Demon Wolf

by Bonnie Vanak

  The woman’s chin lifted to a stubborn angle. “I made a mistake.”

  “I’d say so.”

  Mark was growing impatient, rain trickling down his collar. He’d been expecting assassins. He’d never met a professional killer with a child in tow, but such things weren’t impossible. Some would do anything to make a target drop his guard. All that fear he smelled didn’t make her innocent.

  He lunged forward and yanked her hood back, wanting to see the woman’s face.

  “Hey!” She blinked against the rain, her mouth opening in a startled gasp. It was a nice mouth, wide and soft and giving her features a vulnerable, unconventional beauty. Her face was more long than oval, framed by squiggling tendrils of rain-soaked hair.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. She was lovely. Desire rose in a sudden heat, but this time it held more lust than appetite.

  “Back off!” She crouched, wrapping her arms around the boy and scooping him onto her hip. The fiercely protective gesture put her body between Mark and the youngster. The swift, selfless courage pulled at his instincts. Whoever this woman was, she was magnificent.

  But the child made no more sound than a ghost, and that silence dragged Mark’s attention away from the female. The boy has to be sick or exhausted. He’s cold and wet and it’s dark and his mother is frightened. Most kids would be crying by now. This one hasn’t made a peep.

  “I apologize.” Mark frowned, his tone making the statement a lie. “Who are you?”

  She backed away. “Bree. Who are you?”

  “Mark. Is that your son?”

  “Yes.” She shifted uncomfortably, rain trickling down her face. The moment dragged. “Is that your cabin?” she finally asked, her tone torn between need and reluctance. “It’s cold out here.”

  Mark bristled, edgy. No one came to his property by accident—it was too far from civilization. Then again, his unexpected guests weren’t going to survive the night without shelter. Kill or protect. Food or willing flesh. Be the vampire, or be the healer. For centuries, the debate had worn on Mark, eventually driving him to his island retreat. He wasn’t a monster when there was no one to kill. He liked it that way. This woman was interrupting his peace.

  Still, a good hunter never harmed a mother with fragile young. “Come inside. Your boy needs to get out of the rain.”

  “Thank you.” The woman bowed her head, her expression a mix of relief and new worries. She didn’t trust him. Smart woman.

  Mark took her elbow, steering her down the path rather than letting her walk behind him. He might be taking pity on the woman, but he still didn’t trust her. After climbing the wooden steps to the cabin and opening the door, he gave Bree a gentle push inside.

  After shuffling forward a few steps, she stopped, reminding him of an automaton winding down. Water dripped from her clothes, puddling on the old, dark wood of the floor. She shivered with cold as she let the boy slide from her hip to stand clutching her thigh. He saw the child, at least, was dryer, as if she’d done her best to keep him out of the water.

  Mark knelt to stoke the fire in the stove, keeping one eye on his visitor. The cast-iron door squeaked as he opened it, a blast of hot air lifting the hair from his face. Bree drifted closer, lured by the heat. Pressing himself to her side, the boy clung to her hand.

  The firelight played on her skin, highlighting the gentle flare of her cheekbones. She unbuttoned her coat with her free hand, then pushed back her long, wet tangle of hair. The gesture was slow, almost listless. Bree was a woman at the limit of her strength.

  “The fire feels so good,” she said softly. She lowered the khaki backpack she carried to the floor. It sagged into a damp heap.

  Mark studied her, his curiosity every bit as hot as the fire. “How long were you out there?”

  “I’m not sure. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been that long.”

  “Where did you sail from?”

  She didn’t reply, but stared into the burning core of the stove. A few wisps of hair were already drying, curling into pale waves.

  Mark waited in the silence. He could use vampire power to compel the answer, but he chose to be patient. Something else had drawn his attention. Crouched before the stove, he was level with the boy. The child was good-looking, dark-haired, but thin. Mark caught his gaze just long enough to see a lively intelligence before the brown eyes shied away. Once again, Mark noticed that the boy never spoke. Was he simply afraid? Or was it more than that?

  Dark circles ringed the child’s eyes. He was exhausted, thin and probably anemic. Mark had medical training, but any vampire could have diagnosed as much. The boy’s scent was wrong. “Your son is ill.”

  Bree pulled the boy a fraction closer. “Jonathan’s just tired.” A look of chagrin flickered across her face, as if she hadn’t meant to give even that much away.

  “I’m a doctor,” Mark said. “You’d better let me take a look.”

  Bree looked at him sharply, her full lips parting as if to protest, then pressing into a tight line. “No.”

  The refusal didn’t surprise him. The protective arm she had curled around the boy’s shoulders said everything, but Mark didn’t give in. “I might be able to help.”

  “I’ve taken him to a G.P. already, and they sent me to a specialist.”

  “And?”

  “They were no help.”

  Mark offered a smile. “Whoever they were, I’m better.” Suddenly, illogically, it was important to prove it. It had become a challenge. Beware your pride. It would be easier to just send her on her way.

  Her brow furrowed, as if she didn’t know how to reply. As Mark rose to his feet, Bree tilted her head slightly to watch his face. He was half a head taller, so he had to look down into her eyes.

  Beneath the scent of woods and ocean, there was the warm, earthy smell of female, sweet as sun-warmed peaches. The cabin, with its shabby chair and dark shadows, seemed slightly shocked by the female presence. Or maybe that was just him. Somewhere in the past few minutes she’d morphed in his mind from food to mother to woman. It had been a long time since he’d thought about a mortal female that way. It was almost a novelty.

