Stroke of Midnight

CHAPTER 1

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.

CHAPTER 2

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

"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."

CHAPTER 4

"Me? You said the grenade was meant for you."

"It was. Ever seen a wolf toss a grenade?"

"I've never seen a wolf before today."

"You didn't see a wolf today either. That was a-—"

"Werewolf. Right. Do your handlers know you're loose?"

"Joke away. I'm all that's between you and that thing."

"And just who are you?"

"Clayton Philips."

"I know your name, jerk-off, what are you? Cop? Soldier? Psycho?"

"I'm a Jäger-Sucher."

I'd taken German as a foreign language. Don't ask me why. The only time I'd ever had any use for it was now.

"Hunter-searcher?" I translated.

He glanced at me with surprise and some interest. "Right."

"What does that mean?"

"We're a division of the government—"

"Never heard of it."

Reaching the main road, we bounced from dirt onto pavement.

"A secret division," he continued.

"Why, yes, Virginia, there is an X-file. If it's a secret why are you telling me?"

"You need to know what we're up against."

"A Navajo werewolf."

"You don't believe me?"

"Should I?"

"I've been tracking and killing werewolves for ten years. I'm not making this up."

"Oh, that's convincing."

Annoyance flickered across his face. "Since the skinwalker slipped off the reservation three people have died. You appear to be next."

"What about you?"

"The man wants me—hence the grenade. Considering his behavior of a few moments ago, the wolf wants you."

"If I believe your delusion, the man and the wolf are one and the same."

"Which explains why the skinwalker didn't care overly much if he blew you up along with me. Still—" He broke off and shook his head.

"What?" I asked, though I probably shouldn't have encouraged him.

"Werewolves kill quickly," Philips continued. "They aren't big on self-restraint. They don't hang around watching people like this one has been watching you."

Unease trickled along the back of my neck. "How do you know what he's been doing?"

"I was called to investigate a death about a week ago not far from your place. I followed several sets of wolf tracks. There was one that kept circling back to you. I couldn't figure out what he was up to."

"Why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I never saw anything but tracks. Until I found the kill on your property—"

"What kill?"

"There was a body about a hundred feet from the house, or what was left of one."

The blood, the unidentified pile, the flies. I'd blocked that out. At this rate I wouldn't remember my own name by tomorrow.

"Female," he continued. "They've all been female. But the similarity ends there. Young, old. Silver-haired, blond." He glanced at me. "Redhead. No rhyme or reason."

"To a werewolf? Why am I not surprised?"

"Exactly. Werewolves kill indiscriminately, they don't have a plan, so why didn't he kill you?" He shook his head. "The tracks, the spoor—at least five days' worth. That isn't like a werewolf."

"Maybe it is like a skinwalker."

He glanced at me and interest lit his dark eyes. "Maybe it is."

"You don't know?"

"This is the first skinwalker case we've worked on. The Navajo usually deal with renegades themselves. They're considered an embarrassment."

"I can imagine."

He frowned. "You need to take the situation seriously, Maya. I know I sound crazy, but I'm not."

"So says every crazy person."

"I promise the skinwalker won't get you as long as you're with me."

He was so earnest, I found myself nodding. Nevertheless I'd attempt escape at the first opportunity. Grab a phone, call the cops, send Clayton Philips to the nearest padded cell. He might be hot, but he was crazier than the craziest person I'd ever met.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"There's a man I'm supposed to talk to on the reservation."

"If the Navajo are so closemouthed about skin walkers why did they call you for help?"

"They didn't."

"Then how did you find out there was a skinwalker loose?"

I couldn't believe I was playing along with him, but it did pass the time.

"The Jäger-Suchers have connections everywhere. Several dead bodies in the same area, mutilated beyond recognition by wild animals, we get a fax."

"Uh-huh. Explain how this skinwalker changes from man to wolf and back again."

"He wears the skin of a wolf."

I frowned. "So he isn't really a wolf? He's a guy running around with a carcass on his head?"

"You saw the wolf. Did it look like a real wolf to you?"

"Except for the eyes—yep."

"The one physical difference between wolf and werewolf is the eyes. As for the skinwalker, the man is a witch. He combines magic and an animal skin—"

"How?"

"No one knows for sure. The process is as secret as the identity of the skinwalker."

I glanced out the window. As we'd been talking, he'd been driving. There wasn't a neon sign that said, welcome to the Navajo reservation, but I still knew the instant we crossed over. The land flattened out; the dust kicked up. Trailers and hogans—the traditional dwellings of the Navajo—dotted the horizon. The shades of the desert, brown, tan, chocolate, blended toward tabletop mesas and sculpted sandstone in the distance.

The first time I'd driven to this area I'd experienced déjà vu. Despite never having set foot west of the Mississippi, I'd seen Monument Valley before.

Once I read up on the region I understood the sense of familiarity. Many John Ford westerns had been filmed here. The Navajo lived at the heart of an American icon.

Philips turned into a dirt lane, which led to a small house with nothing around for miles but sand and buttes. If we kept traveling in one direction we'd run into the White Mountains!, in another we'd hit the Painted Desert, still another would lead us through a dense woodland. Visitors were shocked to hear that Arizona had more mountainous regions than Switzerland and more forest than Minnesota.

The house appeared deserted. No one stepped onto the porch, no dogs ran out to greet us. The hair on my arms prickled.

"Whose place is this?"

"Medicine man."

"Right."

He cast a quick glance in my direction as he stopped the car. "There are medicine men and women. Most Navajo still take part in the Blessingway."

"Which is?"

"Rites to promote happiness and wisdom. They also have sings or chantaways to promote health."

"And that's what this guy does for a living?"

I contemplated the house. There didn't appear to be too much cash in the venture.

"As well as hunting the occasional skinwalker."

I looked at him. He wasn't kidding. What else was new?

Philips climbed out of the car. "Hello?" he called. "Joseph Ahkeah?"

No answer. Not a flicker of the curtains. Nothing.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," I murmured.

"Joseph is an expert on skinwalkers. He'll know what yours is up to with the stalking and the not killing, even though you've been a sitting duck."

The image was disturbing. I'd been alone. Staring at my computer, listening to my music, obsessing over a deadline.

Considering the last few hours, a book was hardly worth the worry. I still didn't believe we were dealing with a werewolf, but there was something funny going on. The guy who'd been playing peekaboo at my window was nuts at the very least. He'd blown up my house, melted my car.

Even if Philips was on the fruity side, too, he hadn't tried to kill me. Yet.

He knocked on the door. We listened, but all we heard was the wind. He peered into the window.

"You're asking to get your head blown off."

He glanced at me. "My boss was supposed to call Joseph and tell him I was coming. I don't understand why he isn't here."

Philips reached for the doorknob, and at his touch the portal swung open. Shrugging, he stepped inside.

"Hey!" I hovered on the porch. "Is that legal?"

"What if he slipped in the tub, cracked his head? What if he's fallen and he can't get up?"

"Rationalize much?"

"Every damn day."

Since I did, too, I followed him into the medicine man's home.

The cabin was small, dark, hot. Stuff lay all over. Joseph really needed a housekeeper, although most women would never touch what I saw spread around.

Bones, large and small, the skull of an unidentified animal, skins of every shape, size, and color. Uh-oh.

Philips made a beeline for them. I was right behind him until I stepped on something crunchy. Looking down, I discovered what appeared to be the thigh bone of a—

"Ew!" I skittered after Philips so fast I slammed into his back. "Is that human?"

"Not anymore."

He pulled his Beretta and quickly checked the house. There wasn't much to see. A single living area with a kitchen, small bedroom, an even smaller bath. No sign of anything alive.

The skins were spread across several tables at the north side of the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, they were organized and labeled with anal precision. A small piece of paper had been taped beneath each one.

"Fox. Bear. Coyote," I read. "What's with that?"

In the midst of reading the top sheet on a huge stack of papers, Philips looked up. Eyes unfocused, at first he didn't appear to see me. I waved my hand in front of his face until he blinked.

"What? Oh, a skinwalker can take many shapes."

"I thought it was a werewolf."

"Right now. Most likely for endurance and tenacity. Wolves have the ability to run for miles, then accelerate. They're quick, smart, and they can be vicious when provoked. But a skinwalker could become a fox, a bear, a coyote." He spread his hand, indicting the skins in front of us. "All he has to do is change his skin."

"You're telling me that this thing could have morphed into another animal?"

"Possibly. The fox is for cunning, the bear for strength, coyote for speed and agility. Still, from what I've been able to gather in my studies, most skinwalkers stick to the one animal they identify with."

"In this case, a wolf."

He grunted, already returning his attention to the books and the papers.

With nothing to do, I wandered down the row of skins. Deer. Elk. Raven. Eagle. The display was quite creepy.

"The sturgeon moon," he muttered. "Hell. That's soon."

"The what-who?"

He lifted his gaze. His eyes were all dreamy again—lost in the book. Funny, I never would have pegged him for a scholar.

"Back when the Indians owned the earth, they gave each full moon a name. The wolf moon was in January because the wolves howled with hunger in the middle of winter. There's the harvest moon in September. The blood moon is October—"

"Sounds like one we want to avoid."

Philips gave a small smile. "Also called the hunter's moon, because in that month meat was stockpiled for the winter."

"I take it the sturgeon moon is August."

"Bingo. The fishing tribes christened that one because the fish are easily caught at this time of year. But the August moon carries other names, too, from other tribes. The green corn moon, the grain moon…"

"What happens under the sturgeon moon?"

He held up a hand and kept reading, only to curse again seconds later. '"Any human who hears the skinwalker whisper in the time of the red moon is chosen.'"

Our eyes met. We'd both seen the moon. It was very red indeed.

"Let me guess, 'red moon' is another name for 'sturgeon moon.'"

He nodded. "Most werewolf lore is attached to the full moon."

"For obvious reasons. When is it?"

"Tomorrow night."

Terrific.

"What does 'chosen' mean?"

"Not sure. But when dealing with monsters, I've never found 'chosen' to be a good thing."

"Better and better," I muttered.

Philips continued to read. " 'In the month of the red moon, the skinwalker roams the land of the Glittering World. Murder and mayhem give him strength for the task ahead.'"

"What task?"

" 'When the full, red moon rises over the Canyon of the Dead the skinwalker will reveal himself to the chosen one, and the world will tremble before him.'"

"Also not good."

He clapped the book closed and walked the length of the table, his fingers brushing the skins.

"That's all?"

"A lot of these Indian legends are… vague."

"To hell with vague. I want to know why I'm chosen. What that means. Where the hell is the Canyon of the Dead and how far away from it can I get?"

"Maya," he said softly. "I won't let him touch you."

"I'm sorry if your assurances don't make me feel all warm and cuddly."

"Don't you trust me?"

"You break into my house, scare me to death, let a lunatic blow up everything I own in the world, then kidnap me. You say he's after me. Mr. Philips, I think you're crazy."

I headed for the door; he snagged my arm and dragged me back. My momentum was such that I slammed into his chest, stumbled and nearly fell. He caught me around the waist and hauled me flush with his body.

"I'll take care of you," he ground out. "I swear."

"I can take care of myself."

I meant to say so with strength and courage. Instead my voice came out a breathy, girlie whisper.

His gaze dropped to my breasts. His eyes heated; so did my skin. I had a flash of him and me entwined on black silk sheets. He'd be both gentle and rough. Needy, desperate, unbelievably skilled.

