to the window and stared out at the bright sunlight. "You have brothers."

I gaped. "What?"

He lifted one shoulder, then lowered it. "I've got sisters. Y'all fight like girls."

"Yeah, we're funny that way."

I stared at his back and pondered. I hadn't heard "y'all" since traveling to Alabama for a book signing. In the Midwest we said "you guys" or, as my brothers often did, "youse guys." "Y'all" marked this man as Southern even though the rest of his words had been as Yankee as Boston beans. The discrepancy made me even more suspicious of him than his breaking into my home had done.

Nevertheless, my temper had cooled a bit, as had my fear of him. Despite his obvious "interest" he hadn't thrown me to the ground and ravished me. Yet. He'd saved me from the wolf. Maybe he was one of the good guys.

"Get dressed."

"Excuse me?"

He turned away from the window. "Now. I can't think with all that skin and those…" He waved a vague hand at my chest.

"Breasts?" I supplied. He didn't bother to answer. "You act like you've never seen a naked woman before."

"Not lately," he muttered.

"You've been in the bush? On assignment? In Iraq?"

"Something like that. No hot water, no MTV, no nookie. It's been rough. So get dressed, Maya. I've got no time for bullshit."

I tilted my head. "How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot more than your name. Get. Dressed."

The last two words were spoken low, with a tinge of desperation. I was reminded of the vicious snarl of the wolf only moments before. This man was barely civilized, and I was poking him with a stick.

A thrill of awareness rippled down my spine, shocking me. I'd never been attracted to guys like this—wild, rough, dangerous. Studious, staid, safe was more my speed.

My last date had been a stockbroker, the one before that an accountant. My brothers tried to fix me up with their friends, but I needed another cop in my life like I needed a bigger ass.

As if he'd heard my thoughts, the stranger's gaze drifted, narrowing as if he had X-ray vision. I decided getting dressed wasn't a bad idea.

When I'd moved to Arizona, I'd left all my city duds behind. I'd bought jeans a size too big so when I sat at my desk nothing puckered and pinched. No one out here cared if I wasn't a perfect size ten.

T-shirts or flannel, heavy socks or bare feet, I owned one pair of tennies and one pair of boots. My underwear drawer boasted fourteen new pairs of granny undies, with three bras shoved all the way to the back. I'd hated bras since I'd first had to buy one while my dad slunk around the outskirts of the unmentionables section at Sears.

But today called for as much armor as I could don, so I dug out my C cups, then covered them with a bright yellow T-shirt and royal-blue plaid flannel.

When I stepped back into the living room, the first thing I saw were the guns. How I could have missed them earlier, I wasn't quite sure. Of course, I
had
been a little preoccupied with the man holding me captive.

A Beretta rode his hip, a Ruger was strapped to his thigh. Both an automatic and a revolver; he wasn't taking any chances, and I had to wonder why. Propped next to the door was what would appear to be a machine gun to the common man, but I recognized a Wilson combat carbine, the latest weapon of choice for the urban police department. The days of being outgunned by the bad guys were at last in the past.

"What are you expecting?" I asked. "Armageddon?"

At my question, he turned from the window, and my breath caught. He'd washed off the greasepaint and removed his hat. High, hollowed cheekbones, square jaw, wide forehead. He'd never be a model—unless you counted those posters that urged Americans to "be all that you can be."

I understood why he'd covered his hair. Blond, it would shimmer like a beacon in the night, even though he'd shorn the strands to near crew-cut length. The style went very well with the camo, the boots, and the weaponry.

His eyes widened, their inky hue a complement to his sun-bronzed face. "Jesus, why don't you paint a bull's-eye on your back?"

I frowned. "What?"

"Yellow? Electric blue? You'll stand out like a neon light."

"Stand out where?"

He opened his mouth to answer, and the window behind him shattered.

"Watch out!" I dived for the floor.

I'll give him credit, he hit the deck without question as something thumped to the floor, bumped a few times, then rolled.

"Shit!" He hauled me to my feet, shoved me out the door, dragged me across the yard and fell on top of me as everything I owned in the world exploded.

Debris thunked all around us. I lifted my head, he pushed me back down. But not before I saw a wolf streaking through the cinders and ash.

Struggling against his hold, I managed to raise my eyes again. I saw nothing—not a man, not a wolf. We were alone with what was left of my cabin.

The guy rolled off me and onto his feet. Ruger in hand, he scouted the trees.

"That way," I managed, my voice not much more than a croak.

