Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  “A body was found yesterday,” Tallient continued. “Hasn’t hit the papers yet.”

  I looked at the moon again. Guess I was right.

  “What’s your interest in this?” I asked.

  “Cryptozoology fascinates me. I’d love to go on an expedition, but I’m... not well.”

  I stood. My feet literally itched. I bounced on my toes as excitement threatened to make me jump at this chance. I had to remember: What seemed too good to be true often was.

  “You want to pay me to find a wolf where a wolf isn’t supposed to be. Once I do, then what?”

  “Trap it and call me.”

  Not an unusual request in my line of work. The people who hired me usually did so in the hopes that they would become famous by revealing some mythical creature to the world, and they wanted to be the ones to do the revealing. I had no problem with that as long as the disclosure took place. All I wanted was to prove Simon hadn’t been crazy.

  “I can do that.”

  “You do realize this isn’t just a wolf?”

  I hoped not, but my hopes weren’t often realized.

  “They call it a loup-garou. That’s French for—”

  “Werewolf.”

  The rush of adrenaline made me dizzy. Though I took jobs searching for any paranormal entity—beggars couldn’t be choosers—the true focus of my quest should have been a lycanthrope. As Simon’s had been.

  The only problem was, I just couldn’t believe. Even though my maiden name was O’Malley and my father’s family hailed from the land of leprechauns and fairies, in Boston, where I grew up, the only fanciful thing was the city’s rabid belief in a curse on the BoSox.

  In my youth there’d been no nonsense allowed—no Santa, no tooth fairy—I had to fight to read fiction. Which might explain why I fell so in love with a man who dreamed of magic.

  I glanced around our apartment near the campus of the University of Chicago. I hadn’t moved a book, hadn’t given away his clothes, hadn’t realized until just this moment how pathetic that was.

  “I find it strange,” Tallient murmured, “that odd things happen under a crescent moon in the Crescent City, don’t you?”

  I found it more than strange. I found it irresistible.

  “Are you interested?”

  Why did he bother to ask? He had to have heard how Simon had died. He had to know Dr. Malone’s sterling reputation had wound up in tatters. Tallient might not be aware that I’d vowed to make everyone who’d scorned Simon eat their words, but he had to suspect it considering what I’d been doing in the four years since my husband had died.

  My gaze fell on the only picture I had of Simon— knee-deep in a Canadian lake, slim, scholarly, blond, and brilliant—his grin still made me yearn. My stomach flopped as it did every time I remembered he was gone forever. But his hopes, his dreams, his work, lived on in me.

  “I’ll be on a plane in the morning.”

  Chapter 2

  Tallient promised there’d be an airline reservation and a check waiting at O’Hare the following morning. In the meantime, I Googled him and discovered why his name sounded familiar. He wasn’t Bill Gates, but he was close.

  Frank Tallient had invented a widget for computers. I wasn’t sure what it did beyond making him a gazillionaire. At least he could afford me.

  After an accident several years ago had turned him into a recluse, he’d become fascinated with cryptozoology. Interestingly enough, details on his accident were nonexistent, leaving me to wonder if Tallient had used his tech skills to ensure a little privacy. I couldn’t blame him.

  The man was as good as his word and before twenty-four hours had passed I reached New Orleans. Heat slapped me in the face as soon as I walked out of Louis Armstrong International Airport. Mid-October and the temperature had to be in the midnineties. No wonder the wolves had fled long ago.

  Frank, as he’d insisted I call him, had also arranged for a rental car, a hotel room on Bourbon Street, and supplied the name and address of a swamp guide.

  “I could get used to this,” I said as the agent handed me the keys to a Lexus.

  Shortly thereafter I checked into the hotel and tossed my bag on the bed. I’d have the luxury of running water and sheets only until I found a base of operations. I couldn’t search for a cryptid from town. I needed to be where the action was at all hours of the day or night. Once I found such a place, I’d have my camping equipment shipped south,

  I wandered to a set of French doors, which opened onto a patio. Under the heated sheen of the sun, the rot showed—sidewalks cracking, buildings crumbling, homeless people begging coins from the tourists.

