Under the Midnight Cloak

by S. Y. Thompson

  She paused at the shadowy entrance, afraid of what she might find. Then she leaned around the frame to peer inside. Nothing seemed disturbed.

  "Hank?" Jamison's voice was barely above a whisper, but Hank would respond if he still lived.

  She moved into the living room and could see that a massive struggle had taken place. Overturned furniture and shattered glass lay everywhere. Blood spatters abounded and in one spot a red stain adorned a wall. The rich, iron smell permeated the air, causing the fine hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. Debris littered the floor as she stepped toward the rear of the house and the kitchen.

  Her foot struck something yielding and she recognized at once that it was flesh.

  "Hank!"

  With the overturned loveseat covering him, Jamison hadn't been able to see him. Only his arm extended and that had been concealed by the rubble. Now she could see streaks of blood covering his exposed flesh. Fear coursed through her veins and her tongue cleaved dryly to the roof of her mouth. She grabbed the end of the small sofa with one hand and heaved the piece of furniture off him. It landed several feet away with a crash, but she ignored it as she dropped to her knees and fought the urge to be sick.

  Furiously blinking back the tears, Jamison forced herself to look at him. Hank's body was slashed in countless places, no doubt by the wicked claws she had seen earlier. He hadn't even partially shifted and she saw that he wore pajamas. He'd probably been sleeping on the sofa when the intruder attacked and hadn't had time to react. Hank never stood a chance, but the murderer hadn't been content merely to take his life. She swallowed thickly and looked away from where his head should have been.

  The beast had ruthlessly decapitated him.

  A noise from deeper in the house, a sudden thump, brought her back to her surroundings. Jamison jumped to her feet and looked back toward the kitchen. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed over to the wall and moved toward the rear of the house. Nothing rushed out at her, but the destruction she'd witnessed in the foyer and the living room continued as she progressed. Jamison hesitated before stepping around the corner into the kitchen. This was where the noise had originated. Had the killer returned?

  She pressed one hand against the wall, mentally bracing herself for what she'd find. Jamison absently felt the drying blood on her hand, from where she'd touched Hank, adhere to the sheetrock, but she focused the bulk of her attention on the darkened room. Slowly she leaned around the doorframe and the sight that greeted her caused her blood to freeze. The back door stood open and the breeze had caused it to thump against the frame, but that wasn't what captured her attention. Her vision narrowed down until all she could see was Hank's disembodied head resting in the center of the kitchen table.

  Bile rose swiftly in her throat and Jamison sprinted for the door. She barely made it beyond the rear steps before she threw up in great, wrenching heaves. Every time she thought she had the spasms under control, she'd remember Hank's lifeless eyes and they'd start anew.

  Finally, nothing was left in her stomach. She leaned over with her hands on her knees taking great shuddering breaths. A car door slammed and she frowned.

  Who would come out here at this time of the night?

  Had another Panthera sensed her distress? Jamison didn't think that was likely since the only one who knew she was here had no concern for her welfare.

  Jamison walked around the side of the house, unable to risk seeing Hank's body again. She sniffled slightly, but quickly pulled her composure around her when she saw Sheriff Macke.

  "Why are you here?"

  Sam studied Jamison's appearance before she responded slowly. "I got an anonymous tip that it sounded like a fight was going on in the house. Are you all right?"

  Jamison nodded. "Hank doesn't have any neighbors. How would anyone know what was going on?"

  The sound of the screen door slamming made her start and whirl quickly back toward the house. Dalton was coming down the steps with a grim look on his face. Blood smeared the front of his blue and white striped shirt.

  "Did you see him?" she asked quietly.

  Dalton frowned, looking back and forth from Sam to Jamison. "See who?"

  "Hank. He's dead."

  "What?" Dalton's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in surprise. "I didn't see anything like that, but there sure is a lot of blood in there."

  "Hold on," Sam said sharply, "Who's dead? What happened here?"

