Forever Midnight

by Kate Hill

  his shoulder ripped

  by a beast from hell

  Some things are not

  what they appear

  Samuel’s curse

  redcoats did fear

  Moonlit battles

  a dreaded wolf won

  the Patriot’s weapon

  when faded the sun

  The Whittle Curse

  now you know

  A man turned wolf

  long ago

  He searched for justice

  and found it there

  Among savage teeth

  and beastly hair

  When the moon rises

  over Whittle House

  When beasts cry in the dark

  Beware, my friends

  Don’t walk too late

  The werewolf makes his mark”

  When she finished, Pierce laughed aloud. “That’s just bad poetry.”

  “Whether it’s good or bad doesn’t matter. It’s the legend that counts. I don’t believe you could have walked through that house without feeling anything.”

  “I’ve never walked through it.”

  “Then do it. Step into that old mansion and tell me you believe it should be destroyed.”

  “Tabatha, you’re a lovely woman. Don’t you have anything better to do than nose around old houses? I think you need some fun in your life.”

  He reached for her hand, but she tugged it away, not willing to admit that his warm touch alone sent her desire off the scale. Never a woman to be lured by a handsome face, she required substance in a lover. Pierce Durant was all show and no soul and she was smart enough to know it.

  “You haven’t paid attention to a word I said, have you?” she asked.

  “Of course I have. Washington. Whittle. Norman’s Raiders.”

  “That’s Knowlton’s Rangers.”

  “Yes. Whatever. The fact is, Ms. Lane

  , in six days Whittle House will be dust and the foundation for a slew of condos will be where it stood.”

  “How would you like it if two hundred years from now someone knocked down the buildings you’ve built?”

  “In two hundred years, I’ll be dead, so it won’t matter much to me one way or the other. I want to be satisfied now, while I’m alive to enjoy it, not when I’m rotting in some graveyard like your Samuel Whittle has been for the past two hundred years.”

  “One hundred sixty-three.”

  The waiter approached wearing a pleasant smile. “May I take your order, ma’am?”

  “No.” Tabatha stood, grasping her purse and glaring at Pierce. Anger burned inside her. Never in her life had she met such an ignorant, arrogant man. “I’m leaving.”

  Pierce also stood. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Don’t bother.” She curled her lip at him and stormed away from the table.

  * * * * *

  Pierce blinked sweat from his eyes as he raised the barbell above his head. He lowered the heavy weights and ran a hand through his hair as he left his home gym to start his daily run. Every morning he awoke early to get in a couple of hours of exercise before heading for the office. Unlike his father, he wasn’t content to let his body deteriorate because of a sedentary career. Sure, he worked long hours, but that was no excuse to ruin his health. Pierce liked feeling strong. He also liked sex and the better his physical condition, the more fun he had in bed.

  If only he’d managed to get that pretty bitch Tabatha between the sheets. When he closed his eyes, he could still smell her sweet, floral perfume and see the curve of her face. How he’d love to take that voluptuous body of hers in his arms and bury his cock deep inside her hot, wet pussy.

  Too bad she was frigid. After last night he was certain the woman didn’t have a lusty bone in her body. All those good looks and she had the sex appeal of a rotten egg. Her problem was she had her head buried in the past. All that reading and history research had her so smitten with legends that she couldn’t see the opportunities for pleasure right in front of her.

  “Look at Whittle House, she says.” Pierce shook his head, then shrugged. Why not? His house was only five miles from it. He ran about ten every day, anyway.

  As he stepped into the brisk morning and stretched, he gazed at the woods and grass around him and a pang of old memories stabbed him. Though he lived in a rural area, he scarcely noticed it. Usually when he jogged or drove to the city to work, his thoughts spun with business deals. After work, it was too dark to really look at any scenery, even if he was so inclined.

  This was the first time in years he’d taken a good, long look around. Why the sudden change? Maybe that bitch had gotten to him more than he wanted to admit.

