Dark of Night
Page 24
My breaths strangled in my throat. My legs quivered. Oh my God. He was planning to break it off for good to my face. To tell me what a horrible person I had been, and that he never wanted to see me again. Tears collected in the corners of my eyes, and I shut them, preferring not to see his gorgeous face when he said the words.
Silence.
I thought of the pack, the Varlac, my heritage, and what I’d become — all the elements responsible for shaping me into an alpha. I belonged to the wulfkin. They were my family, my protection, and where my loyalty lay. And maybe soon I’d have the strength to forget about Connell if he didn’t want me. Though I doubted it.
Dead leaves crunched beneath Connell’s steps. I slipped open my eyes. He stood in front of me. His hands glided around my waist, and his face was inches from mine, grinning mischievously “You know you owe me three hundred kisses. I couldn’t go anywhere until I collected.”
“Even as a wulfkin?”
He raised my hand to his warm lips. “You could be a swamp monster, and I’d still want you.”
I threw my arms around his neck, pressing my mouth against his. He lifted me off my feet, spun me, and we tumbled to the ground. We kissed some more, and I don’t know how much time passed. But what I did know was that my life was bound to change and for the better this time.
About the Author
T.F. Walsh emigrated from Romania to Australia at the age of eight and now lives in a regional city south of Sydney with her husband. Growing up hearing dark fairytales, she’s always had a passion for reading and writing horror, paranormal romance, urban fantasy and young adult stories. She balances all the dark with light fluffy stuff like baking and traveling. You can find her at www.tfwalsh.com
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Fated Souls by Becky Flade
Creatures of the Moon
Kristine Overbrook
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Sara K. Murphy
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5227-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5227-4
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5228-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5228-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art ©123rf / alexm (stars behind painting) and yakuzakorat (smoke)
For
Brian, Michael, and Shannon who drove me to think about wolfing out in the first place.
I’d also like to say thank you to two very special women:
Laura, for reading draft after draft
Jennifer, for giving Creatures of the Moon a home.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
More From This Author
Chapter 1
After six months, she’d have that murdering bastard locked down. In less than two hours things would be in place. She just had to handle one thing first.
“Alan, this isn’t a good time.” She moved the cell phone to her other ear and pulled her holster and weapon out of her desk drawer. Why did men always get clingy after three dates?
“It’s never a good time for you, Lydia.” Even over the phone she could see his disapproving scowl.
Struggling not to simply hang up, she pushed the button to switch the phone to speaker and sat it on her desk. “In case you forgot, I’m a cop; on call for stakeouts and killer catching.”
The phone stayed silent as she strapped on her vest and settled her holster. Did he hang up? “Alan?”
“I had a night planned.” His voice trembled. Oh God, was he going to cry? “It’s our one-month anniversary.”
She shifted her vest and stared at the phone. It should be a romantic gesture. Most women would love a guy who plans a special night. But all she could focus on was how the whine in his voice so closely matched nails on a chalkboard.
“Detective Davis?” Sergeant Eric Adams leaned into her office. “Ready?”
“Who is that?” Alan yelled. The tremor in his voice had turned hard. The scowl was back and something more. Something she wanted no part of. “Are you blowing me off for someone else on our anniversary?”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose and retrieved her cell from her desk, switching off the speaker as she did. She was about to lead a team of officers on a sting to catch a serial killer. The culmination of months of work. She didn’t want to waste energy on this.
Adams cringed, but didn’t appear at all contrite. She flipped him off then faced away from the door.
“Alan,” she said, using the tone she reserved for frightened children. “You’re right, this isn’t fair to you. Go. Have a great life. I wish you all the best in the world.”
“Wait — ” She closed the phone on whatever would come next. Meaningless drivel or manly tirade, it would only make her late. Sometimes simply hanging up was best.
She tossed the phone on her desk and crossed the bullpen with Adams at her heels.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I’ve been ready to catch this guy for months.”
• • •
“Is he in there?” Detective Lydia Davis asked as she approached the officers on scene.
She already had one officer down tonight. She couldn’t let the bastard get away again.
“Yeah, we have two guys watching the rear,” Sergeant Adams answered. “He hasn’t come out yet.”
The bastard was cornered now. She paused in front of a Cape Cod located in a quiet suburban neighborhood. It didn’t fit the profile. Of course, this nut didn’t fit any profile. Her men had pulled halfway into the driveway, blocking in an old brown station wagon. Maybe the killer’s car? The smell of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils as she stood behind the SUV. Ah, the suburbs.