  "It's Hank Morgan, he's an elder on the Council," Jamison said to the sheriff before she turned to her beta. "You must have seen him. He's lying on the living room floor."

  Aaron shook his head.

  "All right, stay here." Sheriff Macke put her hand on her side arm and walked up the steps before disappearing into the house. As soon as she disappeared, Jamison confronted Dalton.

  "You had to have seen him. That lion killed him, it decapitated him and put his damned head on the kitchen table like it was some kind of display."

  "I didn't see anything like that," he insisted, rage coloring his answer. "All I know is I get here and you're covered in blood going on about an elder being murdered. Then I walk in and find his living room looking like a slaughterhouse."

  Fury rose swift and deep, her eyes taking on more of the deep blue of a jaguar rather than the intense green. All of his previous comments about Hank and now the denial of his death made her want to shift and tear the truth out of him.

  "I was trying to save him, but you weren't here when it happened." She eyed him suspiciously. "Why is there blood on your shirt? How do I know it wasn't you?"

  Dalton couldn't shift as quickly as Jamison, but that didn't stop him striding toward her as his shirt split at the seams.

  "Stop it! Right now!"

  Sam's angry shout made both of them hesitate. The sheriff had her gun out and aimed in their direction. "You can piss all over the place and mark your territory later. Right now I want to know what happened. Starting with you, Ranger Kessler."

  "I...I came over to let Hank know what happened," she said shakily, visions of his mutilated body fresh in her mind's eye.

  "And your truck?" Sam asked, gesturing to the battered vehicle. "It looks like you ran into a tree."

  She shook her head. "Not a tree. That...thing was here. It came right at me."

  "So you used your pickup as a battering ram?"

  Jamison nodded.

  "Then what?"

  "It got up like nothing happened and ran for the trees. I wanted to go after it, but the front door was open. I was worried about Hank so I went inside."

  "Just like that?" Dalton asked mockingly. "You didn't even think about calling for some help when we were only a short distance away?"

  She wanted to pummel him, but the doubtful look on the sheriff's face brought her up short. "No, I didn't. I wanted to make sure Hank was okay...but he wasn't. He was dead."

  "How did you get covered in blood?" Sam asked gently, able to see the shock Jamison was going into.

  Jamison shivered slightly. "I pulled him out from under some stuff, furniture, I think. I didn't know until then that he was dead, decapitated."

  Sam didn't respond; she only stared at Jamison for several long seconds. Then she asked Dalton, "What are you doing here and same question...why are you covered in blood?"

  "Uh, I came up here to see if Kessler was all right."

  "Since when do you care?" Jamison fired at him with all her pent up frustration.

  "Hey, in case you didn't notice there's a predator running around. You said you were coming over here to talk to Hank, but you never came back. I was just checking on you."

  "I never said I was coming back. Didn't I give you orders to check the woods? Why are you still here, anyway?"

  "Whatever," Sam interrupted. She gestured toward Dalton's ruined shirt. "And the blood?"

  He looked down as if seeing the gore for the first time, hesitating far too long before responding. "It must have happened back in the meadow."

  Sheriff Mac
ke's eyes narrowed, as did Jamison's. He was obviously lying, but about what? Before Jamison could ask, the sheriff said, "I need to get some crime scene techs out here, but I don't want either of you going anywhere. You'll have to give statements and I'm going to have my people collect blood evidence from both of you, just to rule you out as suspects."

  Jamison thought it more likely that Sam suspected one or both of them, but at least she was doing her job. If Dalton had something to do with Hank's death, Jamison wanted to know too.

  "What about Hank? You can't just leave him there like that," Jamison said.

  "Miss Kessler," Sam said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but there's no body inside that house."

  "What? That can't be. He was just there."

  "I didn't see anything either," Dalton said.

  Jamison started for the house, but she didn't get far. Sheriff Macke moved to block her path. "Move, I'll show you where he is."

  "No, you won't."