  No. Impossible. One thing was certain, no one ever reached the heart of Pierce Durant.

  The pounding of his sneakers on pavement and the huffing of his breath echoed in the still morning as he jogged toward Whittle House. As he neared it, a strange, anxious feeling settled in his chest. He paused running, his eyes wide. Heart attack? No. He was thirty-three years old and in great shape.

  “Paranoid bastard.” He continued jogging toward the house. It loomed in the distance, dark and enormous. Though he’d never set foot inside, he knew the gray, Georgian-style mansion had twenty-five rooms, all of which retained the original furnishings from the time Samuel Whittle lived there. The furnishings were to be auctioned off in three days.

  Maybe he’d give some of them to the Philmore Historical Society as a tax-deductible donation or something.

  What are you crazy, Pierce? Fuck the historical society and that crazy bitch Tabatha Lane

  . All she’s done is make you think about things that don’t really matter.

  He’d nearly reached the long, cobbled walk when his beeper went off. Shit. He didn’t have time to stroll around Whittle House. He needed to jog home, wash up, and get to work.

  As he turned back to the road, an odd cry—almost like a howl—pierced the stillness. Glancing back at the house, he noticed snowflakes drifting around it.

  “Shit. It’s not that cold.” Pierce narrowed his eyes and held up his hand to catch some of the icy crystals. Nothing. There was no snow. His gaze flew to Whittle House. It stood, bathed in morning sunlight, not a snowflake to be seen.

  “You’re losing it, Pierce,” he muttered, picking up his pace and heading for home. “Tabatha Lane

  and her stupid Revolutionary War werewolf.”

  Chapter Three

  Two Days Later

  Tabatha’s pulse raced as she stepped into Pierce’s office. She’d phoned the day before and asked for another meeting with him. He’d obliged. Though she didn’t believe she’d convince him to save the house, she had to at least try to rescue some of the items inside.

  “Ms. Lane

  , how good of you to come,” he said with false pleasantness. Sitting behind his desk, he signed paperwork, not bothering to look up at her. How he infuriated her. The man dipped beyond rude and sank to downright inhuman.

  “Mr. Durant, I’ve come to ask you once again to hold off on auctioning the furnishings at Whittle House. Give Philmore the chance to raise the money to buy them from you.”

  He laughed. “Those are antiques. People will pay a fortune for each piece. Philmore couldn’t possibly hope to raise enough money to interest me—at least not in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “Don’t you have a shred of decency in you?”

  His grin seemed permanently attached to his face as he tossed the pen aside and leaned back in his chair, his discerning gaze fixed on her. It was late, long past dark. The office was empty except for one or two eager beavers and Pierce who appeared to spend his entire life there. The top buttons of his blue dress shirt were opened, revealing the hollow of his throat and part of his chiseled, hair-dusted chest. Tabatha tried not to focus on those hard-looking pecs just calling for a woman’s touch. He would have been far better off with less good looks and more decency.

  “None whatsoever, but I love a good bargain. Mayb
e you have something I’d take in exchange for the Whittle House antiques.”

  “What?”

  His leering sapphire gaze swept her from head to foot then settled on her full breasts straining against her tie-dyed T-shirt tucked into faded jeans.

  “I don’t believe you,” she snapped, repulsed by his vulgar implication.

  “You might enjoy it.”

  She flung him her most withering look. “Never.”

  “Then we have nothing left to talk about. Goodnight, Ms. Lane

  .”

  “But the house—”

  “Listen to me.” He pushed his chair away from the desk and gestured toward the enormous bulge in his pants. “Either you get that arousing ass of yours over here and onto my lap, or get the hell out and don’t bother coming back.”

  Any attraction she had once felt for him disappeared completely. “You are a sad, pathetic excuse for a man. It’s obvious you’ve never cared about anyone or anything in your entire life, so how can I possibly hope to appeal to your sense of humanity. You have none.”

  He grasped his crotch, his brow furrowed and a nasty grin on his lips. “Is that a no?”

