Bite Deep

by Rebekah Turner

  ‘Gatehouse,’ Jericho repeated, suddenly numb.

  ‘Yeah,’ Turk said heavily.

  ‘And where is this Damian Coulter now?’ he asked.

  ‘Frost said he died of a heart attack in the early nineties.’ Turk hesitated, then said, ‘Frost has a theory this Jack Smith Hunter might be in town to clean up something. Maybe he’s Lydia’s handler? Here to clean up after her?’

  ‘No chance.’ He forced himself to speak evenly. ‘Even if she has Hunter blood, it doesn’t mean she is one. There’s more to being a Breed Hunter than sharing blood ties.’

  ‘Not by much,’ Blades murmured. ‘You know they recruit their own. Keep it in the family and all.’

  ‘What about the mother, Jade Gault?’ Jericho tried. ‘Was she Hunter as well?’

  ‘No,’ Turk said. ‘In fact, she had ties to the old Camden coven. Before she was killed by a hit-and-run accident in the mid-nineties.’

  ‘I thought the witches ended up siding with Breed,’ Blades said. ‘What would she be doing having a baby with a Hunter?’

  ‘Love can make you weird,’ Winger said, and all eyes swung to him. Blades cuffed the prospect on the side of his head.

  ‘What would you know about love, kid?’ he laughed, and the noise grated against Jericho’s nerves.

  ‘I know enough,’ Winger protested. ‘And I’m not a fucking kid.’

  Turk cleared his throat. ‘Jericho, even if the cop isn’t a Hunter, the evidence is against her. She’s a risk.’

  There weren’t many times his crew questioned him, but from the tension in the air, he knew they thought he’d made a terrible mistake by allowing her to live.

  Reaper cleared his throat, looking up from the fire. ‘Even if she was a Hunter, why act now? Why kill a vulnerable female Breed?’

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t help herself,’ Turk suggested. ‘But either way, we can’t have Hunters in town, Jericho,’ Turk said. ‘The treaty might be a little creaky, but it’s still there and we’ve got to protect what’s ours.’

  Jericho levelled a flat look around the room. ‘I’ve talked to Lydia. She’s not our enemy. But if I discover she is, I’ll deal with her accordingly. Me. No one else.’

  Blades voice was bland. ‘We should take care of them both, tonight.’

  ‘No.’ The word tore out of Jericho’s mouth, sharp and final. He swallowed hard, trying to control the sudden rage inside him, born from a desperate helplessness. He hadn’t seen deceit in Lydia’s face when they talked, hadn’t heard any lies in her voice, he was sure of it.

  Blades shifted in his seat, frowning. ‘Why do you care about her so much? You aren’t fucking her, so what’s the big deal?’

  ‘Because,’ he started, then floundered, a need to protect her rising up inside him like a wave. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter anymore,’ Turk said softly.

  ‘Why?’ Jericho looked at him sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Blades got to his feet, walking over to Jericho. ‘You made the right call about her not being infected. But there’s now a possibility she’s a real threat to us. And it’s plain to see you like her, which means, my brother, you’re not thinking straight.’

  Jericho looked around the room, knowing they were just trying to protect him. But they were also so wrong about Lydia, this he was so sure of. Then, it struck him that someone was missing. Someone very dangerous.

  ‘Where’s Frost?’ he asked, noting Blades casually moving to block his exit.

  ‘He’s out there, having a good time.’ Turk’s voice dropped. ‘Forget about the cop, Bulldog. Trust me, this is something you need to give on.’

  Jericho stepped towards the door, but Blades didn’t shift from his path. ‘Move,’ he said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘Relax, Bulldog,’ Turk came around the kitchen bench slow, hands raised. ‘We’re going to take care of her, Bulldog. You’re hands are clean on this. You’ve got nothing to do with it.’

  Jericho knew he had to hurry. He rushed Blades, fists slamming into his brother’s chest and grabbing his shirt. He let the beast flood through him, injecting his body with strength and the start of a raging blood thirst. Blades eyes widened in alarm, but he kept his ground, feet spreading apart for balance.