What was it about this man that made me think of such things at the most inappropriate times? I shouldn't even like him. He reminded me of my brothers—overconfident, overmuscled, oversexed.

My cheeks flamed—the curse of being a redhead. I blushed far too often and too well.

His eyes narrowed. I waited for him to shove me aside and tell me to fend for myself. Instead, his arm tightened and his mouth crushed down on mine.

I'd been trained to fight, to claw and scratch and bite if I had to, anything to keep a man from overpowering me. Right now every trick I'd been taught fled as blinding lust rocketed through my body.

His mouth was hard; his tongue soft. He bit my lip, yanked my shirt from my pants and scraped his nails across my back. I gasped, bowed, rubbed the front of me all over the front of him.

My hands dived under his shirt, touching his skin, gauging his muscles, skimming his ribs.

He groaned into my mouth, the vibration against both my lips and fingertips a dual sensation that set my pulse pounding. He skated his teeth across my jaw, then latched on to my neck and suckled.

I arched, and he buried his face in my breasts, filled his hands with my ass and lifted me so I could wrap my legs around his hips and ride his erection along another pulsing, pounding, mindless part of me.

The door slammed and we both froze. His breath brushed the damp spots made by his mouth. My nipples tightened. My body throbbed.

"Just the wind," he murmured. "We're okay."

Funny, I didn't feel okay at all.

He let me go, and my legs slid down his. My feet touched the floor, and my cheeks flooded crimson again. I tried to turn away, but he hauled me back into his arms, leaning down and pressing his forehead to mine.

"Maya," he whispered in a shaky voice. "What was that?"

"A kiss?"

Clay let out a harsh bark of laughter that tapped our heads together hard enough to make me blink. "That's like calling dynamite a firecracker."

He ran a hand over my hair, then kissed my cheek. "Bad idea. I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me, except—"

"Except?"

"I've wanted to kiss you since you walked out of the shower and tried to beat the crap out of me."

I smiled. "You get off on that, huh?"

"Looks that way."

"I suppose you'll come if I kick you where it counts."

He lifted a pale brow. "Let's not find out."

I'd lived too many years in a household of males not to be blunt in both my language and my behavior. Probably one of the many reasons I was still alone. Most men found me too much like one of the guys. None had ever found me as intriguing as Clay appeared to.

My gaze lowered to the bulge in his jeans. Yep, he really, really liked me.

I took a step toward him and he stumbled back. "Bad idea, remember?"

"Seems like a good idea to me."

"Maya, no. The last woman I—"

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, making the bright strands stick straight up, then whirled away, leaning over the table full of skins and hanging his head. "The last woman I cared about got killed. Badly."

"Is there a good way to be killed?"

"I suppose not. But Serena—Well, let's just say there wasn't much left of her to bury."

He sure knew how to kill the mood.

"She was a Jäger-Sucher like me."

"A werewolf killed her?"

"No. She had a different specialty."

"I don't understand."

"Different divisions, different monsters."

"You're telling me there's more in this world than werewolves?"

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "A lot more."

I opened my mouth to ask what, then decided I really didn't want to know.

CHAPTER 5

Suddenly Clay straightened. "Uh-oh."

"What's uh-oh?"

"The wolf skin is missing." He pointed to the table in front of him.

I hadn't gotten that far down the display before I'd become creeped out by all the dead things. Otherwise I would have noticed the great big empty space—that had a label. A label that very clearly read "wolf."

"Son of a bitch!" Clay twirled, "Joseph Ahkeah is the skin walker."

"Maybe he just decided to throw on a wolf skin and take a little walk. Traveling a mile in someone's moccasins, so to speak. That doesn't mean he's an evil, soulless killer."

"Just throwing on the skin won't make a skinwalker. Both the skin and the magic are necessary. A man like Joseph would know very well what he was doing."

"You have no idea what kind of magic he'd use?"

Clay had been stalking around the room as if searching for something. He stopped with his hands full of loose newspaper clippings. "Kind?"

"A spell? A sacrifice? Mystic powder? A wand?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to Ahkeah about." He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't really matter how he became one. What matters is when—he dies."

I rolled my eyes at the line straight out of a John Wayne movie. My brothers talked like that, and it annoyed the hell out of me. Why did I find the same behavior in Clay kind of cute?

Cute? Clayton Philips was a lean, mean, crazy fighting machine. Just because he could kiss better than any man I'd ever locked lips with didn't make him sane.

Still, I had to admit that being in this house, seeing Joseph's collection, hearing the curse of the red moon rising had made me lean a little bit closer to Clay's side of the fence.

An ear-splitting explosion erupted outside. The ground shook; I swore I heard a flame thrower. I raced Clay to the window and discovered there were flames and they were being thrown. Toward the sky, from the hull that had once been his SUV.

But that wasn't the sight that made me stare, blink, rub my eyes, then stare some more.

The naked Indian man was still there.

The air wavered with heat. Smoke blew in waves, obscuring, then revealing him again. He stood about fifty yards beyond the flaming car.

His hair was loose, long, and black. He wasn't tall, but he was muscular. He looked as if he'd been lifting small trucks as a hobby.

"Ahkeah," Clay muttered.

The man cocked his hand behind his ear, like a major league pitcher. His black hair swung. So did other, non-black parts a little farther south.

He threw whatever had been in his palm. Something small and dark wafted end over end in our direction. Going by previous experience, I should have started running.

But he bent down and picked up what appeared to be a fur cape, with a snout. He positioned the head on top of his own, and the fur settled over his shoulders. Lifting his hands to the sky, he spoke, though I couldn't hear the words. However, I heard the howl that followed very well.

The sound was so loud it made me blink, and when my eyes opened a wolf stood where the man had been. He was sleek and dark; I'd seen the animal before—outside my cabin. But how could he have gotten here so quickly?

Clay grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the back door muttering, "Another fucking grenade. Do you believe this guy?"

I did now. I'd seen him change with my own two eyes.

Clay shoved me outside. "Run!"

He didn't have to tell me twice. I was getting very good at dodging grenades thrown into the houses I occupied.

We weren't more than thirty feet from the porch when the place blew. The heat was intense. The pressure lifted me up and tossed me several feet before depositing me, face first, into the desert dust.

There was a thump to my right, which I certainly hoped was Clay and not the skinwalker.

I managed to turn my head, open my eyes. Clay was already on his feet, gun drawn. I moaned and closed my eyes again.

"Maya?" He dropped to his knees. His hand touched my neck. "You okay?"

Nothing felt broken. I ached, my palms burned, my cheek too. I'd live. Again.

"We have to move. The fire will spook him for a while, but he'll be back."

That got me up—almost. I made it to a crouch before my head spun. I fell on my butt, and Clay shoved my face between my knees. "Breathe," he ordered.

A few minutes later the ground stopped spinning, and I tentatively lifted my head. "That was the same wolf."

"Yes."

"But it was at my cabin. We drove here…"

"I've heard a skinwalker can run as fast as a car. There've been reports of people riding along desert highways and seeing a wolf race past them, then disappear. Considering what just happened, I'll have to believe the hearsay."

"Why do you think he's coming back?"

"For you."

How could I forget? I was chosen. Special, special me.

"But why… ?" I indicated the fireball that had once been a house and a car. "If he needs me on the night of the full, red moon, doesn't it defeat his purpose to blow me into itty-bitty pieces?"

"Maybe he doesn't need you alive."

I lifted my brow, which felt a little singed. "You're quite the cheery fellow, aren't you?"

Clay shrugged. "I don't know what he's up to, why he needs you, what he's planning. All I know is that I'll make sure he's dead before we are."

I stared into his nearly black eyes, and I knew several things for certain. He meant what he said. I trusted him. And he wasn't crazy.

Clay and I were in this together now. No going back. Not if I wanted to live.

"We need to leave, Maya."

Clay clapped his palm against mine and hauled me up without any trouble. When I was on my feet, he kept holding on, and I let him.

His gaze drifted to my lips. I swayed, and I wasn't even dizzy. I wanted to kiss him, right there in the middle of another burning wasteland. We should be running for cover, calling the cops; instead we were staring into each other's eyes and puckering up.

Clay dropped my hand and stepped away. At least one of us had some wits left.

"He'll be back as soon as his people brain overrules his wolf fear of the flames."

He started walking toward a distant butte. I hurried after him. "Where are we going?"

"We can't stay here. We've got no cover. He blew up my car." Clay shook his head. "I really liked that car."

Just as I'd liked my house, my clothes, my computer. But I kept the thought to myself.

"I'd head to another house," he continued, "but this is the middle of the reservation. Joseph is a leader. I doubt anyone would help us."

I considered that they might do worse than not help, and agreed with his rationale. We were strangers. Outsiders. We didn't know who our enemy was. He could be anyone or anything.

"We'll find a place to hide. Set a trap. I wish we were near the mountains. I'm better in the mountains than the desert."

"You're the expert," I said. "Let's just steer clear of that canyon-of-the-dead thing. I don't suppose you have a map."

"In the car. Along with my rifle and extra ammunition."

I stopped. Clay kept walking. More had been lost than some of my hearing. We were in the desert with nothing but a Beretta, a Ruger, the bullets still in them, and each other.

How would I write one of the heroes in my action-adventure novels out of a situation like this?

I had no idea. My muse was still deathly silent.

"What are we going to do?"

"I told you. Set a trap. Kill him. Then file a report."

I giggled, and the sound held a tinge of hysteria. Clay must have heard it because he cut a quick glance in my direction, though he never faltered.

"I've done it before, Maya."

"You said this was your first skinwalker."

He shrugged. "A werewolf's a werewolf."

"You sure about that?"

"No."

I suppressed the return of the hysterical giggle. "Don't sugarcoat it, Clay. I can handle anything."

His face creased in concern. "Don't worry. I can."

"Worry? Moi? You can't be serious."

How did Clay know that worry was my middle name? Because he knew everything about me, or so he said. I wanted to know everything about him, or at least as much as he'd tell me. Besides, talking passed the time and might make me forget to look behind me every few seconds so I could see the wolf before it snapped at my heels or tore out my throat.

"Why are you better in the mountains?" I asked.

"I'm from Appalachia."

I recalled his use of "y'all" when we'd first met, but other than that, I'd never heard a trace of an accent.

"When did you leave?"

"Long, long time ago."

"Why?"

"There was nothing left for me there."

His words fell into a deep silence. I understood what he meant. I'd left behind family, friends, a condo. Still, there'd been nothing for me in Chicago either.

"Your family?"

"Dead."

The way he said it made me wonder, but the strained expression on his face wouldn't let me ask. I should have known he'd answer anyway.

"They were killed by werewolves. All of them."

"And you?"

"I wasn't."

"So you became a hunter."

"I was always a hunter. We needed to eat. I was out hunting the day—" He took a deep breath and walked faster. "The day they died. I came home and followed the tracks. I thought it was just wolves, though wolves don't behave like these did."

"How's that?"

"They were an army. Alpha general, foot soldiers, military movements."

I frowned. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

"And you knew what they were doing?"

"Not then. I learned later how common the behavior was—in regular werewolves out for a little fun and food."

"Regular werewolves? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

He smiled, but the expression held little joy. How could it when he was recounting something so horrific? I was tempted to take his hand, but after the flare that had passed between us the last time we'd touched, I was scared to, as well.

