Stranger Creatures 2: Bear's Edge

by Christina Lynn Lambert

  The Saint Patrick’s Day Festival had wine and beer stations, live shows, and games like cornhole, log throwing, and target archery. The event was being held outside on a particularly cold day in March, a frigid throwback to dead-of-winter cold, which meant people were drinking to stay warm while looking stupid trying to win games, and taking lots of selfies of themselves with pink noses and snotcicles.

  Watching drunk people play games was way more entertaining for Grant than the mildly talented band or lame dance shows. He stayed a good distance away from the archery range, though. Alcohol and arrows—not a great combo. Never a great day to get shot with an arrow. Greg had shot him once, to teach him how to shift efficiently during an injury. Grant had shot him back later that night. Just because.

  After Grant; Sydney; her husband, Derrick; their adopted daughter, Angel, and Shayla had gone around to a few more booths to stock up on cookies, coffee, wine, apple cider, and some hot chocolate for Angel, Derrick spread a huge quilt on the ground. Grant wound up sitting next to Shayla, who looked appetizing in her tall black boots and formfitting jeans. Her hair was loose that day. She usually wore it up in a bun or ponytail or some complicated braid thing. Today, dark-blonde waves framed her face, and Grant wondered what her thick hair would feel like tickling his neck or spilling against his thighs.

  Locks of her hair escaped her coat’s hood and moved in the wind. “My stupid clip broke,” she explained, scowling at the inconvenience. Grant chuckled. Shayla’s knees brushed his, and he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.

  The festival was all very normal, all very fun, with families of all sizes, shapes, and colors sitting on blankets across the clearing in the park. Grant hadn’t had a Sunday-dinner and family-fun-at-festivals kind of childhood. Grant had played games like “pick up the empty beer bottles and hide from mom’s drunk boyfriends,” or “swipe shit out of unlocked cars to pawn for rent or groceries,” or, his personal favorite, “hope to see Mom in the audience at a school award ceremony or play.” The last game had the most diminishing returns, objectively speaking, but he’d played that game the longest.

  The heart and soul begged for fuel the same as the body did. Another one of those illogical things about humanity that just confused Grant but was best accepted as a necessary factor in the human equation. When he’d been at his weakest—bloody, alone, hungry, and scared—Brian, Freddy, Joe, and Maya had come along and taken him into their world. Years later, Grant had been ready to propose to Maya and make Brian, Freddy, and Joe his best men at the wedding.

  Brian’s family had been so much fun to hang around, telling Grant many times they considered him a part of the family. Grant was Brian’s “brother from another mother,” they all used to say. Families did seemingly normal everyday things like go on picnics and shit, only Grant didn’t have a family, couldn’t revel in the joy of being a part of Brian’s because, just because, and Grant fucking refused to entertain the idea of having his own. What, so I can lose that too?

  Yet there he was, sitting with friends who just kept inviting him out, kept talking to him despite his frequent lack of significant contribution to the conversation. They kept insisting on his presence despite the fact that he rarely reciprocated the requests. Being an asshole would ensure they left him alone, but he couldn’t force himself to do that.

  Grant found himself looking among the crowd, at the stands and the games for possible hazards or anything around them that could go wrong. A lot of people were drinking. That in itself set him on edge, though he tried to keep in mind that these people weren’t doing the same heavy drinking that had gone on around him during childhood. Some people were being loud. Some people were being stupid. Each idiot had disaster potential. Risk assessment, a security professional would call it, except that risk assessment wasn’t Grant’s job.

  Maybe it’s time to leave for the day. Get my head together. The overwhelming feelings of fear and acknowledgment had crept into him. He cared about the people near him and not just because they were nice to him and he didn’t want to hurt their feelings. He knew things about them, things they liked, things that made them sad, things they had been through. Little by little, it had chipped away at Grant’s armor, and his unprotected self protested. The bear huffed and stirred against his mind to try to soothe him. Stupid bear. Grant hated the bear.

  Liar, said the bear.