“Good.” She didn’t take her eyes off the house. “Could he have hostages in there?” she asked, anxious at the prospect of adding more casualties to the operation.
“No one went in with him. It’s been for sale by owner for the last month and vacant.”
“We can’t wait for the rest of the team. Surprise is our best option.” She took a breath, saying a silent prayer that she made the right choice. “Adams and you three, with me. The rest of you circle around and enter through the back of the house. Everyone be careful. This man is a savage.”
She readied her weapon and moved past the station wagon to press against the yellow vinyl siding of the house. She and her team took positions in the flowerbeds lining either side of the door and waited several moments to allow the others to get into position.
After a silent count, she nodded to Adams and moved to open the door. Reaching for the knob, the loud report of a shotgun sounded from around back, echoing off surrounding houses, followed by measured shots from officers.
He was armed. Not good. But being unde
r fire should distract him from the front and give her team the time they needed to enter. With adrenaline pumping, she fought to keep tight control of her emotions as she flung the door open and ran through, following closely behind Adams.
They entered into a front room left bare except for blinds and curtains over the front picture window. Motioning the other three to check the rest of the house, she and Adams moved through the room to the archway on their right.
This room was also completely empty. Not even dust gathered in the corners. In this room, however, the sweet smell of rotted meat filled her nostrils. She’d smelled worse, but it didn’t bode well. She discovered another door to her left. This one appeared able to swing both ways.
The shotgun blasts were coming from behind that door. Lydia and Adams set up to enter. She motioned to Adams that she was going to look first. Bracing in anticipation of the horrors she may witness, she pushed the door open a crack. The smell of urine and ammonia burned her nose as she peered inside for an instant.
A beaker with tubes attached over a burner sat on a table in the corner. Boxes of sinus medicine and rat poison were stacked on the floor against the wall. Bags of what could only be crystal meth lay piled on the counter next to a set of old-fashioned scales.
Scanning, she caught sight of the killer. A very large man, about six foot two, stood in profile and glanced out the window of the back door, shotgun at the ready. Two inches of spotty growth covered his chin. His matted and greasy hair hung limp around his ears. Sweat and blood stained his clothes.
Then the man froze, ceasing his ragged growling gasps. His long nose sniffed the air as he turned. Barring his teeth in a vicious sneer, he swung the shotgun around and fired, blasting a plate-sized hole in the door.
As the door swung back from the blast, Lydia dropped to a knee, kept the door wedged open a second, and fired two rounds before spinning away. Both shots took the killer in the chest.
A scream that sounded more like a howl came from the murderer as he fired twice more. One shot took out the bottom corner of the door. The other exploded through the doorjamb inches from her elbow.
Adams caught the door on its swing and held it open for Lydia to take aim. Ferocious gunfire came through the back door. Again, she peered into the kitchen to see if the killer was down.
Pushed against the kitchen table by the gunfire coming through the rear entrance, the killer growled. His abdomen appeared riddled with wounds and blood streamed onto the floor, yet he still stood with his gun up and returned fire.
“Watch the beakers!” She yelled the precaution as she aimed for the man’s head. One wrong move and they’d go up in flames.
The murderer turned at the sound of her voice. His ice-blue eyes locked with hers, and he grinned as she fired twice into his head.
The look in his eyes made her blood run cold. Even as his head rocked back, he let out a blood-curdling howl, but he just wouldn’t go down. God, how is he still moving? He let the shotgun fall from his hands as he stepped toward her. His stare burned with a pleasure too focused to be drug-induced.
Again she fired, putting two more rounds into his skull. He fell on the table, hitting the lab. Flames exploded over the wall, spreading quickly. Damn.
“Get out of here!” Lydia ordered. Her officers moved out of the house, away from the flames and rolling black smoke. She glanced over her shoulder at the man she had tracked for months. Flames licked at his clothes as he lay in the wreckage. She’d wanted to bring him to justice, but that wasn’t an option now.
You will be judged by a higher power today, she thought, as she exited amid a cloud of smoke.
The fire trucks had arrived. Lydia ran to the fire chief and reached out her hand. “You should know there was a meth lab inside and the body of our perp is in the kitchen.”
The chief nodded and turned to do his job. She turned to her men, now gathered around their cars, waiting for her orders. The massive fire raging behind her illuminated their soot–covered faces.
It had been a long night. A quick head count told her she hadn’t lost anyone else. Her men were proud, and the pleasure at taking this criminal off the streets was infectious.
She smiled. “Good work, guys.”
“You got him, Davis,” said Sergeant Adams.
“We got him,” she corrected.