  One of the bizarre things about Bourbon Street, and there were a lot of them, was how a very nice hotel, like this one, could have a view straight into a strip joint on the opposite side of the street.

  Two women danced on top of the bar. When they began to do more than dance, and the milling crowd began to cheer, I turned away. I wasn’t a prude, but I preferred my sex in private and in the dark.

  Or at least I had back when I’d had sex. Since Simon, there’d been no one, and I hadn’t cared, had barely noticed. But alone in a hotel room on a street that advertised sex twenty-four hours a day, I felt both deprived and depraved. Hiring myself a swamp guide seemed like a good distraction.

  I entered the address provided by Frank into the GPS on my phone, then drove out of the French Quarter to the interstate, over Lake Pontchartrain, and into Slidell—an interesting combination of commuter suburb and Victorian brick houses. I didn’t have time to enjoy the contrast. I wanted the guide issue settled so I could get to work.

  I drove past every fast-food joint and franchise restaurant I knew and some I didn’t. Just beyond a strip mall, I took a left, trolling by new houses complete with Big Wheels in the driveways and swimming pools in the backyards. These gave way to older and older residences, then mobile homes, and finally shacks. One more turn and bam—there was the swamp. No wonder I’d heard reports of alligators in people’s yards. What did they expect when they put a backyard near an alligator?

  I shut off the motor, and silence pressed down on me. The weight of my cell phone in my pocket was reassuring. I could always call... someone.

  Climbing out of the Lexus, I thanked Frank in absentia. Whenever I was forced into any vehicle smaller than a midsize four-door, I felt as if I were driving a clown car.

  My mother, also quite tall, was an annoyingly slim woman with ice in her veins and hair as dark as her soul. Though she’d had no patience for fairy tales, she’d insisted I was a changeling. Where I’d gotten light green eyes, bright red hair, and an intense desire to play softball no one seemed to know. My appearance had marked me as an outsider, even before my behavior had branded me the same.

  Damp heat brushed my face along with the scent of rotting vegetation and brackish water. My eyes searched the gloom for something. Anything. Though my watch insisted I had a good hour of daylight left, the thick cover of ancient oaks shrouded me in chilly shadow. I saw nothing but a dock and a tributary that disappeared around a bend. Across the water, hundreds of cypress trees dripped Spanish moss into the swamp grass.

  “Hello?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the note. “Adam Ruelle?”

  The only answer was a thick splash, which halted my stride down the dock. How fast could an alligator travel on land? Probably as fast as I could. I might reach the car, and then again I might not.

  But what if that hadn’t been an alligator?

  Wolves are quick, as are big cats, and when dealing with new or undiscovered animals, anything could happen.

  I might have been raised soft, but before Simon and I started spending so much time in the field we’d taken self-defense classes. You couldn’t sleep under the stars in a dozen different states and not run into trouble sooner or later. However, knowing how to disable a man who outweighed me by fifty pounds wasn’t going to do me much good with a wild animal. What had I been thinking to come here
alone, without a gun?

  Except I didn’t own a gun.

  Slowly I backed toward land, keeping my eyes on the flowing water. The muted splashing came closer and closer. I should make a run for it, but I hated to turn my back on whatever lurked in the depths of the lily pad-strewn tributary.

  I heard a rustle that wasn’t a fish, wasn’t even water. More like the whisper of weeds, the snap of a twig. I lifted my gaze to the far shore. A single flower perched atop a waving stalk, the shade of a flame against the dewy blue-green backdrop, as the tall grass swished closed behind a body. Could have been anything, or anyone.

  “Except for the tail,” I murmured.

  Bushy. Black. I tilted my head. Canine? Or feline?

  I walked to the edge of the dock to get a better look at what had already disappeared. When water splashed across my shoes, I started, then slipped.