  Turning on her heel, she left, slamming the door behind her.

  * * * * *

  Alone in his office, Pierce sighed, his smile fading. Tabatha was right, he didn’t care much about anything. When he’d been a boy, before his mother took off with some biker she’d met during one of their weekend trips, he’d imagined himself growing up to be a forest ranger or a fireman. He’d liked the idea of helping people, being a hero, even if it meant not making a whole lot of money.

  Living with his father had changed all that. Money, not blood, was the driving force of life. Build an empire. Crush anyone who stands in the way. That’s how it’s done, son. Ivy League schools didn’t train fireman. You didn’t go to impressive colleges to major in forestry.

  What about family? Marry a rich woman from a prestigious family. If you see another class of woman you like, sleep with her. No emotional involvement allowed. That’s what he’d done with Pierce’s mother. If cancer hadn’t stolen his ability to create any more children, he might not have admitted to fathering Pierce, either, but half a blueblood was better than none.

  Pierce had been cleansed of his naïve and simple dreams. He had power. He had money. What more could he possibly require?

  I need nothing more. Not a thing.

  Pierce stood and headed for the door.

  At home, he showered and ate dinner then took a walk down to his wine cellar. He usually wasn’t one for drinking, but tonight he was in the mood for a special vintage.

  Making his selection, he brought both bottles to his car and drove to Whittle House. Taking a stroll through the place was in order, if just to prove to himself that none of Tabatha’s words meant a thing to him at all.

  He drove onto the lawn and he parked so close to the house he could see in the parlor window. By the light of the full moon, he discerned the outlines of chairs, tables, and a hutch. A fireplace took up most of one wall. Several paintings hung over the mantel. It looked ordinary enough. Nothing to warrant all the fuss Tabatha and her damned historical society were making.

  “What the hell?” Grasping both wine bottles in one hand, he walked to the house. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

  Drawing a deep breath, he paused in the foyer, his heart thrumming. Another odd feeling encompassed him, similar to the one he’d experienced on the morning he’d jogged over.

  Shaking his head, he placed the bottles on a tiny wooden table by the door and reached into his pocket for his flashlight and a corkscrew. He opened one of the bottles and took a long swallow, his gaze darting around the foyer and sliding up the long, narrow stairwell to his right.

  The lights didn’t work. He’d cut off electricity once he’d bought the house. With the flashlight in one hand and the wine bottle in the other, Pierce ascended the steps. They creaked with each footfall.

  Upstairs, the hallway stretched in both directions. Choosing a door to his left, he entered a bedroom furnished with rope rugs, a dark wooden bed draped with a blue and white quilt, and a fireplace.

  The furniture and accents were attractive and appeared in excellent condition. The next three bedrooms he searched looked similar. Landscapes and paintings of sailing ships hung on the walls. The polished wooden floor beneath his feet was strewn with carpets. Unlike most old houses, Whittle House didn’t smell musty, but fresh, as if the wood, furnishings, and varnish were fairly new.

  It was cold, though. Autumn nights in New Hampshire were usually on the chilly side. Pierce walked downstairs and into the parlor. Logs were piled by the fireplace, so within moments he had a fire blazing in the hearth. Squatting in front of it, he warmed his hands, then took another swallow from the bottle, rolling the wine in his mouth and savoring the flavor.

  Suddenly he imagined sharing the bottle with Tabatha. How good it would feel to have her wrapped naked in his arms, snug in a quilt by this very hearth.

  Moron.

  Standing, he gazed around the room. The house really was quite nice. Brighten it up a bit, and it would be a decent place to live.

  He walked around, studying the fine craftsmanship of the variety of silver cups, ornaments, dishes, and trinket boxes throughout the room. A finely carved wooden clock rested on the mantel. He gazed at the portraits covering one entire wall. He guessed they were Whittle family ancestors. Several wore white wigs. They seemed to stare down their long noses at him with looks of contempt.