The other officers mirrored their grins, white teeth and eyes bright in the dimness of the evening, despite their fatigue. Their zeal improved her already good mood.
“Yup, no matter how hopped up he was, no way he walked out of there with a bullet in his head and covered in flames.” She turned to look at the fire. It still raged, but the fire crews had it under control.
People crowded the nearby yards to view the spectacle. “Everyone loves to watch a fire,” she muttered. She shook her head and ordered everyone to the precinct. With the exciting stuff over, they had paperwork to start. They grumbled as they headed for their vehicles. She chuckled and moved to her SUV.
“Lieutenant, can you make a statement?”
Lydia’s shoulders slumped. Ryan Williams, a reporter for the Daily Times. Covering the murders, he’d dogged her every move for the last six months. She suspected he listened to his police scanner like most people listened to the normal radio.
She turned and looked up into a pair of magnificent green eyes. He stood several inches taller than her. He had long brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a closely trimmed beard, which made him look more like a biker than a prominent reporter.
A roguish smile played across his lips. “Were you able to apprehend the Bestial Butcher?”
She rolled her eyes. “Why do you insist on giving these whackos names? All it serves to do is raise them to the status of rock stars. It gives poor, twisted kids an avenue to stardom. Oh, I’m gonna be bigger than Jack the Ripper.” She gave Williams an icy glare and turned away.
“Did you get him?” His voice sounded strained.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I shot him between the eyes. He collapsed and set fire to himself and the house.” She waved at the inferno. “No one could live through that. We’ll be holding a press conference later if you want more information.” She shook her head and escaped to her car.
• • •
Shaking off the effect of Detective Davis’ eyes, brown streaked with gold, Ryan caught his breath. Her straight, light brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail at the nape of her neck swung slightly as she walked away. He enjoyed watching her walk. The view was a perk of following her around. She had an athletic body that confirmed the Pilates classes he’d learned she took three times a week.
He sought the same thing she did. He wanted the Butcher as much, if not more.
When he’d read several months ago that Lydia Davis was the detective assigned to the case, he knew she could track down the killer. He had to pull several strings, almost to the snapping point, to get the assignment.
The result pleased his boss. Because of the trouble the police had tracking the Bestial Butcher, several of his stories caused the paper to sell out hours after hitting the newsstand. People wrote in to give him hints and tips about who they thought the Butcher was and where they thought he hid.
Once he began passing on this information to the police, it became easier for Lydia to allow him to observe and question. She still didn’t like him “tagging along,” as she called it. However, she no longer threatened to arrest him when he showed up at a scene.
In fact, one of these tips started the action tonight. As the blaze consumed the remains of the house, Ryan scratched his chin thoughtfully. He climbed into his Jeep. He needed to get in place for the press conference.
• • •
Lydia eyed the collection of reporters waiting on the steps of the police station. Cameramen set up equipment along the back of a crowd. Reporters talked among th
emselves while they waited for her and the police chief to appear and step up to the bouquet of microphones that would catch their every word.
Inside, Lydia closed her eyes as she took a cool drink from a water fountain. Anything to quiet her shaking stomach. She hated this part of her job. She could handle a group of officers, the chief, or a stone–cold killer, but every time she stood in front of a group of reporters, she shook like a leaf.
“Simple stage fright. Nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to it,” they’d told her when she first made detective.
She’d been a detective for five years, and her stomach still did acrobatics when she had to talk in front of a large crowd. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the butterflies into a tight ball. Then she stood ready to face the cameras.
The chief of police, a short, balding man with salt–and–pepper hair and mustache, stomped down the hall in her direction. Although he couldn’t weigh more than 145 pounds soaking wet, Chief Fairweather waddled like a man three times his size.
An injury when he worked vice forced him to desk duty. His dedication to the force and his reputation for honesty got him elected as chief of police. He had an evident air of authority as soon as he entered a room.
As he approached Lydia, he winked. “Let’s do this,” he said. He was a great man.
She accompanied him through the doors, and the assembled mass of reporters quieted.
The chief stepped to the microphones. “Okay, the criminal known as the Bestial Butcher is presumed to be dead, killed in a shootout when my detective and several officers attempted to apprehend him. It also appears he was a drug dealer. As we speak, the fire department is putting out a blaze that destroyed him and the vacant house where we believe he’s been living. Once the fire is completely out, we’ll have forensic teams going over the area, and the coroner will remove and inspect the body.”
He looked out over the reporters’ heads, directly into the cameras. “Because of the dedication of the police force, another criminal is off the streets.” Again, he looked at the reporters. “We will now field questions.”