  I was falling, my arms pin wheeling, my gaze focused, horrified, on the eight-foot alligator, jaws wide and waiting. Someone grabbed me and hauled backward. My heels banged loudly against the wooden slats of the dock, and the alligator let out an annoyed hiss.

  I expected to be released once my feet touched dirt; instead, my savior, my captor, held on tight.

  “Who’re you?” His voice rasped, as if he rarely spoke, and carried both the cadence of the South and a touch of France. I’d never heard another like it.

  “D-d-diana,” I managed, despite a significant lack of breath and a near-painful increase in my heart rate. “Diana Malone.”

  There. I sounded cool, calm, in control, even though I wasn’t.

  “I need a swamp guide,” I continued.

  “No guide here.”

  “I was told there was.”

  “You were told wrong. Take an airboat tour down the way.”

  Cajun, I realized as I strained to understand the words past the sexy accent.

  Sexy? What in hell was wrong with me? I couldn’t even see his face. Maybe I just had a thing for accents.

  I tried to recall what I knew about the culture. It wasn’t much. The Cajuns, originally Acadians, had come to Louisiana from France by way of Canada. Most had settled west of New Orleans, become farmers and fishermen, but that didn’t mean a few hadn’t migrated closer to the Crescent City.

  “Those folks will even let you hold a baby alligator,” he murmured.

  I shivered, remembering how close I’d come to an alligator holding me—and that hadn’t looked like a baby.

  “No, I need—”

  His chin bumped my head; I could have sworn he smelled my hair. I tensed, trying to remember what I’d been taught to get out of this situation, but nothing came to mind.

  He was taller, though not by much, and definitely stronger. With one arm he held me so tightly I couldn’t move. His free palm skimmed up my thigh.

  “Hey!”

  “Woman alone shouldn’t come here,” he whispered. “You might see t’ings you should not.”

  “Like what?”

  Silence settled over us, broken only by the hum of the bugs skimming across the water. I could have sworn I heard a laugh. However, when he spoke, no humor colored his voice.

  “Curious cats should be careful.”

  “Was that a threat?”

  “An observation, cher.”

  Cher? I hadn’t laid eyes on his face, and he was calling me dear? Talk about balls. Or maybe I shouldn’t.

  Twisting, I tried to get free, or at least to see him. He tightened the steel band he used for an arm, and I couldn’t breathe. My breasts—not large, but not bad—jiggled against his wrist. Something stirred against my backside before he released me with a shove.

  By the time I’d caught my balance and whirled around, he’d escaped into the cover of the trees, moving with a grace that reminded me of the ABCs I’d been thinking of when he arrived. His white T-shirt stood out in the encroaching night like a flare. The sleeves had been hacked off in deference to the heat, or maybe to reveal tanned, honed arms. Khaki pants hung on slim hips; he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Dark, shaggy hair sifted across his shoulders. I still couldn’t see his face.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, instead lighting a cigarette, cupping the match in such a way as to keep the glow from reaching anything but tobacco. A bronze bracelet, the same shade as his skin, encircled his wrist. I’d never cared for jewelry on men, but on him the adornment only seemed to emphasize his masculinity.

  “Seen any wolves?”

  He took a deep drag, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, or an appointment in this century. Nevertheless, I sensed a wary interest.

  “Maybe a black coyote?” I pressed.

  The very thought excited me. A black coyote just might get me that Ph.D.

  “How about a big cat?” I continued when he did nothing but take another drag. “Cougar?”

  He blew smoke through his nose. “No wolves this far south.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “Got ’em now. Brought in to hunt nutria rats.”

  I’d read about those. Large rodents that resembled beavers but with a ratlike tail. I hoped the coyotes were winning.

  “Cats?” I asked again. “What about bears?”

  “Bobcat. A few bears. Don’t see ’em much.”

  I was constantly amazed at how easy it was for creatures to hide in their native habitat.

  “I’ve heard there’ve been disappearances. Tales of a wolf.”