  Grant bowed his head, saying nothing to the bear. Shayla was shivering and holding her chocolate-caramel coffee in her hands but not sipping.

  “Trying to stay warm,” she said through slightly chattering teeth. Because he was obviously stupid and weak willed, Grant took his jacket off to wrap around her, then pulled her against his side. She cuddled up against him, and in seconds her shivering stopped.

  “Wow, Grant, you’re like a furnace!” she exclaimed.

  “Sorry.” He started to move away.

  “No way. Don’t you dare move! This is the first time I’ve been warm since we got here!” As if Mother Nature took her cue from her children’s complaints, it began to snow, just tiny little flakes, but Grant took his chance and pulled her closer. Shayla sighed, actually sighed, and closed her eyes. Angel giggled, and it snowed a little harder, just for a moment. Then the snow stopped.

  Grant had forgotten for a moment that Angel was a rare weather shifter. She could use her gift to cause rain, sleet, and snow. She could make the air around her swirl, and she could make it still and humid. He winked at Angel in thanks for the snowflakes. Sydney and Derrick were both wolf shifters, but Sydney had mentioned before to Grant that she doubted Shayla knew anything of the strange abilities some people had.

  He had soft, petite Shayla in his arms again. Now it was Grant who closed his eyes. Sure, he and Shayla had hugged before, in a friendly way. Well, she probably considered it a friendly gesture. He, on the other hand, felt he had done a very good job of denying his overwhelming urge to press her up against a wall and kiss her beautiful mouth.

  The bear within Grant kept him hot to the touch, but Grant was a big guy anyway at six feet five, so he his body temperature ran warmer than most other people. Great in winter but kind of sucked in summer. Shayla would probably not want to be anywhere near his burning body furnace then. Every passing second that he held her against him, felt her breathing, and her hair blowing gently against his neck, was precious, and he couldn’t bring himself to let it go. He opened his eyes to see Sydney smiling a wicked Cheshire-cat grin that said, “ha, fight that.” And he couldn’t. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  * * * *

  Shayla pulled her hair up in a bun and stepped out of her robe. A warm bath after a cold day outside at the Saint Patrick’s Day Festival would be perfect. Actually, during part of the festival, she’d stayed pretty warm, all cuddled up next to Grant, the mystery man, but she liked her old-fashioned bathtub and didn’t mind finding any excuse to use it. Besides, having overdone it in Pilates the day before meant some overstretched muscles could use the heat of the bath. Shayla stepped into the tub, stuck her new e-reader in its waterproof case—she’d never make that mistake again—and laid her head back against the towel rolled up at the rim of the tub.

  A few moments of soaking, and her sore muscles were uncoiling, and her book had gotten steamier than the foggy air in her bathroom. A particularly juicy scene unfolded in the story, and her mind drew salacious pictures that sent surges of energy sparking from her belly out to her breasts and between her thighs. She shouldn’t be picturing him, especially not naked, but she couldn’t stop. The scorching image made her press her fingers to her clit to ease the ache, stroking while she read.

  “Oh, not even!” She snapped the cover over the front of her e-reader and set it down on the nearby counter. Due to her lack of mental discipline, she had been picturing the sexy vampire hero looking like Grant—with fangs. Worse than just picturing Grant as the sexy hero, Shayla’s imagination had plugged in her own face and body in the role of the heroine receiving Grant the vampire’s bold, masterfu
l skills in the bedroom.

  Shayla let out a shaky breath, unplugged the tub’s drain, and stepped out onto the soft, plushy bath mat. Her legs were jelly, and not because of yesterday’s Pilates. Grant the imaginary masterful vampire lover had possessed skillful hands and a hard, hungry body. She had forgotten the scene in the book, and her imagination had created her very own wild scene. Yes, she was so done reading for the evening. Both the book she had refused to finish reading and her bath-time fantasy scene absolutely paled in comparison to the dreams that found her later that night.