"There are countless monsters. Some you've heard of, some you couldn't even imagine. Then there are variations of them—mutations, new strains and old. The skinwalker is ancient. A lot of the monsters are. Then there are the ones made by the Nazis."

"Nazis? I hate those guys."

Clay laughed at last, which made me smile. He'd been so sad, I'd been contemplating ways to make him happy—each involving various sexual practices I'd only read about.

"My boss, Edward Mandenauer, was a spy during World War Two. He discovered a secret lab in the Black Forest where Mengele was doing a lot more than experimenting on the Jews. But, by the time Mandenauer reached the hidden laboratory, all the monsters were gone. He formed the Jäger-Suchers, and he's been hunting them ever since."

My smile faded. "You expect me to believe there've been monsters engineered by the Nazis spreading throughout the world since World War Two?"

"You saw the skinwalker."

"He wasn't made by the Nazis."

"True. But if you can believe in him, why can't you believe in the others?"

I did believe, and it only made me want to glance over my shoulder all the more. Safety girl had just discovered that her cacophony of worries were minor when compared to the supernatural terrors she'd never even known about. It's hard to accept that the little bubble of security and harmony you'd been constructing since your mother hadn't come home one day was only an illusion.

Amazingly, I was a lot less upset about my bubble bursting than I would have thought. Perhaps because Clay was by my side. So far, he'd kept me alive. And while I'd never been much for adventure, except on the page, he was fast becoming the best time I'd ever had.

We reached a set of low-lying indigo hills as the sun met the western horizon. I'd been sweating like a sow beached in the desert sand. The instant the sun disappeared and shadows spread across the land, everything went gray, still, and cool.

A rumbling growl was my only warning an instant before something slammed into me from behind. I kissed dirt, again, but I had bigger worries than a fat lip.

This wolf meant to kill me.

CHAPTER 6

I covered my head with my arms, attempting to protect my neck with my hands. The wolf sank its teeth into my wrist.

If you've ever been bitten by a dog, you know what that feels like. I screamed and suddenly the weight on my back was gone. The thunder of a gun exploded so close my ears rang.

Something wet rained down all over me. I had a bad feeling I was now wearing more than sweat. I flipped over, cradling my bitten arm.

"Aw, hell," I muttered. "Am I going to grow fangs?"

Clay stared at what was left of the reddish-brown wolf. Smaller than the black wolf I'd seen several times before, this one also had longer ears and a narrower muzzle.

When Clay lifted his gaze, I reared back at the violence roiling his eyes, but in the next instant the expression disappeared. He fell to his knees beside me, reaching for my injured hand. "Wasn't a werewolf. You're safe. From fangs anyway."

Blood dripped down my fingers. He tore a strip from the bottom of his T-shirt, baring a band of taut, bronzed skin, then wrapped my wound with an expert twist.

I tore my gaze from his stomach. Was I dizzy from the sight of his ABC or the loss of blood? I shook my head and focused on more important matters. "How do you know it wasn't a werewolf?"

"Didn't explode."

I glanced at the remains. "Looks like an explosion to me."

"Werewolf plus silver equals fire shooting toward the sky. This one just… died."

"There are silver bullets in your guns?"

"Did you think there wouldn't be?"

I hadn't thought about the need for silver at all. Such concerns were foreign to my world.

"Are there two skinwalkers?" Panic made my heart thunder so hard it was difficult to speak past the pulse in my throat. "What do I turn into when one of those bites me?"

"That wasn't a skinwalker."

"Once again I have to ask, how do you know?"

"Legend has it that when a skinwalker dies the skin separates from the body."

"Ew."

"The animal skin. If this were our skinwalker, we'd have a dead man and a wolf skin, side by side." He frowned. "I'm not sure if either one of them explode at the touch of silver. I guess we'll find out."

"If that isn't a skinwalker, what is it?"

"Red wolf. Native to the Southwest." He frowned, shook his head. "Only rabid wolves attack."

"I saw Old Feller," I muttered. "I so don't want to go there."

"Relax. No weaving. No drooling. I've seen rabid animals. This one wasn't."

"Then what the hell?"

Clay lifted his eyes and scanned the steadily encroaching darkness. "The skin walker's controlling the wolves."

As if they'd heard him speak, a chorus of howls rose toward the rising red moon. A heated haze made the orb appear wobbly.

"Controlling how?"

"A skinwalker is both witch and werewolf. I have no idea what the extent of its powers might be." He stared at the horizon for several moments. "We'd better find a cave."

"Is that where they hide?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the howls. "Does that sound like they're hiding to you? They're coming after us. We need a place where our backs are protected and I can set a trap. You ready?"

I jumped to my feet without his help. "Let's go."

Clay led me over rocks—no tracks, little scent—to the east, then the west. I was exhausted by the time he found a cave.

We squeezed through a hole that opened on a room just large enough for us to lie down and move around a little. The fit was far from ideal, though Clay said he couldn't have constructed a better place for us to make a stand. There was even a small puddle of water near the back of the hallowed-out cavern, a miracle at this time of year.

The howls had faded as we hurried through the night. Clay set up his ingenious trap in front of the entrance—something with sticks and rocks that looked like a child's game from the Stone Age. He covered the tiny entrance with brush, leaving an opening at the top for the nearly full moon to shine through.

"Anything trotting by in the dark should just keep on keep-in' on," Clay said, as he bathed my wolf bite with water from the puddle.

"Do you think we lost them?"

"Maybe." He lifted his eyes to mine and shrugged. "Did you want me to lie?"

"Yep."

He smiled and smoothed my hair. "I promised I'd protect you."

His smile faded when his fingers brushed the scrape on my cheek. I reached up and put my hand on top of his, pressing his palm to the reddened skin. "I know you will."

For a minute I thought he might kiss me and I caught my breath. But he slipped his hand from beneath mine and busied himself tearing another strip from his T-shirt.

The garment barely covered his pecs. I had a hard time focusing on anything but smooth, rippling skin until he tightened the bandage on my wrist with a little too much force. "Hey!"

"Sorry." He let his hands fall to his lap. "I haven't done a very good job of protecting you so far."

"You saved my life. Several times. I'm sticking with you, Clay. Alone I'd be meat. Together, we'll be all right."

He stared into my face, as if trying to gauge my sincerity, then patted the elbow of my injured arm. "As long as that doesn't get infected, we're all set."

Infection. What a pleasant thought.

"Lucky you got bitten by a wolf." Scooting closer to the entrance, he drew up his knees and rested his wrists on top. He held both the Ruger and the Beretta. "In ancient times domestic dogs, the descendants of wolves, licked their masters' wounds. Their mouths held healing properties."

"I should be hokey-pokey then."

"As soon as we get you some antibiotics. Go to sleep, Maya. That's the best thing you can do."

I took off my flannel shirt and used it for a pillow. The cave warmed from the heat of our bodies, but the ground was hard and always would be. I didn't expect to sleep, but I did.

I awoke to an ear splitting chorus of howls. The sound reverberated through the small cave. I sat up with a gasp. The moon had shifted; the cave was dark.

A hand clamped over my mouth. I would have struggled, even screamed, except Clay's touch, his scent, his very taste was familiar.

My tongue darted out to meet his palm, and he started, then pulled away as if I'd burned him.

Paws padded outside. Noses snuffled, tracing the ground for a hint of our scent, but none came close to where we hid in the darkness.

A solitary howl in the distance was answered by the others nearer our hideaway. The snuffling ended, the paws retreated. We were alone.

"They're gone," Clay whispered, his breath warm, arousing, along the sensitive skin below my ear.

I turned my head, our noses brushed, and the next instant our mouths met. Who kissed whom? I have no idea. I only know that I'd never wanted anyone as I wanted him. I didn't care how close to death we'd come, how close we might yet come. Perhaps that was even the reason behind our desperation. If tomorrow was the end, at least we had tonight.

The complete darkness surrounding us was as arousing as the texture of his skin beneath my fingertips and the taste of his mouth against mine. I kept my eyes wide open, yet I couldn't see a thing. Every touch a surprise, each caress was a mystery.

I let my hands drift over the stomach that had tantalized me, allowed my fingernails to scrape the pectorals I'd fantasized about. What was left of his shirt disappeared, as did every stitch I now owned. The only strip of cloth on my body remained wrapped around my wrist.

Nudity had always embarrassed me. I wasn't small. Too many hours spent with my butt in a chair meant I wasn't toned. I'd never be tan. Men had wanted me, but they had never yearned. In the darkness, I was a goddess and Clay was my slave.

I sensed him above me, like a great dark bird—hovering, hunting, waiting to swoop.

I liked the not-knowing, the aura of danger that clung to him like cologne, the possibility of death just beyond the realm of our cave.

What had happened to safety girl? She'd died in the flames that had consumed everything that was left of her life.

I wanted to run naked through the trees, skinny-dip in the ocean, make love on the beach, the grass, the desert floor. I wanted to do every one of those things with him.

Was I experiencing kidnap dementia? Bonding to my tormented? Falling in love with a man who could never be any more than a one-cave stand? Maybe. But I'd worry about that after he made me come.

I hunted for the zipper of his camouflage pants and couldn't find one. I did find an impressive erection, which I explored through the coarse material.

His guns weren't in their holsters. He'd no doubt held them while the wolves prowled outside and left them… Lord knows where. Oh well, one less thing to remove.

I slipped my hand into the waistband of his pants, filled my palm with smooth, hard flesh, then stroked and kneaded him to greater heights.

I wanted to feel all of his skin against all of mine, so I tried to locate that zipper again but had no better luck.

"Are these locked?" I murmured into his mouth.

He reached between us, fumbled a bit and the waistband gave way in my hands. Seconds later he was naked, too, but instead of letting me run my fingers all over his toned, tanned skin, he traced his lips down my neck, over my breasts, along my belly, then my hip, performing amazing, innovative tricks with his tongue and his teeth.

My fingers toyed with what was left of his hair. His tongue swept across me once, then dodged back and lingered. I arched, and the rocks of the cave floor scraped my back. I couldn't focus, didn't care. He pushed me harder and harder, faster and faster, until I was moaning, begging for release.

As I flew over the edge, the first contractions of my orgasm making my insides clench and spasm, he slid into me. Like a surfer catching the wave, he rode mine, drawing out the pleasure. Slowing down, then speeding up, playing me until I was limp, satisfied, exhausted. Only when he kissed my eyelids, nibbled my nose, did I realize he was still hard and hot, still ready to go.

Aching, sensitive, I didn't think I had another round in me, but I was wrong. He laid his head on my chest and his breath chilled my sweat-slicked skin. My nipples hardened as he nuzzled the underside of my breasts.

He licked one tight bud in a lazy, possessive swirl, then bit the edge lightly before drawing me into his mouth to suckle in a copycat rhythm to the slide of our bodies—in and out, shallow to deep, tip then full hilt.

The friction began again. With skillful manipulation he brought me to a second climax, and this time he followed me there. The pulse of his ejaculation made my own release linger. By the time my body stopped dancing, his movements were languid as he rolled to the side, tugged me off the ground and into his arms.

I was almost asleep when Clay shifted, reaching for something. The scrape of metal on stone, he drew his gun closer, holding the weapon in one hand and me in the other. I liked the sense of safety in that image, and I drifted off.

Sometime later, I was jerked awake. Disoriented, I tried to sit up, but Clay held me too tightly.