  A growl ripped from her throat and Jamison reached out to physically remove the small human from her path.

  "Don't even think about it," Sam shouted before Jamison could touch her. "This is a crime scene now and you aren't law enforcement. Your authority ended with a meadow full of dead sheep."

  Jamison held her temper with superhuman effort. She ground her teeth until she had full control and said, "You're either very brave or very stupid."

  "Probably a little of both," Sam said. "I'm just glad you stopped. Look, Jamison, you're going to have to trust me to do my job."

  Jamison's eyes brimmed with tears and she blinked them back. "He was in there, you have to believe me."

  "I do. His head is exactly where you said, but his body is missing. Let us find out how and why."

  Finally, Jamison nodded and looked away. "All right. I realize you have a job to do and I'll cooperate."

  Sam walked back into the house, pulling out her radio at the same time to contact her people. Jamison turned back to demand that Dalton tell her what he was hiding, but he was already gone. Looking around, Jamison spotted him standing near the porch close to the sheriff. Frustration simmered in her veins because she knew he'd deliberately walked over there so she couldn't question him. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LEE ROLLED OVER and groaned in her sleep. A fine sheen of sweat broke out over her skin as the dream coalesced into clear images.

  Millions of stars blinked in the night sky, obscured randomly by storm clouds that refused to release the promise of rain. All around the woods were silent, heavy with the portent of impending homicide. Darkness encroached on the truck from all sides, a living thing conspiring to press the doors closed and prevent any escape. Just as quickly, the vehicle became a refuge rather than a prison when a monstrous creature turned its head and peered at her through a moonlight-colored gaze.

  Tension coiled tightly in the pit of her stomach. She waited, her breath held, for the moment to break. Then the great, hulking brute charged toward her. Terror made Lee's heart beat faster; adrenaline flooding her veins.

  Unexpectedly, the vision changed, morphing like heat waves off a street. The creature was gone and she stood alone under the moonlight, but her body looked strange. Not hers. Dark hair glistened over tanned flesh and dangerously carved claws adorned her fingertips. Lee felt incisors erupt into deadly fangs. A shadow of soft pelt rose from her abdomen and disappeared into the waistband of her jeans.

  She felt strong, the forest came alive and her senses exploded. Lee tasted the air, she breathed the colors and her mind saw the dampness of the nearby lake. Frightened woodland creatures shivered and cowered under the cover of shadow, hidden amidst rocks and brush. They were afraid of her, but they feared the other even more.

  Her concentration shifted again and Lee found she had left the clearing. She discovered wood under her feet, not the type she'd find in the wilderness, but the kind processed in a sawmill. She was inside a structure. A house.

  Furniture had been broken like kindling, lamps smashed. An iron, coppery scent hung in the air and the urge to hunt nearly overtook her. As quickly as the need struck, she shook it away. Blood was life, but in this case, it was despair. Someone who mattered dwelled here.

  "No," she mumbled in her sleep, desperate to leave the carnage-soaked landscape she sensed was on the verge of revelation.

  With unbelievable strength, she upended the loveseat and watched it crash against the wall at the far end of the room. A man lay beneath, but he would never draw another breath. Blood soaked the floor where his head should have rested and covered what remained of his body. Her heart twisted in misery and anger. He had been like a father to her and a daughter's sorrow battled with the rage that encouraged her to destroy the one responsible.

  Grief won out and Lee crumpled to the floor on her knees, holding the mangled form protectively against her breast. Her shirt soaked up the half-dried blood, but she didn't release the nameless man until a sound made her look up.

  Was the murderer in the house somewhere? Had she missed the signs that the thing had returned? Lee's nostrils flared, but she didn't smell anyone else inside the dwelling.

  She laid the man gently against the floor. In an instant she was near the kitchen, the only room from which an overhead light burned. Lee didn't want to enter the chamber, she fought her body's forward movement, crying out to stop before her eyes witnessed what she knew she'd find.