  The next morning, during a staff meeting, her mind kept flashing back to her steamy visions. She glanced at Grant and tried her hardest to get a handle on those dream memories. One scene in particular, where she’d been naked in a rocky cave, riding a wild and completely out-of-control Grant. She sucked in a breath and bit her lip. Grant stopped midsentence and glanced straight at her. The look on his face reminded her of the wild, passionate Grant in her dream. Shit! No way! No way on earth can he read my mind! When he turned his focus back to his presentation, she sagged against her seat in relief. He’d probably caught her looking a little longingly at him. He wanted her too. Desire acknowledged. Moment over. There would be no more moments.

  As they left the meeting room, Grant brushed past her and paused. He started to speak, stopped, and then gave her a simple “see ya later.” She wished then that she could read his mind, but no, that would be a bad idea. She had to remember that she was his boss. She vowed to get Grant off her mind any way she could—maybe go on a few dates, undergo hypnosis, have a lobotomy, whatever it took. In the meantime, she planned on giving Mr. Ever-ready, the greatest battery-powered lover on the planet, a workout when she got home that evening.

  Chapter Four

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Grant reminded Shayla. Even though she looked tough and prepared, Grant scented a bit of fear coming off her. A few days before, during a meeting, he’d scented desire on her. For a brief moment, she’d looked at him as if she wanted to ride his cock into oblivion, and he’d wanted to kick everybody out of the room and make it happen. He’d forced himself to walk away, refusing to ask her if it really mattered that she was his boss. It would matter to her, and he knew nothing would work out between them anyway. The fact that he wanted inside her didn’t matter at the moment. He needed to put a stop to her having to be afraid. Too bad he couldn’t cancel the whole interview.

  “I know I don’t have to do the interview,” she assured him. “But I’m doing it for the money the show will donate to Hope and Healing. And to make Kendall Baron leave me alone for good.”

  “I’ll make her leave you alone,” he grumbled.

  Shayla snickered. “This reporter is the same one who forced me into an interview when I was in the hospital, and then she bugged the crap out of me until I did a follow-up talk months later. She’s irritating and persistent and also kind of a conspiracy-theory nut, but come on, one interview can’t last forever, right?” The slight hitch in her voice gave her away. She didn’t want to do this. “Plus, free publicity for Brass Cat Advertising, so win-win.” The fear scent got stronger in the air.

  Grant laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m here if you need me.”

  “I’ll be fine, but thanks.” Her smile was sweet and sad. Shayla headed for the conference room and Grant for the security room so he could watch the interview over the camera feed without being intrusive.

  The woman interviewing Shayla had the illusion of strength with her dark power suit and her hair in a sleek bun. Her black-framed glasses looked like a slutty librarian costume prop. Kendall Baron was posturing, working hard to come across as a sexy, smart interviewer. Grant watched the woman with too much makeup and too little humanity steer the interview none too gently away from talk of Shayla’s favorite charity and her work at Brass Cat Advertising to the details of the commuter-van bombing Shayla had survived. That fucking hag even pushed pictures in front of Shayla, forcing her to look at images that probably haunted her. Shayla was prepared, Grant knew, but still, that shit couldn’t be easy to talk about. He had outright refused to talk about what he’d survived.

  Then, Baron played a video of footage from the van’s surveillance camera that had downloaded to a security company’s main server before the camera had been destroyed. Horrified, Grant watched a clip of Shayla being thrown sideways at the initial explosion. She tried to stand, but there came a bigger blast. The van crumpled, the awful screaming making him bite his cheek, and a blood-covered Shayla was thrown to the ground. Bodies—incomplete bodies—landed on top of her. The screaming on the video made Grant sick to his stomach. He wanted to get to her and fast, but he stayed put.

  The video made Shayla pale and her eyes glisten. She looked down for a moment, but then she picked her head up and looked defiantly at the reporter. A silent “fuck you.” True, Shayla was beautiful, but her strength had made Grant truly take notice of her when they’d first met.

  Baron stopped the video and stood over Shayla. “I ask you, Ms. Patrick, how are you not dead? What are you hiding? Did you have some type of revolutionary surgery?”