The cave was still dark. I couldn't see a thing. But I felt him trembling.

CHAPTER 7

"What's the matter?" I whispered, placing my hand on Clay's chest. His heartbeat raced beneath my palm.

"Nothing," he said harshly. "Go on back to sleep."

As if I could when he was so upset.

His voice had slid south, the accent he'd lost found again. I lifted my fingers to his face, stroked his temple, played with his hair. Inch by inch he relaxed, but he didn't fall asleep.

"Nightmare?" I asked.

He snorted.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"So you can have nightmares too?"

Just like that, his voice had returned to the flat, cultured tones that told no one where he'd come from, gave no hint of where he'd been.

"Like I don't already have them?"

He shifted, as if to see my face, but he couldn't in this darkest hour that always preceded dawn.

"What do you dream, Maya Alexander?"

He was asking about the bad dreams—the times when I awoke gasping and panicked, the nights I relived my mother's death, I'd added twenty years to my age, but those dreams of a little girl left alone had never gone away.

I'd be damned if I'd share past nightmares while we were fashioning new ones. Here, in the dark, in his arms, was the time for sharing happy dreams.

"I dream of the New York Times!"

"You want to own a newspaper?"

"The list. Books? My job?"

"Ah," he said, though I could tell he didn't understand. Non-writers rarely did.

The New York Times Bestseller List was a rare accolade aspired to by every author who put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Not only did the list mean prestige and fame, it meant money. While I enjoyed the writing, I enjoyed the food, the clothes, the shelter too. Or I had until they'd gone boom.

On any other day I'd have been worried sick over the loss of everything I owned. Since I'd be lucky to get out of this alive, and would therefore have no further need of stuff, I experienced a sense of freedom I couldn't recall having since long before my mother had died.

"What else do you dream of?" he asked.

"A cabin in the woods."

"Oops."

"Yeah. I hate the thought of running home to Daddy."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

He wouldn't, but he'd never let me forget it, and neither would the bozos I called brothers. They'd already started a pool on when I'd call it quits. I'd put ten bucks on the space marked "not in this lifetime." However, if I was sent home in a pine box, did that mean whoever had the space nearest the date of my death got the money? Oh well, I wouldn't be around to be pissed off about it.

"Ever dream of a husband, a family?"

"No," I lied. Because I had—an eon ago when I'd still believed the line they fed little girls. That there's someone for everyone. One man, one woman, for all time.

I was two inches short of six feet. I weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. My hair was long and red, my skin white, except for the freckles. And I talked, daily, to people who didn't exist. Or at least I had before the damned writer's block hit.

"So there's no irate fiancé who's going to kick my ass?"

"Don't worry. Your ass is safe with me."

He chuckled, appearing to have forgotten the nightmare, which was exactly what I'd had in mind. But appearances are deceiving, because Clay suddenly stiffened and withdrew from my arms.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I didn't use a condom. I've never done that. Never. Hell, I didn't even think about it until now."

I hadn't either. No big surprise there. All I'd been able to think of, practically since we'd met, was getting him inside me. Now he'd been there, and left a little something behind.

My mind whirred, counting backward, letting out the breath I'd been holding. "We should be all right. The days are wrong."

"There's still a chance—"

"There's always a chance."

A tiny flutter began in my belly. I think it was hope. Or hunger. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. Which probably explained the lightheaded ness, but the stupidity was all my own. My mind was suddenly full of pink ribbons and blue bicycles. English stone cottages and wedding bells. I forgot who I was dealing with.

"This can never happen again, Maya."

"Barn door wide open, horse running down the street," I mumbled. "Or maybe up the stream."

"This isn't funny!" he snapped.

I jumped, wrapping my arms around myself as tears stung my eyes. Even though I'd just denied any need for home and family, his reaction hurt. I'd believed for just an instant that he saw me differently than other men, that he found me funny, pretty. That he might even consider me special.

"I'm sorry if the idea of making a baby with me is so disgusting."

"That's not it." He took a deep breath, which caught in the middle. "I tried to be normal once, tried to love someone and have a life. She was the one who paid."

"Serena," I whispered.

"You asked about my nightmare. This is it. I let someone get close to me, then the monsters take them away. They'll use you against me, and I can't let that happen."

"You could quit."

"No. I vowed over the bodies of my grandparents, my parents, my sisters, my brother, then Serena that I wouldn't stop until every werewolf was dead."

"You could be alone for the rest of your life. I doubt your family, or Serena, would want that."

"If I quit, people die. The survivors get my nightmares. I can't live with that either. I've lost those I loved twice. I wouldn't survive being a three-time loser."

"So you have nothing, love no one?"

"It's the only way I can go on."

Silence settled between us. When I finally slept, my dreams weren't happy, and when I awoke my cheeks were tight with dried tears. I was alone, just as I'd been in those dreams.

Gray light filtered through the scrub across the entry-way, illuminating my clothes strewn across the floor of the cave, revealing Clay's silhouette near the door. When he'd left me to stand watch again, I had no idea, but his absence had seeped into my subconscious, creating loneliness even though he was only a few feet away.

I got up, gathered my clothes, got dressed. I had just tied my flannel shirt around my waist and slipped into my shoes, when the snap of a twig and the ping of stone on stone made us freeze. Clay held up one hand indicating I should stay back, even as he reached for his Beretta with the other.

His trap had been sprung. Something lurked outside our cave. But what?

We'd heard no howls, no pitter-patter of tiny feet, not even the thud of great, big paws. Nothing until the snap, crackle, ping. Could a skinwalker fly?

I recalled the skins of the eagle and the raven in Joseph's cabin. I had a very bad feeling that it could.

"Hello, the cave. Anyone there?"

Clay frowned and his gun dipped a bit. The voice had been gruff, wobbly—the voice of a very old man.

Joseph? I mouthed.

Clay shook his head and leaned over to whisper in my ear. "Mandenauer said he's about my age."

"Hello?" the voice repeated. "You need help?"

Clay crept to the side of the entrance and peeked through the tiny hole in the covering. His shoulders relaxed at the sight.

"Ancient white guy," he told me.

"Sounds like a new rock group."

His lips twitched. I liked it that he found me funny. I liked it that he'd found me at all. Just my luck he'd sworn off women along with his life.

Clay tore down the covering with a sweep of one hand and crawled into the daylight. I followed, standing stiffly at his side. We'd slept longer than I thought. The brush over the entry had shaded the rising sun amazingly well. From its position in the sky the day was well past noon.

My first sight of our visitor made the word "ghost" whisper through my head, and not because he was pale. His skin was as sun-bronzed as Clay's and showed the wear of countless years. His hair was long and white, his clothes had seen better days. Perhaps in the year 1895.

He looked like the poster boy for a gold rush—grizzled prospector complete with six-guns and a mule. His pack animal pulled for all it was worm—which couldn't be much considering the gnarled forelocks and swayed back—at the very end of its tether.

"Stop that, Cissy." The old man yanked on the rope. "We'll be off in a bit."

He grinned at us, several black gaps appearing where teeth should be. "I'm Jack."

"Clay Philips. Maya Alexander. We could use a little help, Mr.—"

"Just Jack, boy. No need to 'mister' me."

"Jack, then. How close are we to a town?"

"Depends what kind of town yer lookin' fer. Ghost towns all over the place. Real town?" He shrugged. "Fifty miles 'r more."

"How about a phone?"

"That I got. Back at my place."

"Could we borrow it?"

"Sure. Follow me."

The old man headed toward the slowly descending sun. As he passed Cissy she brayed and skittered backward. Jack pulled on her lead, but she couldn't be budged. He scratched his head, squinted at the animal.

"I don't know what's gotten into 'er." He tethered Cissy to a juniper and lifted the saddlebags from her back. "I'll just let her think on things a while. Fetch her later."

Slinging the pack over his own shoulders, he strode off. Clay and I fell in behind.

"Why do we need a phone?" I whispered.

"I'm going to have one of my colleagues pick you up and take you somewhere safe. Then I'll go after the skin-walker."

I didn't like the idea of a babysitter. I liked the idea of Clay facing the skinwalker alone even less, and I told him so.

"I've done this a hundred times before, Maya."

"You've killed a hundred skinwalkers?"

He scowled. "You know I haven't, but someone has to handle the situation."

I'd heard the same explanation from my father and each one of my brothers. Why are you a cop? Someone has to be. I didn't like the rationalization any better from Clay than I had from them.

"You don't know what you're facing."

"I know my job. I'll do a better one if I'm not worrying about you."

"Will I ever see you again?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

We continued to walk. Jack was ahead of us by quite a few yards. The old guy could really make some time. Clay brought up the rear, watching the horizon with suspicious eyes.

"Aren't wolves nocturnal?" I asked.

"Doesn't mean they can't come out in the sunlight. They aren't vampires."

"What about werewolves?"

"Most can't change until dusk."

"Then what are you nervous about now?"

"A skinwalker is a special type of werewolf. One that can pad around anytime it puts on the skin."

Suddenly I was watching the horizon, too.

We'd been walking for over an hour when Clay asked, "How far away do you live, sir?"

"Not far now. Keep your pants on, sonny."

"I wish I had," Clay muttered.

I flashed him a dirty look, which he ignored. We continued to walk for another three-quarters of an hour.

I wasn't sure if it was the heat of the sun, the lack of water, the absence of food—but I started to see things. Shadows at the edge of my vision that disappeared when I glanced their way. Moisture hovering above the desert sand. A mountain where there hadn't been one before.

Skinwalker.

I stopped as the wind whispered, except there wasn't any wind.

"Maya?" Clay stared at me with a worried expression.

"Did you hear anything?"

He tilted his head. "No."

I shrugged and kept walking.

Canon del Muerto.

My Spanish was as nonexistent as my next book. I ignored the voice I didn't understand.

Maya.

Hell. The wind that wasn't now whispered my name.

Jack disappeared around an outcropping of rock. I followed, then halted so fast Clay slammed into me from behind.

"What the—"

A huge canyon opened in front of us. Towering walls, rocky ledges, buttes the shade of the sun and the sturgeon moon.

"Welcome to Canon del Muerto," Jack said in a low voice that was no longer his own. "The Canyon of the Dead."

CHAPTER 8

Jack yanked me in front of him and pressed a gun to my temple. Clay, who had been reaching for me, too, let his hand fall to his side, where it rested atop his Ruger. The Beretta was already aimed in the general vicinity of Jack's head, which was, unfortunately behind mine.

Shadows fluttered past my face, seemed to touch my skin and whisper. There was more here than the living.

"Let Maya go."

"Can't do that." The old man's voice no longer wobbled and wheezed but had become deep, melodic, with an accent I couldn't quite place. "The red moon will rise, and I'm going to need her for the ceremony."

"You're the skinwalker?" Clay asked.

"Got it in one. I heard you were a bright boy."

I didn't understand. I'd seen the Navajo man turn into a wolf, so who was this guy?

"If you're a skinwalker, then tell me something," Clay continued. "How does a witch become a werewolf?"

"A chant in the language of the people, followed by the cry of the beast. Wear the skin and—"

"Poof," I murmured.

"Exactly."

"How do you change back?"

I wanted to tell Clay to save his questions for a different time, preferably one when I didn't have a gun to my head. But he slid his gaze to mine. I could read the intent in his eyes. He was trying to buy time.

"Changing back is the easy part," Jack explained. "Walk as a beast in the sun, walk as a man beneath the moon, and vice versa."