  Lee screamed and sat upright in the bed, her eyes darting furiously around the darkened room. An animal clawed at her and she caught herself from striking out just in time to realize it was Cleo.

  "It was a dream," she gasped, reassured by the strong sound of her own voice and the warm body pressing against her.

  Cleo frantically licked at her face and Lee pulled away, reaching up to hold her furry friend. Her heart slowly took on a more normal cadence and she needed a few moments to get her breathing under control.

  "I'm okay. Good girl."

  When she felt she might be able to safely stand, Lee pushed back the covers and navigated into the bathroom by moonlight. She flipped on the overhead switch and blinked against the glare before she walked over to the sink and twisted the tap.

  Lee cupped cool water in her hands and splashed her face repeatedly, trying to wash away the last traces of the horrific nightmare. Then she gripped the edge of the basin with still shaking hands and looked up into her reflection only to find a stranger's eyes staring back.

  Amber bursts of lightning flared intermittently in the deep blue depths. A phantasm of color swirling similar to a single-hued storm of fireworks. Shocked, she reared back from the mirror. Lee clenched her eyes as tightly closed as possible and shook her head. Then she opened them again and leaned forward, desperately searching the cornflower orbs.

  Normal, she thought in relief.

  She let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The dream had affected her even more than she had at first realized. She shivered and reached for a towel, drying her face without glancing into the mirror again. Lee threw the towel over her shoulder and walked back into the bedroom. Cleo still stood on the queen-sized bed, gazing at her with doggy worry in her brown eyes.

  "It was just a dream, girl. We're okay."

  Cleo seemed to take her at her word, lying down as Lee set logs to burn in the fireplace. A few minutes later the blaze caught and Lee felt some of the tension leech out of her shoulders. A quick look at the clock told her it was three in the morning and she doubted she'd get back to sleep tonight.

  Crouching on her knees in front of the flames, Lee wondered what could have brought on such a horrific dream. Surely, the trespassers hadn't bothered her so much that her subconscious would generate such nocturnal imagery over it.

  Maybe if she'd been able to get hold of the sheriff, or even have a car come out to take a report she'd have felt better. Unfortunately, the dispatcher had told her that everyone was busy and unless it was an emergency, she coul
dn't pull someone away from another call just to take a report.

  But it wasn't an emergency, she thought. It was just some kids playing around and I need to get over it. They didn't hurt anything and the whole thing isn't worth these kinds of dreams. I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

  Lee stood and walked out of the bedroom. She entered the library and switched on the overhead light before heading straight to the bar. Silly or not, the dream had felt entirely real and tenaciously clung to the back of her mind. She pulled out a small, crystal snifter and a bottle of brandy. Lee had just poured a generous shot when the doorbell rang.

  Who on Earth?

  Cleo barked and ran toward the front door, her claws making small ticking sounds against the wooden floor. Lee frowned and set the glass on the bar before she followed in Cleo's wake. The doorbell sounded again before she reached it and she peered through the small fisheye window centered in the mahogany door. Her frown changed into a delighted smile and Lee quickly unlocked the deadbolts. She started speaking as soon as the door swung open.

  "This is a nice surprise..."

  Her voice trailed off when she registered the shock and sorrow in Jamison's eyes and the dark, reddish-brown stains on her hands and wrists. Jamison had one large brown smudge across her cheek.

  "Jamison! Are you all right?"

  Lee grasped her left hand and urged her to come inside. Jamison entered mutely, staring down at their entwined fingers. She hadn't spoken and that, more than anything, scared Lee.

  "Come in and sit down. I'll call an ambulance."

  "It's not my blood."

  With her heart rushing in her ears, Lee didn't really hear. She led Jamison into the living room and had her sit in the easy chair while she switched on a lamp. Then she returned and knelt between Jamison's thighs.

  "What did you say, honey?" The endearment slipped out without thought as she brushed the dark hair back from Jamison's forehead, visually inspecting for any signs of injury.