He cast me a sharp glance. "What did you see?"

"Wolf." I coughed. "What exploded?"

"Grenade," he said in the same tone I might say "orange juice."

"Grenade? Grenade?" My voice was shrill and loud and caused me to cough again.

"Relax," he murmured, holstering the Ruger. "It wasn't meant for you."

CHAPTER 3

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"Oh, gee, that's a relief. The grenade wasn't meant for me. Tell it to my house. My cell phone. My—" I caught my breath. "My computer," I wailed.

"Everything will be replaced."

"That's it!" I clambered to my feet, swayed a bit. It wasn't every day I narrowly missed being blown to smithereens by a grenade. If I was a little wobbly, a little hysterical, I was justified. "Who are you?
What
are you?"

"We don't have time." He grabbed my arm and pushed me in the direction of his characteristically black SUV, which he'd parked half-in, half-out of the brush behind the cabin. "Get in the car."

I snorted. "I haven't gotten in a stranger's vehicle in… Well, let's just say forever. Not on your life."

He drew the Ruger, cocked it and pointed the barrel at me. His head jerked toward the passenger door.

"Oookay." I got in.

I wasn't scared—much. If he'd wanted me dead he could have left me in the house, or left me to the wolf. Still, I wasn't about to argue with a Ruger.

He climbed behind the wheel and spun the SUV in a circle, tires spraying dirt across the ruins of my brand-new diesel station wagon. I'd parked a little too close to the house for its comfort.

"Do you have a name?" We bounced over a rut at far too fast a clip, and my head nearly banged against the ceiling. "A driver's license?"

His mouth was set, his eyes intense, as he tried to keep the car from flipping off the narrow path. "Clayton Philips. Clay."

"And you're what? Special Forces?"

His gaze flicked to me, then back to the road. "Sure."

Sure
? Does anyone but me see "lie" written all over that?

"How do you know my name?"

He opened his mouth, and the wolf bounded directly in front of the car. I gasped, braced myself, expecting him to hit the brakes. Instead, he hit the gas.

The wolf was quicker than any wolf I'd ever seen—not that I'd seen very many—and leaped into the brush mere centimeters ahead of the SUV's fender.

At last Philips used the brakes, and I was thrown forward, then back, with such force my head struck the seat and my breasts got an overenthusiastic hug from the seat belt.

"Hey!" I shouted, but he was already out of the car, gun drawn.

"Lock the doors," he said, and then he was gone.

"Creep. Jerk."

My gaze went to the ignition. No keys.

"
Asshole
!" I muttered, unbuckling the seat belt and reaching for the door. Fingers on the handle, I hesitated. I could go back to the cabin, but why? No house, no phone, no freaking car. I got mad all over again.

I glanced down the trail. What if I walked to town? Twenty miles away.
Ha
. I hadn't walked a
mile
since high school, and then only because the Nazi gym teacher had made me. Besides, Philips would catch me, then we'd have the dragging and the threatening and the guns all over again.

Still… I gazed longingly at freedom.

A wolf slammed into the passenger window. I shrieked and scuttled back.

The animal slavered, snarled, snapped, trying to get to me despite the barrier. Red-tinged drool ran down the glass. Aw, hell, had Philips gone and gotten himself killed?

The wolf disappeared, and my eyes widened as the latch thunked. I smacked my finger onto the button and all the doors locked with a satisfying
thwack
. There was something very strange about this wolf.

Living in Chicago, I didn't come across many wild animals, but even I knew they weren't very good at opening car doors.

I couldn't see the wolf, couldn't hear him any longer. Maybe he was gone.

The front of the car dipped. He stared through the windshield, snarling. Where was my rescuer now?

As if he'd heard the question, the wolf's head lifted, cocked. He glanced toward the trees, then back at me.

A sudden sweat, icy cold and dizzying, broke out on my skin, as I stared into brown eyes surrounded by a whole lot of white. I suddenly understood what had bothered me about the wolf.

I blinked and looked again. Yep. People eyes, wolf body. I tried to get my mind around the concept, but I kept coming up short on an explanation.

Then several things happened at once. The wolf's mouth opened; a breeze ruffled the trees, and swept through the car. I'm not sure how, since all the windows were closed. But my hair fluttered, the sweat on my skin tingled, and I heard a single, muffled word that sounded like—

Philips burst out of the woods. He pointed the Ruger at the wolf on the hood, and I ducked. Holding my breath, I waited for the glass to explode, then shatter all around me.