"The rising of the sun or the rising of the moon triggers it."

Jack's head was so close to mine I could feel him nod. "Now the red moon rises and the ultimate power will be mine. I will no longer be forced back into my body at the whim of the elements. The change will be mine to keep or discard."

"How?"

"Blood, death, sacrifice." His arm tightened across my chest in what would have been a hug, if he wasn't planning to kill me. "Of the one who is chosen."

"Why Maya?"

"She heard me whisper. Only the chosen can."

"What about the others? Why did you kill them?"

"The legend says the chosen one will have hair the shade of the moon."

I recalled the skin walker's victims—both silver-haired and blond. But what about me?

"I don't remember anything about this in the book I read," Clay said.

"Book?" Jack's voice was scornful. "You can't learn magic from words on a page. There is more to legends than what is written."

"Why were all the victims women?"

"To birth the power there must be yin and yang. Male and female. Harmony first. Chaos later."

He nuzzled my hair. "Your death, Maya, for my everlasting life."

"Well, as long as that's all."

I couldn't believe I was joking at a time like this. But it was better than crying. Maybe.

"I still don't understand why you hung around her place and watched her. The others you killed the instant you knew they couldn't hear the whisper of the beast."

"She hardly ever came outside. All she did was stare at her computer and listen to music with her earphones on."

My block had been good for something at least. It had given Clay time to arrive.

"You took a chance waiting around until she could hear you. You had to know I'd show up eventually."

"Once I saw the moon turn red, then I saw…" He shifted, taking a deep, loud sniff of my auburn hair. "I couldn't leave."

Voices came out of nowhere, swirling around me. I couldn't make out the words.

"What is that?" I asked.

"You hear them?" He rubbed the barrel of the gun along my temple like a caress. "I knew you were special the first time I looked at you. Those are the spirits of the dead, trapped in the canyon that carries their name. Only the Dineh, the Navajo, hear them. Only the Dineh and—"

"The one who is chosen," I muttered.

I'd never been psychic, though being a writer, hearing voices in my head, having stories spill out my fingertips, is a magic of sorts. However, the ghosts were new to me and not altogether pleasant—even without the promise of imminent death by sacrifice.

"If she's your chosen one," Clay asked, "why have you been trying to kill her?"

"I needed to get her to the Canon del Muerto. I didn't think she'd just stumble on it by herself."

"But—"

"Doesn't matter when she died, just that she died. Once her blood touches me beneath the moon, in this sacred place, I'll have what I desire. To become in truth what I must now wear a skin to achieve."

"A wolf?"

"Much, much more. Combine a witch with a werewolf, add the ceremony of the red moon rising, and I will become a chindi—a witch, a human wolf—greater than legend has ever foretold. I won't even need the skin, all I'll have to do is—" He snapped his fingers. "Can you imagine the power in that? Today I rule the beasts, tomorrow—"

"The world," Clay finished. "Why does everyone want to do that?"

"Not everyone," I said. "Only the crazy people."

"True." He shook his head. "You're no different than any other freak of nature I've ever met."

"There you're wrong. Skinwalkers are superior to our werewolf kin. We can become anything just by a change of our skin. We exist beneath both the sun and the moon, and we aren't insane with the blood lust."

"Could have fooled me," I murmured.

"You've never encountered one of the bitten. The virus makes them mad. They think of nothing but the kill. A silver bullet is the best thing for them. Once I complete the ceremony beneath the red moon, nothing, and no one, can destroy me."

"Let's find out." Clay sighted down the barrel of his Beretta.

"You won't shoot me. You could hit her. Just like Serena."

Clay stiffened.

"I thought Serena was killed by…" I wasn't sure what. "Monsters?" I supplied.

"Ultimately. But only after Clayton shot her trying to save her. Then she was devoured while she lay screaming. Isn't that right?"

Clay lowered the gun. "How do you know so goddamned much?"

"I never leave anything to chance. I knew that as I searched for the chosen one, the unworthy would die. And the Jäger-Suchers would come."

"Aren't you supposed to be a secret society?" I muttered.

Jack's chuckle made the gun at my temple shudder. There was also an unpleasant scent rising from him that wasn't sweat but something worse.

"Secret to the world at large but not to the ones they hunt. Not anymore. We know Jäger-Suchers exist, only their identities are a secret—for the most part."

"How did you find out about me, about my past?" Clay asked.

"That's my secret."

Clay's eyes narrowed. I could almost hear the word going through his head, because it went through mine too.

Traitor.

Someone in the Jäger-Sucher ranks was selling information to the enemy. But I really didn't have the time to worry about that, and neither did Clay.

The sun was falling, which meant the moon was rising. Clay didn't have much time to do… whatever it was he planned on doing. I hoped Clay had a plan, because I didn't. I'd run out of ideas the second Jack had put a gun to my head. I seemed to be having that problem a lot lately, even without the gun.

"A skinwalker is a Navajo witch," Clay blurted. "You aren't."

"Appearances are deceiving. A skinwalker takes the shape of the skin he wears. Be it beast or man."

Suddenly I understood what the nasty smell was. And Cissy, the mule, had known it too. Animals can smell death long before humans. Cissy hadn't cared for Jack, because Jack was no longer alive. The skinwalker was wearing the skin of an ancient white man.

"You are Joseph Ahkeah," Clay stated. "I thought you were Mandenauer's friend."

"Friendship means nothing in the face of power. If Edward could feel what I feel when I run as a wolf, he wouldn't be so eager to kill me."

"He'd be first in line."

Jack… Joseph—hell, I didn't know what to call him except nuts—sighed. "Edward has a most annoying need to be a hero, and he can't help but hire people just like him."

"I can think of worse things to be than a hero," Clay said.

Ahkeah merely laughed at him some more.

"You were a hunter," Clay insisted. "You've seen the evil and destruction these things can bring to the world. How can you become one of them?"

"I've been tracking and killing monsters for years. There are always more. I got tired of fighting a losing battle. I wanted to be on the winning side. We will win, Clayton. It's only a matter of time."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Sadly, you won't."

I'd been planning to point out to Clay that Ahkeah was being far too accommodating in answering all his questions. The villain only blabs his plans to those he intends to kill—it's in every bad movie. I wasn't the only one who would die tonight if the skinwalker had his way.

The spirits murmured, louder this time. The very air seemed to vibrate with their presence. Ahkeah took a deep breath, as if to drink in the dead.

Help me. I thought. Not him.

The spirits spoke at once in a hundred different languages. Dizziness washed over me in a mind-numbing wave at the same time my stomach rolled. I slumped, and the gun slid from my temple into my hair.

Jack struggled to hold me upright, but in this instance being a big girl was a good thing. He wasn't strong enough, and my knees slammed into the ground.

The moon, red and full, burst over the horizon. The earth began to shake, and a gunshot sounded.

I caught the scent of sulfur, right before agony burst across my cheekbone. I ate dust when my face smashed into the rocky terrain of the Canyon of the Dead.

CHAPTER 9

I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was staring at the huge red moon blazing in the sky above me. I heard whispers again—soft as the wind, though the air was cool and still.

Everything came rushing back, and I sat up too fast. My head spun, something warm and wet ran down my cheek. My palm came away slick with blood.

"Clay?"

"I'm right here." And suddenly he was. His dark gaze skittered over my face. "Damn, Maya, you're bleedin' like a stuck pig."

His accent was back. I must have looked even worse than I felt.

Clay yanked off what was left of his shirt and pressed it to my cheek, then sat back to stare at me solemnly. Poor guy, if he hung around me much longer, he wouldn't have a stitch left to wear.

"It's over," he murmured.

I glanced toward the two shadowy bumps lying a few feet away, then got to my feet, slowly. Once there I was steady. The world no longer shook and neither did my knees. My stomach was steady and so was my head.

One lump was nothing but skin. The other appeared to be what was left of a thirty-something Navajo male. I guess skinwalkers exploded just like werewolves when shot with silver, but…

"I thought a silver bullet wouldn't work."

"If I remember correctly, it wouldn't work once he completed the ceremony."

"I'm not dead, so he is." I lifted my gaze to Clay's. "He was going to murder me, and you too."

"I nicked your cheek." Clay's head lowered. "Another centimeter to the left and—"

He didn't have to finish. Another centimeter and the world would have been Joseph's, not ours.

Once upon a time the realization of how close to death I'd come would have paralyzed me. Now it made me act. I crossed the short distance between us and slipped my arms around Clay's waist. He stiffened in my embrace, but he didn't pull away.

"You had to take a chance, Clay."

"I'm too reckless. Always have been. That's how Serena died."

"But I lived. Because of you."

Hope lit his face, until he saw mine.

"You need a doctor. Preferably a plastic surgeon. And your wrist." He yanked off the dirty bandage, then cursed some more. "Doesn't look good."

I'd forgotten about the wolf bite. Compared to our other problems, it was minor, but Clay was right. The torn skin was red and warm to the touch.

Clay opened Ahkeah's saddlebags. "That son of a bitch." He lifted a cell phone from inside.

"Like he'd let us use his phone and waltz off before we got to Canon del Muerto."

Clay turned on the phone, frowned at the display, then glanced up at the towering stone walls. "I'll be right back." He headed toward the center of the canyon.

The instant he was gone, the whispers returned. Indistinct, they rippled across the air like wind across calm water.

I cast an uneasy glance at the skin and the body, but neither one moved. When the skinwalker spoke to me, I understood his words. When the spirits of this canyon murmured, I could make no sense of them at all.

But they'd heard and helped me, causing me to create a diversion so Clay could come to the rescue.

"Thank you," I said aloud.

As if a great switch had been thrown, they were gone. The night was still and I was alone.

A short while later, the distant whir of a helicopter filled the canyon. Clay, who'd been on the phone the entire time, ran toward me just as the searchlight burst over a stone wall.

"Let's go." He grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the hovering craft.

"How did they get here so fast?"

Clay lifted a brow. According to him, Jäger-Suchers were everywhere. They must have a budget that just wouldn't quit.

I climbed into the helicopter and less than an hour later I was being stitched up by the best plastic surgeon in Phoenix. The ER doctor wanted to keep me overnight, probably because I appeared as if I'd had the crap beaten out of me. Besides the crease in my cheek, kissing the dirt far too many times had given me a fat lip and black eye.

I had countless other scrapes, bumps, bruises, but my wrist wasn't infected. If the wolf that had bitten me turned out to be rabid upon testing—Clay had already made arrangements to have the body brought in, along with what was left of the skinwalker—I'd get a rabies shot. Not exactly pleasant, but not the life-threatening occurrence it had once been.

I wanted to sleep in a clean bed—with Clay. All I had to do was convince him that he wanted that too.

Clay took one look at me when I walked out of the emergency room and winced.

"It only hurts when I laugh."

He didn't answer, and I wished I'd kept my big mouth shut.

We stood in the waiting room, the silence stretching between us for far too long. I had to say something. "Now what?"

As soon as the words were out, I wanted to take them back. I'd given him the perfect opportunity to say goodbye, and I wasn't ready.

"I want champagne," I blurted. "A shower, food, not necessarily in that order."

"I can arrange that." He whipped out a new cell phone with the speed of a gunslinger at high noon. Minutes later a limo slid to a stop at the entrance of the hospital.