  ‘I won’t fight you, Bulldog,’ he between clenched teeth. ‘But I won’t let you go out there yet, either.’

  A hand dropped on Jericho’s shoulder and his head snapped around to snarl at Reaper. The big man stepped back, hands raised. His eyes shot accusingly to Blades.

  ‘I told you it was a shitty idea,’ he muttered.

  ‘We just want to help you,’ Turk said from behind Jericho.

  ‘This isn’t helping.’ Jericho’s teeth ground together.

  ‘We’re just trying to help you with a difficult decision.’ Blades didn’t fight back as Jericho shoved him aside.

  ‘Bulldog, wait,’ Turk called out. But Jericho wasn’t listening as he ripped open the door, knowing he had to find Lydia before Frost did.

  * * *

  As they entered the shadows behind the cabin, Lydia hesitated. Despite Jericho’s assurances, she suddenly felt trapped in the darkness, alone with this man she didn’t know.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ His voice was silky, his outline far too close to her for comfort.

  Lydia swallowed, inching away from him. ‘I want to go back to the fire.’

  ‘Bulldog isn’t far.’ A large hand encircled around her left wrist, pulling her. ‘Just around the back, like I told you.’

  ‘Why do you call him Bulldog?’ Lydia asked.

  In the darkness, the man hesitated. ‘It’s the pack way,’ he finally said. ‘Most of us like to leave our names behind. Start fresh. Using our birth names is a very personal thing.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ Lydia tried to pull from his grip, but his hand just tightened.

  ‘He’s called Bulldog because he’s a stubborn bastard,’ the man said. ‘Courageous to a fault, and loyal as they come.’

  ‘Please let me go.’ Lydia twisted her arm. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  He ignored her, pulling her deeper into shadows. ‘Sometimes though, those traits do not serve him well. That’s when people like me step in, to protect him.’

  ‘Frost.’

  Hearing Jericho’s voice behind her, she almost cried with relief. Suddenly she was free and whirling, she threw herself towards him. One of his arms circled her, pulling her in close.

  ‘Bulldog.’ The Viking’s voice was subdued.

  There was a long silence, then Jericho’s chest rumbled as he said, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ One of his hands rubbed Lydia’s back and his lips came close to her ear, breath ruffling her hair. ‘Let’s go.’

  Enclosed in his arm, she followed him back to the fire, where women shrieked and laughed and hard rock pumped loud from stereos. Lydia’s chest began to squeeze tight and sweat broke out on her forehead, heart beginning to pound. It was too much.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Jericho’s voice broke through her rising panic. His hands brushed against her waist and she stiffened, wishing desperately she was home in bed. This scene was too crazy, too wild for her tastes. And she got the distinct feeling she’d just dodged a bullet with the Viking. She wasn’t sure what his intention had been, but she was sure it wasn’t to find Jericho.

  She gulped in a breath. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’ Jericho glanced back towards the cabin. ‘You look like you’re about to panic and run.’

  She followed his gaze and spied some of his club brothers on the verandah, drinking beer and watching them.

  ‘I want to go home,’ she said softly.

  Jericho looked down at her with an unblinking gaze. ‘What did Frost say to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did he say.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘He just wanted to know how I got here.’

  Jericho grunted,
then held out his hand. ‘Come on. I’ll take you home.’

  She let him lead her back to his bike, where she stumbled to a stop beside it. Jericho turned to watch her, eyes glinting in the dark.

  ‘Why did you really bring me here?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Because you said you wanted some fun,’ he answered, throwing a leg over his bike. ‘But I made a mistake and I shouldn’t have bought you here. Now, get on the bike.’

  Worry gripped Lydia. What if he took her somewhere more secluded? What if he intended revenge for what she did at the jail cell? After all, she did humiliate him in front of his club brothers when she dragged him out of the bar. Her stomach gave a lurch and she took a step back, half wondering if she could find her way home by herself.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Jericho shook his head. ‘I’ll take you home. Don’t try to walk off by yourself.’ He keyed the ignition and his bike roared to life, settling to an irregular, lumpy rumble. ‘Not in these woods.’