  “First, let me take your coat,” he said, remembering he had once possessed a gentleman’s manners. He was fine with patients, but now the conversation felt painfully stilted. He never had guests, much less mortal ones. Vampires differed little from humans on the surface, but there were a thousand ways he might betray himself. For instance, it was a sustained effort to remember to breathe when he wasn’t talking.

  As if sensing his unease, she clutched the collar of the garment for a moment, but then gave way with a sigh. “Thanks.”

  She surrendered the wet trench coat silently, letting go of Jonathan’s hand just long enough to free the sleeve. Mark hung the garment on a peg close enough to the stove that it would dry.

  “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We can find you two something to eat.”

  It was a mild deception. As he’d planned, the mention of food caught her attention.

  “It’s been a long time since Jonathan had dinner,” she said.

  “I’ll take care of that. It’ll be my pleasure.”

  Her eyes flicked to his at the last word, imbuing it with extra meaning. Then, she looked away quickly, as if regretting that moment of connection.

  Mark smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. “This way.”

  Wordlessly, reluctantly, Bree followed him, Jonathan at her heels.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he offered.

  “I don’t drink.” She bit the words off as if he’d offended her. Fine. Whatever.

  Mark turned on the overhead bulbs, washing the room in stark brightness. Bree followed, blinking at the bright light. Suddenly, she was in color. Her face was dusted with golden freckles, her eyes shifting between green and blue. A few strands of hair had dried around her face, morphing into long, tawny ripples. He put her somewhere in her mid-twenties, younger than he’d fi
rst thought. Hers was a face meant for summer afternoons.

  Mark washed his hands in the chipped enamel sink. Then he bent and lifted Jonathan to sit on the battered wooden table.

  “What are you doing?” Bree demanded.

  Mark ignored her. The boy inhaled, but didn’t protest. Mark bent to catch the child’s eye again, using a tiny push of compulsion to calm him. “Hello, Jonathan. How old are you?”

  “Almost four,” Bree answered on his behalf.

  Mark frowned. Now that there was good light, he could see the child’s pallor. “How long has he been sick?”

  She looked about to protest, as if to say she’d already refused medical advice, but then surrender washed over her features. “Just after his third birthday, I noticed he couldn’t play for long without getting breathless. Then about five months ago, he stopped talking.”

  “Fever?”

  “Off and on.”

  “What other symptoms?”

  “There have been no rashes or anything like that. He’s not in pain that I can tell.”

  Now that they’d begun, her voice was brittle with worry. Mark wanted to reach over, brush the curve of her cheek in a gesture of comfort. The blood hunger leaped to life, drawing his eyes down the V-neck of her cotton sweater. He forced his gaze away. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him. They can dry while I do the exam.”

  It was a good plan, but doomed to frustration. Mark had brought his doctor’s bag to the cabin, but it was meant for emergencies, not laboratory-level diagnoses. Some of Jonathan’s abdominal organs seemed to be tender, but it was hard to tell when the patient couldn’t speak. He asked many more questions, but Bree’s answers could only help so much.

  “He needs tests. The nearest place that does that kind of work is in Redwood. I can arrange it if you want.” Mark watched her carefully. Her gaze lowered, but he could still see her weighing the odds, her son’s health against—what? “Is there a problem with insurance?”

  For a moment, she looked as if she was in physical pain. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “How can I help?” The question came instantly to Mark’s lips, surprising him a little.

  “You can’t.”

  “I can see your son gets the treatment he needs.”

  “That’s not your decision.” She sounded almost angry.

  Mark’s temper stirred in reply. “Don’t the child’s needs come first?”

  She cursed so softly he almost missed it. “I need to think.” She scooped Jonathan into her arms and walked back to the front room, cradling him against her shoulder. The boy’s dark eyes watched Mark from over his mother’s back.

  The sudden silence in the kitchen jarred. Mark stared at the litter of doctor’s instruments on the kitchen table and cursed. He was trying to help, but something wasn’t right. Too many questions crowded into his mind, and he had a feeling none of the answers were pleasant. Why involve yourself with their troubles? You were at peace with just the other beasts for company.

  But the one human attribute that still plagued him was curiosity. Bree and her son obviously had a story, and he wanted to know what it was. With speed born of long practice, he tidied away his medical equipment. After that he found some cans of tomato soup in the cupboards. He never had visitors, but kept a small stock of human food for emergencies. He probably should have offered food first, but he’d forgotten many of those small courtesies. Such were the hazards of living mostly among his own kind.

  Mark returned to the sitting room, about to ask if he could make tea or coffee. Bree was slouched in his chair, Jonathan—now in dry clothes—asleep in the curve of her arm. Mark’s step hitched, caught for a moment by the peaceful tableau. Mother and child. It never got old.

  She rose to her feet, a graceful unfolding of her long, slender legs. Mark watched with appreciation until she brought his own Browning pistol into view, aiming straight for his chest.

  A lightning glance saw the weapons cupboard standing open. She’d picked the lock. By all the fiery hells! Shock soured to bitterness. “So you are here to kill me.”

  “Paranoid much?” He could hear fear in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to kill you. I just want your car keys and all your cash.”

  It was for him, her husband.

  Copyright © 2014 by Naomie Lester

  ISBN-13: 9781460333495

  DEMON WOLF

  Copyright © 2014 by Bonnie Vanak

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