Champagne peeked out of an ice bucket. Crackers and cheese lay on a crystal tray. I'd never seen anything so wonderful, or tasted anything so wonderful either. Sitting back, I let my gaze wander over the car and the driver.

"J-S sent him. He's trustworthy."

My eyes widened as I realized Clay's life was in danger from every monster on the planet. There was a leak at Jäger-Sucher headquarters.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The Biltmore."

"Really?"

The Arizona Biltmore was a landmark designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Nestled at the foot of Squaw Peak, the place was gorgeous—and expensive. I'd never be able to afford a night there on my own. But on the Jäger-Suchers? What the hell.

"You can't leave me alone tonight."

Clay opened his mouth to refuse, I could see it in his eyes, and I blurted the first lie that came to my lips. "I need to be woken up every hour. Concussion."

His mouth closed with an audible snap of his teeth. "Of course."

Guilt swamped me, but I shoved it away. I was going to seduce him—a first for me, but hey, so was getting shot at and kidnapped and any number of things that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. My life was one adventure after the next these days. I'd have a spectacular story to write just as soon as I could find a pen and some paper.

Would the ending be happy? I stared at Clay over the rim of my champagne glass. It would if I had anything to say about it.

An hour later I was squeaky clean from a shower and pleasantly tipsy from the champagne. I sat in a big, plush chair in the first suite I'd ever set foot in, writing down everything that had happened to me before I forgot it. As if.

Clay was using the shower, and the thought of slipping in behind him and letting the water seduce us both pulled me out of my story.

The bathroom door opened, and a soapy-scented mist poured out. Clay appeared through the fog, a towel looped around his hips, his skin moist, shiny, hot.

My pen and paper dropped to the floor. His head jerked up and his gaze shifted to my shadowed corner. "You should be in bed."

"I know."

I walked toward him until I was close enough to feel the warmth of the steam. He stepped back, and I caught him by the towel, then yanked.

"Maya—"

My hand closed around him. He was already hard. I drew him closer.

"We can't," he protested.

I pumped my fist several quick strokes, and he leaped in my palm. "I think we can."

"Not can't." He groaned as I continued to work his skin back and forth against the shaft. "Should. I mean shouldn't. I'm not thinking straight."

"Good. When you think straight, you think stupid."

"It's not stupid to stay away from you. I'm a dead man. It's only a matter of time."

"I won't let you die."

"You don't have anything to say about it."

"I love you."

Shock flashed across his face. "You can't love me. You just met me."

"Are you saying you don't love me?"

I held my breath. I'd been taking a chance to put my heart in the open so he could crush it. But I believed Clay cared about me, otherwise he wouldn't be trying so hard to leave me behind.

"If you can look me in eye, right now, and tell me you don't want me I'll—"

"Obviously I want you, Maya. You can feel that in the palm of your hand."

I could, and it was unbelievably erotic to be talking about both love and death as he pulsed and grew at my touch. What had happened to safety girl? I'd left her in the desert with the snakes.

The thought should have made me panic, instead it intrigued me. My life, until now, had been staid and predictable. What if I took a chance, faced the world, courted death instead of fearing it?

I guess we'd find out.

I kissed his neck, his jaw, ran my tongue up to his ear, and sucked the lobe between my teeth. The pulse at the base of his throat throbbed. I put my lips there, and his blood beat in time with mine.

I stroked him again. He showed me what he liked—how hard, how soft, how fast.

I wanted to taste him as he'd once tasted me. Sliding down his body, I took him in my mouth.

"Maya—" he murmured.

Protest or encouragement? I didn't know, didn't care. He was warm and alive. He filled me, and I no longer felt alone.

He tasted like a desert night. Hot, salty, dangerous. You could die in the desert. We almost had.

But we'd survived together and that had to count for something. Together we could do anything, face anyone.

His hands cupped my head, urging me on. He wasn't thinking of the past now, but then, neither was I.

Suddenly he reached down and grabbed my arms, yanking me to my feet and kissing me, long and deep, with a hint of desperation that only made me want him more.

Past, present, future? Whatever.

My robe slid from my shoulders. I wore nothing underneath. I had nothing anymore but him.

My skin tingled at his touch. His fingers fluttered everywhere. He soul-kissed me as he backed me toward the bed. My legs hit the mattress, and we tumbled onto the sheets.

His palm smoothed the skin of my thigh, my rear, my spine. Lifting his head, he stared into my face. Only when his gaze darkened, and he started to inch away did I remember what I looked like.

Scrapes, bruises, black eye, stitches. He believed I'd been hurt because of him. He was wrong. Without him I'd be dead. I had to make him understand that I needed him. Forever. I knew only one way to do that.

Lacing my fingers behind his neck, I drew him closer and made him kiss me again. The hand/blow job had excited me as much as him. I arched, and he slid along the part of me that cried out for a man—this man.

"Now," I whispered into his mouth. "Please."

He didn't hesitate, just lifted his hips and plunged all the way home. I was wet, tight, excited. Only a few deep strokes, and I shattered, squeezing and contracting around him. The pulse in his neck jumped as he came, and I latched on to his skin, tasting him as we both shuddered with a release that went on and on.

When he stilled, I nuzzled him behind the ear. I loved the scent of his hair, the taste of his skin. He kissed my unmarked cheek, then gently brushed his fingers over my black eye. "I'm sorry."

I sighed. My plan hadn't worked. He still didn't see how much we needed each other to survive. I'd have to be more direct.

"I'm not. I don't regret a single thing that brought us together. I didn't realize how alone I was."

"You've got four brothers. You were never alone."

"I was alone in a crowd, until I found you."

"You didn't find me. I was sent."

"Even better."

He made an exasperated sound and rolled to the side. I'd have been insulted, if he hadn't caught my hand and held on tight. "Are you always so happy?"

"No." In fact, I couldn't remember a time when I hadn't been downright cranky. "You make me this way."

He laughed, and I laid my head on his shoulder. His breath brushed my temple, slower and slower until he was asleep.

I dreamed of blue booties and pink hats, cabins in the deep woods and a love that could survive anything.

Nevertheless, when I awoke it took me only an instant to understand that Clay was gone and he wasn't coming back.

CHAPTER 10

He'd left his Beretta and a cache of silver bullets. Nothing says "I love you" like guns and ammo.

I held the weapon in my lap, stroked the metal, absently checked the load. When the door of the suite burst open and a strange man flew inside, I flicked the sheet over both myself and the pistol. The guy had a crazy look in his eyes, but he didn't have a gun or a knife that I could see.

"Where's Philips?" he demanded.

"Never heard of him."

"You came with him. I saw you. I've been waiting."

He was breathing heavily. Sweat dotted his upper lip and his brow. He opened the curtains, and the silver sheen of the just-past-full moon streamed in. He bathed in the light as if it were cool water in the heat of a sandstorm.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

He turned toward me and his eyes glowed. Ah, hell. He leaped onto the bed, onto me, and I stifled a scream.

"Brendan Steiger. I wonder if Philips will even remember why I spent my life savings to buy his."

"Buy his what?"

"His name. His picture. His whereabouts." Steiger's voice, half man, half beast, scraped against my skin like a razor. "He's not here? I'll just kill you. Payback."

His head lowered, and he sniffed my neck, licked me from collarbone to cheek. I caught the scent of blood. He'd already been a busy boy.

The man's face began to change. His nose lengthened, his teeth grew, fur sprouted from his pores, but his eyes remained human.

"Even better," he snarled. "I'll make you like me. Then he'll have to hunt down his lover and put a bullet in her brain." He laughed and the sound melded into a howl. "I wish I could be here to see it."

"Too bad you won't be."

I shot him right through the sheet. Flames erupted from the wound, and his howl went on and on. I shoved the body away, but not quickly enough. I was covered in blood and my palms were burned. Nevertheless, I sat on the floor unable to move as the half man, half beast sizzled on the king-sized bed. This hotel was not going to ask me back.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Clay stumbled into the room. One glance at me and he fell to his knees. "What happened?"

I didn't bother to answer. The mess on the bed should be answer enough.

"Come on, Maya. Into the shower."

I let him lead me from the room and urge me beneath the heated spray.

"You left me," I said.

"I had no choice. You wouldn't survive in my world."

"I've done pretty well so far."

Silence met my statement. Had he run off again?

I peeked around the shower curtain. He leaned against the sink, head down, shoulders bowed. I hated to see him so defeated.

"Why did you come back?"

He glanced at me, misery all over his face. "I tried to go, but I couldn't. I—"

"What?"

"I was worried. And I was right."

"How you figure?"

"The werewolf."

"I did just fine without you."

He scowled at the gun still clutched in his hand. "Dammit, Maya, I love you."

"Don't sound so happy about it."

"Just because I didn't leave tonight, doesn't mean I don't have to in the morning."

"Like hell."

I was feeling better minute by minute. Sure, it had been a shock to have a man break in, turn into a werewolf, and try to eat me, but I'd handled it. Everything would be all right, unless Clay really left.

I shut off the water, wrapped myself in a towel, took the gun out of his hand. "We're together, and that's the way we'll stay."

"You almost died. Because of me."

"I lived because of you. Time and time again. We're better together than apart. When are you going to see that?"

"You fainted at Canon del Muerto. Not that it wasn't a good thing at the time, but—It was too much for you."

"Wait a second, you think I fainted because of Jack? Joseph? Hell, whoever?"

"Well…" He shrugged. "Yeah."

"No, Clay. The spirits spoke. There were so many of them, I got dizzy. I asked for help and bam, out went the lights."

I expected him to scoff at my talk of spirits, but I'd forgotten who I was dealing with. If he could be a Special Forces werewolf hunter, the fact that I could hear spirits wasn't anything to write home about.

"You didn't swoon in terror?"

"Sorry, no. But you did rescue me. My hero."

"Knock it off. I can't stop seeing you covered in blood."

I spread my hands wide. "Washed right off."

His gaze narrowed. "Your hands are burned."

"They'll heal. Next time I'll know better."

"Next time?" He shoved his fingers through his hair. "There isn't going to be a next time."

"You know that's not true."

He made a sound of frustration and yanked open the door. I followed him into the bedroom. The first thing I saw was the man sitting in the wing chair reading my notes.

"What is this, Grand Central Station?" I pointed the Beretta at his head.

"No." Clay put a hand over the barrel and gently shoved the weapon down.

The intruder lifted his gaze from the papers to my face. "You should never shoot a werewolf in mid-change," he said, his German accent so heavy it would have been comical under different circumstances. "That leaves too many questions and a very big mess."

"I'll keep that in mind. Who the hell are you?"

"Maya, this is Edward Mandenauer."

I stared with renewed interest at the former spy and present leader of the Jäger-Suchers. Most likely a handsome man in his day, he now owned every one of his eighty-plus years.

He'd seen many things and all of them haunted his faded blue eyes and sagging, drawn face. He was scarecrow thin and basketball tall. His hands were gnarled, spotted, his fingers crooked from breaks that had never healed right.

"You cannot publish this." He lifted my notes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

"Wait!" I sputtered, but he brought the two together and flames licked at my hastily scrawled words. I sighed. "Have you ever heard of freedom of speech, private property, the public's right to know?"

"Yes." He dropped the rapidly decomposing paper into a tin trash can.

"How are you going to erase the memory from my head? Same way?"

"Put a sock in it," Clay muttered. "He might look like your favorite granddad, but he isn't. He's dangerous."