Nothing happened.

I didn't want to lift my head and risk getting it blown off by my new pal, the gun-happy psycho. Instead I twisted on the seat so I could see through the windshield. The wolf was gone.

The sudden release of the door locks made me yelp. But it was just Philips with the only set of keys. He narrowly missed sitting on my head as he climbed behind the wheel, then took off while I was still struggling to fasten my seat belt.

Silence settled between us as he stared intently through the windshield. Speeding like a bat out of hell and hitting every bump on the road must require complete concentration.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What do you think?"

Was he being a smart-ass? I couldn't tell. Considering my penchant for sarcasm—blame the behavior on my brothers; biting wit was the only weapon I'd had against their superior strength—it was surprising I couldn't recognize the same in him.

"Skinwalker," I said.

His foot slipped off the gas and the car jerked, but he managed to recover the next instant. "Where did you hear that?"

I opened my mouth, closed it again. How was I supposed to explain that the wind had spoken inside the car?

Obviously he hadn't heard anything, so the wolf hadn't talked, the wind hadn't whispered.

I thought Philips was crazy? He needed to get in line. Behind me.

"Around," I mumbled.

The car slid to a stop. He put the transmission in park. "Around where?"

From his reaction, the word meant something to him. I wanted to know what.

"You tell me what 'skinwalker' means, then I'll tell you where I heard it."

He made an aggravated noise. "Maya, we don't have time for this."

Which reminded me…

"How do you know my name?"

He sighed and put the car into gear. "Fine. I can drive and talk."

"Walk and chew gum, too, I bet."

Philips' lips twitched, and he shot me a quick sideways glance. Dark eyes wandered over every inch of me just as they had when I'd been wearing nothing but a towel. I shivered, though the air in the car was more hot than cold.

I'd been kidnapped by a handsome, mysterious stranger. Some women would be envious. I was… highly stressed.

This entire scenario resembled one of my books—books in which I safely orchestrated adventures for people who didn't exist outside my own head. There was a reason for that. I was no good under fire, and I never would be. Every time I took a chance, I got burned. Life, love, the pursuit of happiness—none of those adventures had gone very well for me, so I'd stopped trying.

I'd had a dozen jobs before I'd found writing. I'd failed at every one. Another reason I was panicked at the thought of failing this time.

Boyfriends? They never lasted. Happiness either. Just ask my mother.

I dragged my eyes from Philips and pointedly stared out the window. His sigh held both disappointment and resignation.

"Do you know anything about the Navajo?" he asked.

"They live…" I frowned and glanced at the sun, gauged our direction and pointed. "Thataway."

Philips snorted. "Anything else?"

I shook my head. "You've heard the extent of my knowledge on the Navajo nation."

"Yet you know we're chasing a skinwalker."

"We are?"

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Gotcha," I murmured. "What's a skinwalker and why are we chasing one?"

"A skinwalker is a Navajo witch who thrives on destruction, murder, mayhem."

I flashed on an image of the smoldering remains of my house and car, the face at the window, the grenade. None of this added up.

"I thought witches were peaceful, that hags stirring cauldrons were just a myth."

"Modern-day witches
are
peaceful. Their creed is to harm none. Skinwalkers aren't modern. They're ancient and very pissed off."

"Why?"

"No one knows. The Navajo are extremely close-mouthed about the dark side of their culture. Most live in harmony with their world. They don't kill animals or humans for the sake of killing. The skinwalker wants to inflict as much pain and misery as possible just because it can."

"Nice guy."

"Not a guy."

"Girl?"

"Not exactly."

"
What
exactly?"

He shook his head. "I kept my part of the deal. Where did you hear the word 'skinwalker'?"

I sighed. "This is going to sound nuts—"

"Tell me something that doesn't today."

"Fair enough. While you were in the woods and the wolf was on the hood…" I paused.

"What?"

"Well, I heard the word on the wind. In a closed car." I glanced at him, but he continued to stare out the windshield. "You don't seem surprised."

"I've seen some mighty surprising things in my life."

"Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on then."

"Did the wolf appear strange to you?"

I nodded, remembering the human eyes. I considered all that I'd seen, all that had happened.

The face at the window, the rattle at the door, the canine whimper. Then the man's tracks blending with those of a wolf. A whisper when there was no one around but me and a wild animal. None of it made any sense.

"A skinwalker is both a witch and a werewolf," Philips said, "and this one seems to have a hard-on for you."