Cravings

by L. Hamilton, M. Davidson, E. Wilks, R York

  He was wound up in her narrative, when her sudden sharp exclamation sent him striding across the room.

  He could see that while she'd been ladling hot stew into bowls, she'd splashed some on the side of her hand.

  Quickly he turned on the water, then thrust her hand under the cold stream, holding the reddened skin upward.

  "So much for walking and chewing gum at the same time," she murmured.

  He wasn't sure how to respond.

  "That's supposed to be a joke," she said in a quavery voice.

  "Yeah." He was trying not to focus on the feel of her small hand in his large one. It was small-boned and graceful. He should turn her loose. She could take care of the emergency by herself. But he kept the hand cradled protectively in his.

  "How does it look?" she asked.

  The question startled him, because he'd forgotten she couldn't see for herself.

  "Red. But I think it's only first degree."

  She sighed. "Burns are a problem for me in the kitchen. I've got some salve."

  When she started to step away from the sink, he cupped his palm over her shoulder. "Keep your hand under the water. I'll get the salve."

  "It's in the drawer right under the microwave."

  He let go of her, then crossed to the drawer and found the tube.

  Turning off the water, he took her hand again. When she swung toward him, her breast collided with his outstretched arm, and neither of them moved for several seconds.

  The contact was innocent, yet the pressure of that soft swell made his breath catch.

  She angled away, tried to snatch her hand back.

  But he wanted to prove he wasn't reacting to her, so he kept hold of her, blotting the water with a paper towel. Then he stroked on some of the burn medication. When he was finished, he let her go and deliberately stepped back.

  "THANK you," Antonia whispered.

  He answered with little more than a grunt, and she knew that she hadn't been the only one affected by the innocent contact.

  She wanted to say something like, "You're not being unfaithful to your wife by responding to me." But she kept that observation locked behind closed lips.

  "Maybe I should just go out and grab something for dinner," he said.

  "Dinner is already made. And it's better than anything you're likely to get in town at this time of year."

  "Yeah." After a moment's hesitation, he moved to the stove, and she heard him ladling stew into a bowl.

  Which left her with the other bowl. She wasn't sure now where she'd set it down, and she had to fumble around on the counter, wondering if he was watching the blind woman make a spectacle of herself. She almost stuck her fingers into the stew, but the heat warned her before she had to start over again with the cold water and the salve.

  Nervous now, she wondered if she could make it across the room with the food. But she carefully counted the steps and ended up at the table, where she sat down.

  While she'd been cooking, she'd imagined the conversation she and Grant might have at dinner. She'd thought she would offer him some wine. But that seemed out of place now. They both ate in silence until he said, "Do you have any salad dressing?"

  She'd completely forgotten about dressing, and she felt her face heat. "I'll get it."

  "I can do it. Where do you keep it?"

  "The bottom shelf in the refrigerator door."

  He brought two bottles and set them down on the table. She waited while he poured dressing on his salad. No point in any part of their bodies colliding again. When he was finished, she reached for a bottle and felt the plastic label she'd fixed to the side. It had the letter P, for Pepper Parmesan.

  "You were right. The stew is good," he said.

  "Thanks."

  The conversation ground to a halt again, and she bent toward her bowl, thinking that her social skills had certainly deteriorated.

  When a noise from outside invaded the silence, her head jerked up. A car had stopped out front.

  "Are you expecting company?" Grant asked.

  "No."

  "Let me take a look." She heard him get up from the table and crossed to the window.

  "Shit." He made a small coughing sound. "Pardon the language."

  His exclamation sent a sizzle of alarm traveling up her neck. "What's wrong outside?"

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  ANTONIA waited for Grant's answer. Finally he said, "I don't want to worry you, but whoever was out there split as soon as he saw me standing at the window."

  "Or maybe it was someone looking for a bed and breakfast who saw I was closed for the season."

  "Is the sign lighted?"

  "Not in the off-season."

  "Well, they probably didn't see it in the dark, then." He cleared his throat. "Does this happen a lot? Someone stopping by your house—then driving away?"

  "What? Do you think someone is stalking me?"

  "I didn't say that. I just didn't like seeing a car speed away as soon as I showed my face in the window."

  Wondering what to say next, she finally settled on, "It could have been Scott Wright. One of the local cops."

  "He comes by to check on you?" Grant asked.

  "You've already met him?"

  "How do you know?"

  "From your voice."

  "Yeah, well he pulled up right behind my car when I stopped to have a look at the Jefferson house."

  "He's protective of the town."

  "And of you?"

  She snorted. "That's what he says. But what he really wants is to… relieve the blind lady's sexual frustration."

  "Oh yeah?" he asked, temper flaring in his tone.

  She hesitated for a long moment, thinking that maybe the way to get Grant to open up with her was to share her own secrets. "I knew Scott when I was a teenager. And when I came back to town, he was… solicitous, so I made the mistake of telling him too much. He knows my fiancé left me when he found out I was losing my sight. He thinks I should be an easy lay. But I'm not attracted to him. And if I were, knowing he has a wife and kids would stop me cold."