I glanced at Mandenauer, who shrugged. "I am."

I wouldn't have believed either one of them, except there was something in Mandenauer's eyes, something in Clay's voice, that convinced me.

"Fine." I threw up my hands. "I'll keep quiet."

I wondered if McDonald's was hiring. Because that was the only other job I was qualified for.

"Can we trust her?" the old man asked.

"What do I have to do?" I asked. "Write it in blood? Let you cut out my tongue?"

"If you don't mind—"

Since he said the words with a completely straight face, I didn't think he was kidding. Clay must not have either because he moved in front of me.

"Leave her alone. She's been through enough."

"Precisely. You should never have involved her, Clayton. You know better."

"The skinwalker blew up her house. I didn't have much choice but to take her along after that."

"And Joseph? Was he of any help?"

We exchanged glances. Mandenauer frowned. "What?"

"Joseph was the skinwalker."

"Impossible. He's been a trusted colleague for years."

"He got sick of being on the losing side. It's happened before."

The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. If possible he appeared older than before. "Even the strong ones succumb. The allure of power is a human failing. Sometimes I think it would be easier to…" His voice drifted off.

"To what, sir?"

"Never mind." Mandenauer stood and crossed the short distance to the bed with a military bearing. "Any idea who this was?"

"Brendan Steiger," I said.

Both men glanced at me with a frown. I shrugged. "He was chatty. Something about payback."

Clay shook his head. "I don't remember the name."

"Why would you?" Mandenauer asked. "They don't wear dog tags while running through the forest." He waved a hand at the remains. "I will get rid of this. You must be going."

"Where?"

"Take Maya home."

"I don't have a home. Your pal Joseph blew it sky high."

Mandenauer's expression was both exasperated and exhausted. "Take her somewhere safe. We have a traitor in our midst."

"Steiger said he bought Clay's name and photo, his background and his whereabouts."

"Jäger-Suchers are turning up dead all over the country," Mandenauer murmured. "Now I know why."

"How many?" Clay asked.

"One is too many. But three, so far."

Clay cursed and I slid my hand into his. The old man lowered his gaze to our joined fingers. "What is this?"

"Holding hands. Show of affection. You should try it sometime."

"I have. It leads to more serious shows of affection." He studied us for several ticks of the clock. "Which I can see you've already sampled." He lifted his gaze to the ceiling and tapped his foot. "Agents are dropping like flies. If they aren't being killed, they're falling in love. What is the world coming to?"

"Oh, no. People falling in love. What a tragedy."

Mandenauer glanced at Clay. "Is she always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"Good. She'll need spunk to survive life with you."

"Spunk?"

Clay shrugged. "He knows a lot of words."

"I was alive when most of them were invented," Mandenauer said dryly.

"What's my next assignment, sir?"

"Disappear."

"I'm sorry?"

"The monsters know your name, face, and Social Security number. Until we find the traitor, you're in danger." His eyes met mine. "And everyone around you is too."

I tightened my fingers on Clay's and moved closer to his side. "You're not leaving me," I said.

"I can't." Clay motioned to the bed with his free hand. "They probably know about you too. Damn, Maya, I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I'd rather be in danger with you, than safe all by myself."

Clay searched my eyes. He must have found the truth there because he kissed me, sealing the bargain.

Together we left the hotel, then Phoenix, behind. We disappeared. Jäger-Suchers are good at that.

They still haven't found the traitor and a few more agents have died. We may have to stay hidden indefinitely.

At first Clay was antsy, then Mandenauer found him a new job. The far-reaching arm of the Jäger-Suchers needs a whole lot of fingers. The Internet has made Clay into a cyber-searcher. Tracking monsters online may not be as exciting as shooting them, but as he told me once before, someone has to do it.

I didn't have to apply at McDonald's, which was lucky, since we live a long, long way from any golden arches. Though the voices of the spirits remained behind in the Canyon of the Dead, hearing them, even for a little while, jump-started my muse. I can't write fast enough. Estelle says my next book should be a runaway hit.

It's the story of a spy during World War II. He discovers a secret lab in the depths of the Black Forest. You wouldn't believe what he finds.

And those dreams of pink ribbons and blue bicycles? They aren't just dreams any longer.

Don't miss sneak peaks at upcoming

sexy paranormal tales from

SHERRILYN KENYON,

LA. BANKS,

AND LORI HANDELAND!

Turn the page to find out more!

FROM

SEIZE THE NIGHT

SHERRILYN KENYON

Coming January 2005

Valerius pulled at the edge of his right leather Coach glove to straighten it as he walked down the virtually abandoned street. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a long black cashmere coat, a black turtleneck, and black slacks. Unlike most Dark-Hunters, he wasn't a leather-wearing barbarian.

He was the epitome of sophistication. Breeding. Nobility. His family had been descended from one of the oldest and most respected noble families of Rome. As a former Roman general whose father had been a well-respected senator, Valerius would have gladly followed in the man's footsteps had the Parcea or Fates not intervened.

But that was the past and Valerius refused to remember it. Agrippina was the only exception to that rule. She was the only thing he ever remembered from his human life.

She was the only thing worth remembering from his human life.

Valerius winced and focused his thoughts on other, much less painful things. There was a crispness in the air that announced winter would be here soon. Not that New Orleans had a winter compared to what he'd been used to in D.C.

Still, the longer he was here, the more his blood was thinning, and the cool night air was a bit chilly to him.

Valerius paused as his Dark-Hunter senses detected the presence of a Daimon. Tilting his head, he listened with his heightened hearing.

He heard a group of men laughing at their victim.

And then he heard the strangest thing of all.

"Laugh it up, asshole. But she who laughs last, laughs longest, and I intend to belly-roll tonight."

A fight broke out.

Valerius whirled on his heel and headed back in the direction he'd come from.

He skirted through the darkness until he found an opened gate that led to a courtyard.

There in the back were six Daimons fighting a tall human woman.

Valerius was mesmerized by the macabre beauty of the battle. One Daimon came at the woman's back. She flipped him over her shoulder and twirled in one graceful motion to stab him in the chest with a long, black dagger.

She twirled as she rose up to face another one. She tossed the dagger from one hand to the other and held it like a woman well used to defending herself from the undead.

Two Daimons rushed her. She actually did a cartwheel away from them, but the other Daimon had anticipated her action. He grabbed her.

Without panicking, the woman surrendered her weight by picking both of her legs up to her chest. It brought the Daimon to his knees. The woman sprang to her feet and whirled to stab the Daimon in his back.

He evaporated.

Normally the remaining Daimons would flee. The last four didn't. Instead they spoke to each other in a language he hadn't heard in a long time… ancient Greek.

"Little chickie la la, isn't dumb enough to fall for that, guys," the woman answered back in flawless Greek.

Valerius was so stunned he couldn't move. In over two thousand years, he'd never seen or heard of anything like this. Not even the Amazons had ever produced a better fighter than the woman who confronted the Daimons.

Suddenly a light appeared behind the woman. It flashed bright and swirling. A chill, cold wind swept through the courtyard before six more Daimons stepped out.

Valerius went rigid at something even rarer than the warrior-woman fighting the Daimons.

FROM

BLUE MOON

LORI HANDELAND

Now available

The summer I discovered the world was not black-and-white—the way I liked it—but a host of annoying shades of gray was the summer a lot more changed than my vision.

However, on the night the truth began I was still just another small-town cop—bored, cranky, waiting, even wishing, for something to happen. I learned never to be so open-ended in my wishes again.

The car radio crackled. "Three Adam One, what's your ten-twenty?"

"I'm watching the corn grow on the east side of town."

I waited for the imminent spatter of profanity from the dispatcher on duty. I wasn't disappointed.

"You'd think it was a goddamned full moon. I swear those things bring out every nut cake in three counties."

My lips twitched. Zelda Hupmen was seventy-five if she was a day. A hard-drinking, chain-smoking throwback to the good times when such a lifestyle was commonplace and the fact it would kill you still a mystery.

Obviously Zelda had yet to hear the scientific findings, since she was going to outlive everyone by smoking unfiltered Camels and drinking Jim Beam for breakfast.

"Maybe the crazies are just gearing up for the blue moon we've got coming."

"What in living hell is a blue moon?"

The reason Zee was still working third shift after countless years on the force? Her charming vocabulary.

"Two full moons in one month makes a blue moon on the second course. Very rare. Very powerful. If you're into that stuff."

Living in the north woods of Wisconsin, elbow to elbow with what was left of the Ojibwe nation, I'd heard enough woo-woo legends to last a lifetime.

They always pissed me off. I lived in a modern world where legends had no place except in the history books. To do my job, I needed facts. In Miniwa, depending on who you talked to, facts and fiction blurred together too close for my comfort.

Zee's snort of derision turned into a long, hacking cough. I waited, ever patient, for her to regain her breath.

"Powerful my ass. Now get yours out to Highway One-ninety-nine. We got trouble, girl."

"What kind of trouble?" I flicked on the red lights, considered the siren.

"Got me. Cell call—lots of screaming, lots of static. Brad's on his way."

I had planned to inquire about the second officer on duty, but, as usual, Zee answered questions before they could even be asked. Sometimes she was spookier than anything I heard or saw on the job.

"It'll take him a while," she continued. "He was at the other end of the lake, so you'll be first on the scene. Let me know what happens."

Since I'd never found screaming to be good news, I stopped considering the siren and sped my wailing vehicle in the direction of Highway 199.

The Miniwa PD consisted of myself, the sheriff, and six other officers, plus Zee and an endless array of young dispatchers—until summer, when the force swelled to twenty because of the tourists.

I hated summer. Rich fools from Southern cities traveled the two-lane highway to the north to sit on their butt next to a lake and fry their skin the shade of fuchsia agony. Their kids shrieked, their dogs ran wild, they drove their boats too fast and their minds too slow, but they came into town and spent their easy money in the bars, restaurants, and junk shops.

As annoying as the tourist trade was for a cop, the three months of torture kept Miniwa on the map. According to my calendar, we had just entered week three of hell.

I came over a hill and slammed on my brakes. A gas-sucking, lane-hogging luxury SUV was parked crosswise on the dotted yellow line. A single headlight blazed; the other was a gaping black hole.

Why the owner hadn't pulled the vehicle onto the shoulder I had no idea. But then, I'd always suspected the majority of the population were too stupid to live.

I inched my squad car off the road, positioning my lights on the vehicle. Leaving the red dome flashing, I turned off the siren. The resulting hush was as deafening as the shrill wail had been.

The clip of my boots on the asphalt made a lonely, ghostly sound. If my headlights hadn't illuminated the hazy outline of a person in the driver's seat, I'd have believed I was alone, so deep was the silence, so complete the stillness of the night.

"Hello?" I called.

No response. Not a hint of movement.

I hurried around the front of the car, taking in the pieces of the grille and one headlight splayed across the pavement. For a car that cost upward of $40,000 it sure broke into pieces easily enough.

That's what I liked about the department's custom-issue Ford Crown Victoria. The thing was built like a tank, and it drove like one, too. Other cities might have switched over to SUVs, but Miniwa stuck with the tried and true.

Sure, four-wheel drive was nice, but sandbags in the trunk and chains on the tires worked just as well. Besides, nothing had an engine like my CV. I could catch damn near anyone driving that thing, and she didn't roll if I took a tight curve.

"Miniwa PD," I called as I skirted the fender of the SUV.