  ‘Why? Is there someone out there who might hurt me?’ She sucked in a large breath, trying to settle her rising nausea. ‘Someone with a gun loaded with silver bullets?’

  ‘No.’ Jericho’s teeth gleamed in the darkness as he grinned. ‘Something with sharp teeth and claws that likes to disembowel stray cows.’

  She opened her mouth to snap back a reply, but her nausea surged back and she stumbled away, fell to her knees and vomited.

  Chapter 14

  The weekend couldn’t come quick enough for Lydia, who spent most of Friday with a thumping headache and a slow burning sense of shame at throwing up in front of Jericho. By the time she arrived home from work, she was ready for a weekend of serious relaxing. She took a long shower, dragged on sweatpants and popped the cork on a spicy shiraz, citing the philosophy of hair of the dog to help her headache.

  Pouring herself a big glass, she leaned against her kitchen counter and took a leisurely sip. She tried to keep her mind off her night with Jericho, tried to think about the gardening she needed to do, the groceries she needed to get. Then there was pulling down the old bed and breakfast sign on the front lawn. Just thinking about it all made her feel exhausted.

  She took another sip, feeling her headache begin to fade.

  A lasagna Greta had left in her fridge was now cooking in the oven, sending out a rich, creamy aroma. She went to take another sip of wine, surprised to find she’d finished the glass, and quickly poured herself another. She should have stayed on the mainland. She could see that clearly now. But the thought of returning to her old life, the one she had made for herself, left her with a chill. She couldn’t go back to that.

  She looked around the open-spaced lounge and kitchen, with its rustic wood fire and white flagstone flooring, and took another sip of wine. She would resign. Pack her bags and leave. To where, she wasn’t sure. She had no family, no real friends, other than those she’d left on the force. But she wouldn’t go back and beg for her old job. The memory of her attack was still a jagged wound, waking her in night sweats, fear clinging to her like a second skin.

  She tried to slow down her thoughts. Find something rational within the tangle of her mind. Maybe in the morning it wouldn’t look so bad. Daylight had a way of doing that. It was night that brought out the monsters.

  A knock made her jump, then the back door squeaked and Greta entered from outside. The elderly woman held her back straight and her steel-grey hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a cool pale blue and her hands looked strong enough to yank your ear down to her level, should such a desire take her fancy.

  ‘How are you?’ She made a beeline for the oven, pulling the lasagna out. ‘Did you want me to get Dominic to bring your mother’s boxes over? See what’s inside?’

  ‘Sure,’ Lydia said, remembering Greta had told her about some packing boxes stored in the cottage attic with her mother’s name on them. She didn’t really want to see what was inside them, but found it difficult to say no to the elderly woman. She still felt flustered around the German couple, not comfortable with how they behaved as if this were their home still. Apparently January was the designated time of leaving, which couldn’t come around fast enough, as far as Lydia was concerned.

  The phone rang, and Greta glanced at the portable on the kitchen bench. ‘You want me to get that? You look exhausted.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Lydia snatched the phone up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Constable Gault?’

  ‘Yes?’ She tried to place the voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, but her thoughts were too sluggish to place.

  ‘Ah … this is Jamie McCormick.’

  She frowned, struggling to recall where she’d heard the name before. There was an uncomfortable cough on the other end, then, ‘We talked at the … crime scene? I volunteer for the fire service?’

  ‘Right, right.’ Lydia picked up her wine and took a sip. The fresh fireman. ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Ah … this is the line for the Camden Bed and Breakfast.’

  ‘I see.’ Lydia made a mental note to change the number as soon as possible. That was, if she decided to stay. ‘What can I help you with?’

  Cutlery clanged as Greta laid out a place setting at the kitchen table. Lydia turned away, trying to ignore the old woman’s curious glances.

  ‘I was … ah … wondering if I could buy you a steak dinner tomorrow night at the Camden Grill? My treat.’ His words came out in a rush.

  Lydia put down her wine, biting back a sigh. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Just a welcome to the town,’ he quickly added. ‘It’s where they cook the best steaks in town.’ He paused, then repeated, ‘My treat.’

  Lydia almost burst out laughing. He sounded like he was a teenager who’d just worked up enough courage to ask his first girl out.