  "Nice guy."

  She wished she could take back the part about Billy walking away from her. But it was said.

  "Watch out for him. He likes to use his official position to intimidate people."

  "He probably wondered why you were interested in the Jefferson house."

  "Or he has something to hide."

  "What?"

  "Maybe I'll find out." Grant didn't sit back down at the table. "I figured that tonight might be a good time for doing some exploring."

  "In the dark?"

  "I have very good night vision," he said.

  "Do you want some coffee before you go out?"

  "I don't drink it," he answered at once, and she wondered if he was making an excuse to end the conversation.

  "Tea?" she offered.

  "Not now. But herbal tea would be good in the morning."

  "I've got peppermint and cranberry."

  "Either one."

  He crossed to the sink, and she pictured him emptying out stew he hadn't eaten.

  She pushed back her chair, then reached for her own unfinished bowl.

  "You cooked. I'll clean up," he said. "If you trust me to put things were they belong."

  "I trust you," she said, meaning more than kitchen cleanup. "The dishes go in the dishwasher. Plastic wrap for the salad bowl is in the drawer under the cutlery. Put the salad and the stew in the refrigerator."

  When she'd finished the short speech, she turned and left the room, before she said anything else she regretted.

  NOT far away, Shadow Man got out of his car and walked toward the sound of laughter and rock music coming from the Seagull's Roost.

  "Hey," Hank Horngate greeted him.

  "Hey yourself," he answered.

  Others around the room repeated the salutation, and he gave everyone a friendly smile and a wave. He was a fixture in town. One of the gang. An upstanding ci
tizen whom no one would suspect of murder. Which was why he thought of himself as Shadow Man. Like the guy in that movie who called himself The Shadow. He'd learned to cloud men's minds so they saw only what he wanted.

  He ordered a Bud Light and relaxed on one of the stools at the end of the bar. The Seagull's Roost was a good place to pick up information, so he came here pretty frequently before calling it a night.

  He'd made a mistake a month ago. He'd known it pretty quickly. Fouling your own nest wasn't the smartest idea in the world. Always before, he'd traveled away from Sea Gate to murder the damn bitches who reminded him of Helen. But he hadn't been able to resist Elizabeth Jefferson. Not after her husband Bob had come into the bar night after night talking about her. She'd had MS. She was in a wheelchair part of the time. And she never stopped complaining about how life wasn't fair.

  Like Helen. The harpy who had ruined his life. It wasn't his fault a drunk driver had jumped the signal and plowed into them. But Helen had never let him forget he had sped through the intersection a split second after the light had turned from yellow to red.

  Since they'd been kids, she'd told him how stupid he was and how he'd never make anything of himself. Then she'd spent the last two years of her miserable existence dragging him down to her level. Finally he'd had enough of playing the loving brother atoning for his sins.

  He'd fed her arsenic day after day, and the doctors had thought her pain was just part of her incessant complaining. Before he'd burned her up in an "accidental" fire, he'd had the pleasure of telling her what he'd done and hearing her plead for mercy. He'd laughed in her face.

  With the others, he had to use poisons that acted quickly. But that didn't dampen the satisfaction of killing women like Helen. Women who were handicapped and who made the lives of the people around them a living hell.

  "What's new?" Shadow Man asked.

  "I hear Bob Jefferson is going to sell the property."

  "Good luck," someone else answered. "Nothing like murder to knock the price down."

  "Yeah," another voice chimed in.

  Shadow Man was thinking that he'd done Bob Jefferson a big favor.

  "You hear about the guy at Antonia Delarosa's place?" someone else asked.

  "What guy?"

  "Looks like she's got a boarder."

  "In the winter?"

  "Maybe they're having a little fun together. She's got a nice set of titties on her. A shame to let them dry up from disuse."

  That brought a laugh from some of the men.

  "She needs some fun."

  Another laugh.

  Shadow Man joined the chorus, but privately he didn't agree.

  GRANT lay on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He was still thinking that staying here was a mistake. But that car stopping in front of her house had given him a bad feeling. It might be the nosy cop. Or it might be someone else.

  Had Officer Wright put his hands on Antonia? Really, he shouldn't be dwelling on that. He had his own business to take care of. But he couldn't get the picture out of his mind of the scumbag "accidentally" brushing against her breast.

  He'd like to make the guy sorry he'd ever thought of touching her—except that her life was none of his business.

  Around midnight he got up, dressed in black sweats, and slipped out the back door, then hesitated. He might have driven away from the house, but he liked the idea of leaving the car where it was visible, so anyone checking up on the place would think he was still there.

  AFTER Grant left, Antonia went back into the kitchen and got a deck of cards from one of the drawers. She had about five different decks scattered around the house, the way her mother had cheap drugstore reading glasses. Even then, Mom had trouble finding a pair. But Antonia knew where she kept every deck of tarot cards.

  Simply holding them in her hand helped steady her roiling emotions. After shuffling, she drew a card. It was the Knight of Wands. A man on a quest. Well she already knew that was true of Grant Marshall.