  “This again? No. I went to the same hospital as the two other victims.”

  “Yes, but you are one of only three survivors, and since the other two are basically comatose—”

  Shayla gave her an impatient huff. “As I stated before, the photos and videos make my injuries appear worse than they actually were. There was a lot of blood.” Shayla looked calm, but Grant heard a break in her voice.

  “You and I both know that’s not true, Ms. Patrick. I’ve spoken to your ex-boyfriend, Hunter Knowles, and he shared a story with us all about you surviving a brutal robbery and attack during college that left you both beaten, bloody, and unconscious. Only, when Mr. Knowles regained consciousness, you were somehow fine. Now, here’s your chance to tell us. Tell us what we all want to know. The world is changing. Surely you can’t expect to keep your secret forever.”

  Grant hit the Record button on the security camera in the conference room. If the interview got too out of hand, he’d have Baron’s lack of professionalism on tape.

  Shayla looked right at the flannel-wearing, man-bun-sporting cameraman and asked, “Is she crazy? Hunter got hurt in the attack because he tried to fight back. I just gave up my purse to the guys who stopped us on the street, but Hunter went ballistic, and the three guys beat the hell out of him and stabbed him. I didn’t pose a threat to any of them. One guy roughed me up a little, but nothing major.”

  That detail alone made Grant want to track those assholes down. The bear offered to spill guts with his thick, sharp claws, and Grant considered it a viable option. Jesus, he shouldn’t want to hurt somebody so bad, but he did.

  “Hunter suffered a traumatic brain injury as a result of the fight, and there were some…” She paused, biting her lip and looking so incredibly sad Grant went from wanting to commit murder to wanting to take her in his arms. Neither of those plans were good plans.

  “Well, there were some lasting effects. The paranoia and other mental health issues caused him to behave irrationally more than once.”

  Baron looked surprised at Shayla’s statement.

  “He remained convinced I only survived the incident because I’m some type of vampire or superhuman freak.” She shook her head. “He went on to face a painkiller addiction. He became violent toward me, and then he spent some time in a mental institution. I don’t think that makes Hunter a reliable witness. Do you?”

  Grant’s incisors broke through, and he had the urge to make Shayla his right then and there, on film, letting Hunter know Shayla was safe and protected. He dug his bear claws into the desk instead. Shayla walked over to Baron, and even though Shayla wore heels, Baron still had a few inches on her. With her shoulders back and her hands on her hips, Shayla wasn’t about to cower.

  “And as you can see by the scars on my face, I didn’t make it out of the bombing without injuries. I witnessed t
he deaths of dozens of people around me and spent months recovering from lacerations, a punctured lung, and broken ribs. Whatever you guys are looking for, I’m not your answer. I tell you this every time you ask!”

  Grant needed everybody to leave his woman the fuck alone. Not mine. My friend. My boss. Not my mate. The bear called Grant a dumbass. Grant made it to the conference room in time to hear Baron say, “Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll start haunting you, turning up things on your business, your clients, looking for anything I can find on you. I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  Shayla just turned her head and smiled sadly at Grant walking toward her. Shayla’s hands were balled into fists by her sides. He stepped between the two women and held out his hand to the reporter.

  “Hi, I’m Grant Mitchell, the financial director of Brass Cat Advertising.”

  “Kendall Baron, reporter for Simply Entertainment.” She shook his hand and looked him up and down. The look of lust on her face made him want to spew chunks.

  “Ms. Baron, you should know that I’ve been filming your little tirade on our security camera. If you come back here or bother Ms. Patrick again, I’ll send the tape to your boss and every other news station in the country. Back the fuck off, or you’ll be lucky to get a job at McDonald’s when I’m through with you,” he growled. Grant was a living, breathing example of the kind of weird Baron was looking to expose, and she was focusing on the wrong person.

  Bigfoot hunters only wanted to make themselves look great. They wanted to shout out to the world, “Look what I did, look what I found!” But then what? Hunt or kill or study it because they had to understand it and wanted to replicate it? Or just kill a strange creation and everything like it?