  ‘Alright,’ she said.

  ‘That’s okay, I understand.’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I said alright.’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, as if he were having a hard time processing her answer.

  ‘See you tomorrow?’ she said gently. ‘Just for a steak.’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ Jamie cleared his throat. ‘Would you like me to pick you up?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll make my own way. See you around seven?’

  ‘Ah … okay, okay.’

  She hung up, and caught the tail end of Greta smiling before she ducked her head in the fridge.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked, voice muffled.

  ‘Just a distraction,’ Lydia said absently.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Lydia added firmly, trying to make the message clear. Her business was her business.

  Greta emerged with a crisp green salad. ‘I made this to go with the lasagna. I’ll let you help yourself.’ Her eyes dropped to the wine in Lydia’s hands. ‘Unless, of course, you are skipping dinner and just drinking all night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have heated the food up if I wasn’t going to eat it.’ Lydia tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She didn’t need to be looked after. Guilt chased her irritation and she reminded herself the elderly woman had been kind enough to make her dinner.

  Greta frowned and pointed at the red mark on Lydia’s hand. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Lydia shifted, hiding her hand and took another sip of her wine. ‘Caught it in the car door. Just a silly accident.’

  The stout woman hesitated, looking like she wanted to give Lydia a lecture on looking after herself. But then uncertainty entered her face and she just shrugged. ‘I’m off to the farmers markets early tomorrow. You leave me a note on my car windscreen if you want anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lydia offered up a weary smile, because it was all she could do.

  Greta nodded briskly. ‘You know, distractions that we engage in are almost always pleasant. Good for the blood, you know.’ With that, she left the kitchen, shuttin
g the door behind her.

  Putting down her wine, Lydia glanced around the room for her shawl, then remembered she’d left it outside on the veranda where she’d sat watching dusk settle. She walked to the front door and unlocked it. Outside, the night was cold and she saw her shawl sitting on the rocking chair in one corner of the veranda. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she paused by the door to stare out into the dark forest. The night sounds were calming, but the deep shadows caused her heart to beat a little faster. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling heartily sick and tired of being afraid.

  A twig snapped nearby. Her eyes flipped open and she reached inside to switch on the outside lights. A prickly sensation crawled up her spine as childhood fears whispered in her ear. She shoved them aside ruthlessly. She was a thirty-five-year-old woman, for crying out loud. She didn’t jump at shadows.

  * * *

  Jericho stood deep in shadow, watching Lydia stare out into the night. He’d had the best intentions to have a quiet night in and had it planned out: a cold beer, a dog-eared Lawrence Block novel and some Johnny Cash. But he couldn’t settle, couldn’t focus on the book and the beer tasted flat. The conflict with his crew simmered in his blood and he wondered if they had been right. His instinct was that Lydia was safe, that she’d never betray him, but he wondered if his crew were right and he’d been blinded by her somehow. He just knew he wanted her more than anything and couldn’t shake the memory of her on the back of his bike, her arms around him, body pressed hard against his. His jaw clenched. Christ, but he wanted her, and with that desire surging hot in his veins, a peaceful night in his cabin wasn’t an option. Instead, he decided to ride, though the fresh air had done nothing to cleanse him, and he found himself drawn right back to her.

  His eyes passed over Lydia’s form, lit by the porch light as she stared intently into the shadows, searching for the source of noise. He knew she’d heard something. He’d heard it too. A rustle in the woods, the snap of twig and the scent of men. His hackles rose and a soft growl escaped his throat. He kept his position, not wanting to frighten or alert the prowlers. Maybe she was expecting someone. He’d look rather stupid coming to the rescue only to find he’d assaulted invited guests. He ignored the wistful thought that maybe it was Greta’s husband, Dominic, out for a night walk. Jericho had enjoyed the occasional chess game with the old man, listening to the stories of his life when he served as a Jesuit priest. But Greta had put her foot down and Dominic reluctantly had bought their little evenings to an end. Jericho had understood. After all, one of Greta’s own kin had been caught in the crossfire of the Hunter and Breed war, many years ago. It was little wonder she hated his kind so much.