  The Knight of Wands never did anything halfway. He could be a generous friend—or lover. His arrival might herald a major life change.

  Her chest tightened. Scott Wright might want to fuck her. Probably that was how he thought about it. A mercy fuck. And a convenience for himself. But it wasn't Scott Wright that she was thinking of making love with.

  In her mind, the card flickered, and she saw a wolf running along next to the knight.

  The wolf was connected with Grant. In some way that she didn't understand. The image had come to her again and again in the cards. And then he had arrived in person. And the two had merged in her mind.

  The wolf must represent some part of his personality that she didn't yet understand. All she knew was that there was something different about him. An indefinable aura that set him apart from other men. And not just the shroud of sadness that he used like a suit of armor.

  She wanted to rip off that protective layer. She wanted to give him back the will to live.

  She knew that any intelligent woman should be frightened of him. But she wasn't afraid. She wanted to help him. And she wanted to help herself.

  She turned over another card and made a small sound. It was the Ace of Cups—a symbol of new beginnings, of new love.

  It heralded joy and happiness. Hers? His? Both of them? Or was she simply finding what she wanted to find in the cards tonight?

  GRANT walked to a deserted stretch of beach on the outskirts of town. Behind a sand dune, where he wasn't visible from the road, he took off his clothes and stood shivering in the cold wind blowing off the ocean. Then he closed his eyes, gathering his inner resolve before calling on the ancient ritual that made him different from other men.

  "Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen," he said in measured tones, then repeated the same phrase and went on to another.

  "Ga. Feart. Cleas. Duais. Aithriocht. Go gcumhdai is dtreorai na deithe thu."

  The first time he'd changed from boy to wolf, he'd thought his brain was going to explode. It didn't help knowing that two of his older brothers had not survived the experience. But none of them had had any choice about it. It had happened to each of them at puberty.

  He'd learned to anticipate disorientation as the physical changes gripped him. He felt his jaw lengthen into a muzzle, his teeth sharpen. Long ago, he'd learned to ride above the pain of bones crunching, muscles jerking, cells transforming from one shape to another.

  Thick gray hair formed along his flanks, covering his body in a silver-tipped pelt. As he dropped to all fours, he was no longer a man. He was an animal far more suited to the hunt.

  A wolf.

  One of the few of his species, because nature had not been kind to those who carried his genetic heritage. There were no female werewolves, as far as he knew. And half the boys died the first time they made the change.

  He'd thought he was lucky to survive. He'd long ago given up that notion. Still, the freedom of the wolf grabbed him by the throat as he sniffed the wind with new clarity. He smelled salt and seaweed and small animals hidden in the dunes.

  Even now, the wolf's persona filled him with a kind of excitement no ordinary man would ever know. Though legend gave the full moon power over werewolves, it wasn't true of him or any of the men in his family. Any night was his. Any day, for that matter.

  Another time he might have hunted prey. Tonight he had more important business.

  Staying away from the highway, he trotted toward the residential part of town, toward the charred remains of the house where Elizabeth Jefferson had lived and died.

  His body might be that of a wolf. But his mind had not changed. He was thinking about staying out of sight and thinking about Mrs. Jefferson as he wove his way through the shadows.

  She'd had MS. He'd found that out from his research. She'd been disabled. Like Marcy. Only his wife's problem hadn't been permanent. She'd broken her leg falling on the ice. And while she was still limping around with a cane, the bastard murderer had spotted her. O
r maybe he'd seen her earlier, in her cast.

  Grant didn't know. He'd racked his brain, trying to identify some time when he'd seen the guy, but he always drew a blank.

  Reaching the house, he prowled around the foundation, taking in the smell of charred wood. But that wasn't his main interest. He focused on the men and women who had come here since the fire. He caught his own scent. And that of Scott Wright. And the locals from the dry goods store.

  There were many others, too. One could be the killer—if he'd come back to admire his work. If he lived in town, he might have risked that. And Grant had reason to think that he might live here, because this town was so centrally located in the territory where he'd murdered in the past.

  AS he often did since he'd dispatched Elizabeth Jefferson, Shadow Man drove through the night toward the blackened ruin of her house. There was a certain satisfaction in visiting the site again and again, knowing he was the only one who got the secret joke of his presence at her house. He was her killer, living only a few blocks away. He had a lock of her hair in his keepsake chest, along with hair from the other bitches he had sent to hell.

  Nobody else was ever going to see that chest. And if anybody wondered what he was doing near the murder house, he was just heading home.

  In the moonlight he saw the blackened ruin. And he saw something more. A form moving in the darkness.

  A dog?

  What the hell was it doing poking around the house?

  The animal raised its head, staring toward the headlights. Then it faded into the shadows. But a flash of movement gave away its location, and Shadow Man turned off the car lights and drifted forward.

  As Shadow man watched, the dog dodged into a driveway between two houses. The animal was obviously intelligent. Was it a tracking dog? Did some big-city law enforcement agency know about the murder?

  Suddenly worried, he reached for the gun that he kept in the glove compartment, then sped up, looking for the animal.

  Chapter 4