  “There will always be tales.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

  His cigarette flared red on one end as he drew on the other. “You a cop?”

  “Scientist.” Saying I was a cryptozoologist only confused people.

  He tossed the butt to the ground. The resulting hiss revealed he’d hit water.

  “Can you guide me?” I stepped forward. “Do you know Adam Ruelle?”

  “No.”

  His voice was mesmerizing. I wanted to keep him talking forever.

  A mighty splash was followed by a thud on the dock. I spun, remembering there were more wild animals in the swamp than furry ones, but there was nothing there.

  Just as there was nothing when I turned back to the trees—no man, no beast.

  I couldn’t even find the cigarette butt.

  Chapter 3

  As I stared at the place where the man had been, a long, low howl rose into the night. The hair on my arms lifted. I could swear the noise came from right in front of me.

  I’m a zoologist. I know howls are funny that way. Not only is it virtually impossible for a human to gauge their direction or distance, but often a few wolves can sound like a whole lot more.

  Of course one sounds like one, and that was one more than there were supposed to be around here.

  “No wolves in the swamp, my ass.”

  Nevertheless, I headed for my car at the fastest clip I could manage and not trip over my feet. I didn’t plan on proving myself right by meeting a lone wolf—or whatever that was. Being right wouldn’t keep me from being dead.

  Since wolves are nocturnal, my best bet would be to return with the sun, a guide, a gun. Maybe a gun wouldn’t even help. Or at least not one that wasn’t loaded with silver bullets.

  The thought startled a laugh out of me. Since the sound was slightly hysterical, I started the car and fled to town, not slowing down until I planted my butt on a bar stool in a place called Kelly’s. There was always a Kelly’s.

  Several blocks over, the music, the voices of Bourbon Street increased as the night progressed. I waited until the tourists cleared out and the locals drifted in; then I started to ask questions.

  “Ruelle ain’t a guide, ye nuts?”

  I frowned at an ancient man, so brown and wrinkled he must have bathed in sunlight for the past forty years. Why had Frank sent me to Ruelle if he was—?

  “What is he?”

  “Crazy.”

  “Crazy how?”

  My companion stared into the bottom of hi
s empty beer mug with an expression of such pathetic loneliness that I waved a finger, and the bartender filled it.

  “He owns a mansion at the edge of the swamp, but the thing’s all fallin’ down. He lives in the wild.”

  “Then he is familiar with the area.”

  “Better’n anyone. But he ain’t been seen for years. He’s probably dead.”

  Maybe Frank had known Adam before he’d lost his mind.

  “Why would Ruelle abandon the family home?”

  “He went into the army right out of high school. Word is he joined some hotshot Special Forces group. When he came home he couldn’t live in the world anymore, so he went into the swamp.”

  I found myself wondering why a young man with any other opportunity would enlist. Of course I’d turned my back on opportunity, too, preferring to sleep in a tent with the man of my dreams rather than make oodles of money working for Daddy. However, I doubted Adam Ruelle had become a soldier because of a woman. Then again, maybe he had.

  While I considered what I’d heard, I picked up a book of matches on the bar emblazoned with a spooky font that spelled out Cassandra’s.

  The old man leaned over and tapped the word with a nicotine-stained finger. “You wanna learn about voodoo and such?”

  “Huh?”

  “Priestess Cassandra bought Marie Laveau’s old house on Royal Street.”

  “Marie Laveau the voodoo queen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, warming to his subject “Most think Marie was actually two women—a mother and a daughter. When one died, the other took her place, which explains why folks believed Marie had power.”

  “Growing younger and not dying will do that.”

  “No one knows where Marie lived for certain,” the bartender said, “or where she’s buried, neither.”

  “She’s buried in St. Louis Cemetery Number One,” the old man stated. “Second most visited grave site in the country.”

  “What’s the first?” I was betting on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier or maybe the Eternal Flame.

  “Graceland.”

  Well, no one’s ever claimed that Americans aren’t bizarre.