My gaze flicked over the droplets of blood that shone black beneath the silver moonlight. They trailed off toward the far side of the road. I took a minute to check the ditch for any sign of a wounded animal or human being, but there was nothing.

Returning to the car, I yanked open the door and blinked to find a woman behind the wheel. In my experience men drove these cars—or soccer moms. I saw no soccer balls, no kids, no wedding ring. Hmm.

"Are you all right?"

She had a bump on her forehead and her eyes were glassy. Very young and very blond—the fairy princess type—she was too petite to be driving a vehicle of this size, but—I gave a mental shrug—it was a free country.

The airbag hadn't deployed, which meant the car was a piece of shit or she hadn't been going very fast when she'd hit… whatever it was she'd hit.

I voted on the latter, since she wasn't lying on the pavement shredded from the windshield. The bump indicated she hadn't been wearing her seat belt. Shame on her. A ticketing offense in this state, but a little hard to prove after the fact.

"Ma'am," I tried again when she continued to stare at me without answering. "Are you all right? What's your name?"

She raised her hand to her head. There was blood dripping down her arm. I frowned. No broken glass, except on the front of the car, which appeared to be more plastic than anything else. How had she cut herself?

I grabbed the flashlight from my belt and trained it on her arm. Something had taken a bite-sized chunk out of the skin between her thumb and her wrist.

"What did you hit, ma'am?"

"Karen." Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated; she was shocky. "Karen Larson."

Right answer, wrong question. The distant wail of a siren sliced through the cool night air, and I permitted myself a sigh of relief. Help was on the way.

Since the nearest hospital was a forty-minute drive, Miniwa made do with a small general practice clinic for everything but life-threatening crises. Even so, the clinic was on the other end of town, a good twenty minutes over dark, deserted roads. Brad could transport Miss Larson while I finished up here.

But first things first. I needed to move her vehicle out of the road before someone, if not Brad, plowed into us. Thank God Highway 199 at 3:00 a.m. was not a hotbed of traffic, or there'd be more glass and blood on the pavement.

"Ma'am? Miss Larson, we need to move. Slide over."

She did as I ordered, like a child, and I quickly parked her car near mine. Planning to retrieve my first-aid kit and do some minor cleaning and repairs—perhaps bandage her up just enough to keep the blood off the seats—I paused, half in and half out of the car, when she answered my third question as late as the second.

"Wolf. I hit a wolf."

FROM

L. A. BANKS'S

THRILLING VAMPIRE HUNTRESS LEGEND SERIES

THE BITTEN

Coming February 2005

THE LAIR IN ST. LUCIA…

"Tell me your darkest fantasy," she murmured against his ear, gently pulling the lobe between her teeth.

Carlos smiled with his eyes still closed, too exhausted to do much else. Damali sounded so wickedly sexy, but why did women always go there—searching for answers to questions they really didn't want to hear in bed? "I don't have any, except being with you."

"Tell me," she pleaded low and throaty, her voice so seductive that he'd swear she was all vamp.

No. He was not going to go there, no matter what. He was not going to stare into those big brown eyes of hers and get hypnotized by them. Dark fantasies. She had no idea what went through a master's mind. Despite himself, his smile broadened, although he was still not looking at her. The things he'd seen… Had she any concept of the lifetimes of male vampire knowledge he'd acquired from Kemet through Rome and beyond, just by being offered a Council seat?

He stroked her still damp back, his fingers reveling in the tingling sensation her tattoo created as he touched the base of her spine, hoping she'd let his love be enough to satisfy her.

"You're my fantasy," he finally said to appease her when she became morbidly silent. But he'd also meant what he'd said, albeit skillfully avoiding the question she'd really asked. "You're this dead man's dream come true, baby."

Her response was a chuckle, followed by an expulsion of hot breath down the shaft of his ear canal. "Liar," she whispered, as she slid her body onto his. "I know where you want to go."

"D…" he murmured, too tired to argue with her, and much too compromised by her warmth to avoid being stirred by her butter softness. "C'mon, girl… stop playing."

His hand continued to stroke her back, finding the deep sway in it that gave rise to her firm, tight bottom. He allowed his fingers to leisurely play at the slit that separated its halves, enjoying the moistness that he knew he'd created there. Her immediate sigh made him shudder and seek her mouth to kiss her gently, half hoping to shut her up, half hoping to derail his own darkening thoughts. Without resistance, she deepened their kiss, rewarding his senses with a hint of mango, the merest trace of red wine, and her own sweetness fused with his salty aftermath as his tongue searched the soft interiors around it.

Damn, this woman was fine… five feet seven inches' worth of buff curves packaged in flawless bronze skin, lush mouth, brunette locks that kissed her shoulders, and a shea oil scent that was working him. It always did. He breathed in the fragrances held by her still-damp scalp, vanilla, coconut oils, and then there was also the scent of heavy, pungent sex hanging in the air.

"You always smell so good," he murmured, kissing the edge of her jaw. He could still taste her on his mouth when he licked his lips, "Hmmm…" Sticky, sweet-salty, female. The way she breathed against his neck, and her head found the crook of his shoulder, she fit so perfectly, like a handmade blanket on him. Even exhausted, her slick wetness made him want to move just to maintain their friction, their pulse. Merely thinking about it made him hard again.

"I know you have to eat," she said in a husky tone against the sensitive part of his throat, her tongue trailing up his jugular vein, causing him to tighten his hold on her.

"Yeah, I do… in a few," he admitted quietly, now too distracted to go out hunting at the moment.

The way she tilted her hips forward, ever so slightly, a tease, an offering, just a contraction of the muscles beneath her bronze skin fought with the hunger and was winning.

"What's your darkest fantasy?" he said smiling, turning the question on her, and not caring that a little fang was beginning to show with his smile. He passed his tongue over his incisors, willing patience as he played the game that she seemed to be enjoying.

Damali brought her head up to stare into his eyes with a mischievous smirk. "My darkest fantasy is fulfilling yours."

He laughed low and deep and slow. "Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow in a challenge. "But I don't have any really dark fantasies… this is all I need."

"Liar," she said again, chuckling from within her throat and planting a wet kiss on his Adam's apple in a way that made him swallow hard. "I bet I know what it is, even if you won't tell me."

"Curiosity killed the cat," he told her, arching, trying to penetrate her without success.

"But satisfaction brought her back." She lifted her head and stared at him hard, her smile strained with anticipation, her expression one of unmasked desire.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The exchange was telepathic, electric, and he found her neck, kissed it hard, then her shoulder, licking a path down her collarbone. When she moaned, he almost lost it and bit her.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured hot against her breast, before pulling a taut nipple between his lips.

Whatever she asked for, he'd give her one last time before dawn. Didn't she already know, por ella seria capaz de cualquier cosa? Yeah, he would do anything for her. "Tell me," he whispered, "and it's done."

"I've already told you," she said in a rasp, moving to allow him to slip inside her, then contracting around him before withdrawing.

"You have no idea… what you're doing to me." That was the pure truth. A scent that had been locked in the deep registers of his mind filtered into his awareness, gradually at first, and then stronger until it was all-consuming. Every inhalation now was riddled with the maddening aphrodisiac that he'd sworn he'd forget—had to—but it moved his body, banished a portion of his control. Master or not, Neteru was entering his system and slaying him.

Her skin had a sheen of perspiration on it, and she slid against him like water flowing over rocks, liquid fire motion, hips undulating in a slow, rolling current, with eddies that spontaneously spun, lurched, took him in to the hilt, then washed him ashore. His tightening grip would each time be enough to summon his return to her warm, wet center, only to be cast ashore by her fickle tide again and again, until he flipped her on her back and was done playing.

"Enough." There was no play in his tone. He was beyond games as he stared into her eyes; saw a glow of red reflected back from her dark brown irises, knowing it came from his. Her scent bathed him, made him shut his eyes tight as he breathed in deeply and entered her hard. "This is what I want."

His fingers tangled in her velvet spun locks, and her arches finally met him in a rhythm they both knew by heart—no stopping, no teasing, just hard down, uninterrupted returns until he felt his gums give way to the incisors he could no longer hold in check, no more than he could hold back the inevitable convulsion of pleasure that was about to rip through his groin.

Nuzzling his throat, her fingers wound through his hair, and he was surprised by the force of her pull, that her fingers had made a fist at the nape of his neck, and that one of her palms slid against his jaw to push his head back, her breath on his throat in the way he'd always imagined. Trembling with need, the sensation was so damned good… if only… she could… just once… Oh, baby…

Then she suddenly shifted her weight, her legs a leveraging vise, and rolled on top of him. Her strength came from nowhere. It happened so quickly. A sharp strike as fast as a cobra's tore at his throat, making him shut his eyes harder, his gasp fused with a groan that transformed into a wail, and the pull that siphoned his throat sent the convulsion of ecstasy throughout his system, emptied his scrotum until his body dry heaved, made his lashes flutter from the rapid seizure, where every pull from her lips erupted hot seed from him into her. Sheets gathered in knots within his fists before his hand again, sought her skin, shards of color ricocheted behind his lids while he cradled her in his arms, stuttering through tears, "Don't stop… take it all."

His body went hot, then cold, minutes of unrelenting pleasure—her hold indomitable, a physical lock of sheer will, as she moved her hips in a lazy rhythm, ignoring his attempt to rush her with deep thrusts and staccato jerks, his voice foreign to him as it reverberated off the walls of the lair, echoed back, and taunted him… a master vampire… done for the first time, for real, by what could only be a female vamp. A master female. One conjured from his darkest fantasy, riding him with more than skill, precision, working his ass to the bone—slow torture that he couldn't stop, even if he'd wanted to.

Winded, siphoned, turned out, he could barely open his eyes—but he had to. Which one of them had taken Damali's place, stolen her form? Daaayum, his territory had some shit with it… but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined it to be like this. If Damali ever found out… and how did this female get in here? Where was D!

She smiled, looking down at him, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Who made you, baby?" Dazed, that was all he could ask.

"You did," she said, chuckling low, and pressing an index finger over one of his streaming bite wounds to seal it. Then she slowly licked her finger and smiled before sealing the other so he wouldn't entirely bleed out.

Carlos blinked twice, staring. "Damali?" Two inches of fang glistened crimson in the moonlight within her lovely mouth, and a thin red line of blood had dribbled down her chin between her breasts. He resisted the urge to sit up and lick the dark trail up to her stained lips.

"Who else?" She shook her head, sat back with him still in her, and folded her arms over her chest. "Oh, so you had some other Jane on your mind while I was working?"

"No… oh… shit…"

He grabbed her by the hips, and extricated himself from her to stand, stumbling a bit, but he needed motion—fatigue and the siphon, notwithstanding. "No, no, no, no, no—this cannot be happening."

He could feel panic bubbling within him, and he had never been a brother to outright freak about anything. But this, of all the things he'd seen and been through so far, was scaring the shit out of him.

"No!" he said fast, walking in a circle, then going from the deck back to the side of the bed, gesturing with his hands in a naked frenzy. "Something went wrong. I have to get you back to the guardians—to Marlene, your Mom… baby, you're turning—"

"Turned," she sighed with a smile, "and I love it. Relax. What's done is done."

"Oh, my God, D—"

When she hissed and held both sides of her head and glared at him, he could feel hot tears begin to form in his eyes. He could call on the Almighty, but the Neteru couldn't? What the hell had he done?