  One painting in particular caught his interest. It was of a young, attractive man. His dark brown hair curled around his collar. Rather than a high-neck fancy suit, he wore a billowy white shirt. Though his expression was arrogant, it was also steadfast, yet there was something else deep in his eyes. Something wild. Something desperate. This man had secrets, of that Pierce was sure.

  A creak from the foyer caused him to start. Narrowing his eyes, his breath quickening, he strode out of the room. The foyer was empty, just as he’d left it, but that meant nothing. There were twenty-five rooms in the mansion.

  Pierce slipped his gun from its holster. Shooting was a hobby of his, though lately he’d been too busy to spend as much time as he’d like at the range.

  Placing the bottle aside, he systematically made his way through each and every room. Relaxed by the wine, he wasn’t too disturbed by the thought of finding an intruder.

  Moonlight shone in through the windows, so bright at times that he didn’t even need the flashlight. The rooms were surprisingly clean. The Philmore Historical Society had taken damn good care of the place. Maybe Tabatha was right after all. It seemed like a shame to bulldoze such a nice house.

  Shaking his head, he closed the closet in the last room and jogged down the stairs. Insanity. The condominiums would be just as nice. Nicer. He’d make plenty of profit off them.

  The wine bottle was almost empty. He finished it in a swallow and opened the second bottle. As he walked back to the fireplace, he wondered why he was drinking so much tonight. It was work. All the stress. Crazy hours. Never even a weekend off. He needed to unwind. Then what the hell was he doing in an empty mansion that had once belonged to a werewolf?

  “Werewolf.” He laughed and dropped to the floor by the fire. By the time he’d finished half of the second bottle, he was nearly asleep. The warmth of the fire, the stillness of the night, and the effects of the alcohol had him ready for bed. There was no way he could drive home like this. Not now.

  A thick, old-fashioned quilt was draped over the couch. He tugged it off along with one of the rather hard pillows and stretched out on the floor. Moments later, he was asleep.

  * * * * *

  Pierce awoke screaming, his entire body aflame. Something was ripping him apart from the inside out.

  “God,” he bellowed, writhing on the floor. “What is it?”

  Through blurred eyes he noticed the fire still burning. Whittle House.
>
  Another scream and his thoughts faded into something else. Primitive emotions. Rage and agonizing hunger. The ripping, burning pain faded, replaced by so much power he nearly burst from it.

  Low growls filled the room. His chest heaved as if he’d sprinted ten miles, yet he was filled with boundless energy. The room was suddenly too small and cooped up. He sprang over the couch and directly through the picture window. Glass shattered and he raced across the snow-covered ground.

  Chapter Four

  As dawn broke, Pierce’s thoughts cleared. Overcome by exhaustion, each step was a duty in itself. His breath came in shallow gasps. His racing heartbeat skipped as he staggered toward Whittle House looming too far in the distance.

  Shivering from severe cold, he wrapped his arms around himself and glanced down in shock. Where the hell were his clothes? Sure, he’d been drinking the night before, but not that much. No wonder he was so cold. His bare feet, bluish in color, nearly sank in the snow.

  “Mr. Whittle,” A feminine voice shouted followed by the echo of—could it be hoofbeats?

  Pierce turned, tripping over a tree branch buried in the snow, and landed on his knees as a wagon approached. The young woman wrapped in a dark wool cloak reined in the horse and leapt to the ground.

  “Thank the Lord,” she murmured, tearing off her cloak and draping it over his shoulders. “I never thought we’d find you.”

  “Who are you?” His words were scarcely discernable through his chattering teeth.

  “It’ll be all right, sir.” Her brown eyes, lovely and kind, searched his face. She slipped an arm around him and used her smaller frame to support his as they walked to the wagon.

  Climbing inside, he tried pulling the cloak more tightly around him, but he hadn’t the strength. Completely exhausted, he lost consciousness.

  * * * * *

  Pierce awoke to a gentle hand stroking his forehead. His eyes flickered, blinking away blurriness, before focusing on…who the hell was she?