Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  He leaned down and looked her in the eye, grabbing her shoulder. “Fuck you, Prissy Pants.”

  Okay, maybe he was just as bad. Her guilt fled, and her rage returned. Claire gave him a shove, flicking his hand from her shoulders, hoping to keep her voice steady. This connection Irish had created between them by trying to keep her out of trouble would be exactly what brought them more.

  Opting to ignore his crack about Irish, Claire gave him her best stern librarian face. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again, Courtland. Haven’t you learned anything, you ape? Just because you’re the temporary reigning alpha doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow the laws of the pack, and the law says you can’t manhandle me. Stop touching me every chance you get!”

  His whole face turned into one big sneer. “And whaddya think you can do about it?”

  “I’m going to dick-punch you, ensuring no one will ever have to mate with you because there’ll be nothing left to mate with after I chew up your dangly bits and spit them in the trash. That’s what I’ll do about it.”

  “You’re some nasty piece of work, Claire, with a sassy mouth to boot. Always thinking you’re better than us, Fancy.”

  Here was another thing she was sick to death of. The accusation that because she was civilized and had manners, she was stuffy and stuck-up. If she’d known the pack she’d end up with was littered with so many ill-mannered heathens, if she’d known some of the oldest members of this pack were actually bikers who’d never done anything but pillage and plunder, she just might have chosen the prison camps.

  “I don’t think it, Courtland. I know it. You don’t see me out and about, manhandling anyone within reach of my grubby paws, do you? You were raised in a civilized society before the government took over. Act like it. Now why are you here? Is it to bring me in for questioning because your witness says I killed your brother? Better be careful, Alpha-in-Waiting, you might be next on my list. Oh, but wait. You have no body to prove Gannon’s dead, do you? So where’s this witness?”

  Courtland bristled, his scraggly hair shifting in the cold wind. “I know you did Gannon in. I damn well know it. I can smell it.”

  Claire put a finger under her nose, tucking her chin into her scarf. “It’s a wonder you can smell anything over your own stench.”

  “I might not be able to prove you killed him yet, but when I do, I’m gonna see you skinned just like they used to do back in the day. Right in front of everyone. Maybe even in the square.”

  “Oooh. Big, scary words, Alpha-in-Training-Wheels. But until then, I have to run some errands at the grocery store. So, you go sharpen your knife and I’ll go get my gallon of milk. We’ll meet back at the square when your witness shows up. Date?”

  He glared down at her, the tattoo of a snake winding along his thick neck dull and graying. “You’d better watch that fine ass of yours, Claire Montgomery. ’Cus I’m comin’ for it,” he growled before turning to stomp off down the icy sidewalk, leaving the smell of his unique body odor peppering her nostrils.

  It had taken everything she had in her not to flip Courtland the bird, but now wasn’t the time for that.

  The throb of her chest pounded out a rhythm in her ears as she tried to keep the walk to her car unhurried and unsuspicious to any passersby.

  Pressing her key fob, she beeped her car open and got inside, shivering with a violent shudder. The bluff near the lighthouse. She needed to get to there now, and without anyone seeing her.

  An almost impossible feat in a town where some had nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of their fellow neighbors—literally.

  She turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot, waving to Amos Mosley as she did, keeping a fake smile plastered on her face.

  Her thoughts raced as she headed to the lighthouse, the day turning dark and gloomy as fat purple and dusky blue clouds formed in the sky. Damn, likely more snow was in the forecast, making driving to the lighthouse difficult if the roads turned icy as the temperature dropped.

  Claire said a silent prayer she’d get there without incident. Get there before—

  No, she wouldn’t think it. Taking a deep breath, she calmed her thoughts.

  She would get to the lighthouse. She would make this right. She would not allow Gannon Dodd to ruin a life. She would—

  Her next to last thought was obliterated by the sound of screeching metal and the scream of tires as someone plowed into her little car, sending it flying over the edge of the bluff and into the icy waters of the Atlantic.

  Her very last thought was: Damn, she’d forgotten to pack her swimmies.

  Part 3: Where in the World is Gannon Dodd?

  Chapter 11

  “Where’s Dodd, Twink?” Irish asked, pulling his sunglasses off so Twink could see he meant business as he pushed his way through the brush littering the front of their property.

  Twink spat some chew on the ground just outside the cabin he and Courtland’s crew called home. “He ain’t here right now.”

  “And when will he be here? He knew I was coming by today. I don’t like to be kept waiting, Twink. We have shit to discuss.” Like whether Courtland was going to cut off their deliveries completely or if they’d continue to do business as usual in the absence of Gannon.

  His clan needed that synthetic blood supply. In fact, they’d need a fresh supply soon. If Courtland decided to be a dick about it and keep them from their normal deliveries, they were screwed.

  If he could just find out who was producing it, maybe woo whomever it was to produce it for him rather than on the black market, he’d be golden, and he’d flip Dodd and his crew the damn finger. But Gannon had held the key to that information. Now he wanted to know if Courtland was privy to the supplier.

  Hindsight and Liam said he’d gone too far last night by messing with Courtland, and even though he’d tried to rationalize what he’d done with his role as peacemaker, he knew he’d poked the bear.

  He also knew poking the bear was dangerous, but it was Claire he’d poked for, and if blurring the lines of his role in town was what he had to do to look out for her, he’d do it again.

  Twink shrugged his wide shoulders, rolling his thick tongue over his gums. “Hell if I know. Said he had shit to do in town.”

  Irish’s hand snaked out, grabbing Twink’s worn vest, pulling him in close. Twink was hiding something—likely, that something had to do with Claire. He smelled it. “What shit?”

  Rosy erupted from the cabin door, a shotgun cocked and aimed at him, his face red and bloated.

  Irish clucked his tongue and wiggled his finger. “Rosy, have you learned nothing in our time as neighbors? I’m a vampire. You can’t shoot me because I’m already dead,” he said, shoving Twink out of the way and yanking the shotgun from Rosy’s grip. “When will you learn the ways of the vampire, Rosy? It hurts that you don’t even care enough to put some effort into our relationship.”

  Rosy shuffled his feet from side to side, his left eye twitching nervously. “Courtland ain’t here. You heard Twink,” he said with lightning speed, his quick words followed by small clouds of condensation. “Now get the fuck outta here.”

  Irish eyed the gun, running his gloved hand over it, stroking it as though it were a beloved pet. “Where is he, Rosy? You’d better tell me or I’m gonna root around in that squirrely head of yours to find out. You don’t want me walking all over your brain matter, do you? I hear it’s damn uncomfortable.”

  Rosy raised a pudgy finger, waving it in the air at Irish as he skittered across the wide porch flanking the cabin in a two-legged crab-like walk. “You stay out of my head, you flippy bloodsucker! That shit ain’t right! You just stay out, Irish! Stay out, stay out, stay out!” he screeched, planting his hands over his ears.

  The moment Rosy protested was the moment in which Irish slipped into his brain. Sadly, Rosy would never understand that not wanting him in his head was the very reason Irish knew he needed to poke around. It was a no-no most of the ti
me, but if he was going to keep Claire safe, he needed to know what Courtland was up to.

  And what he found inside Rosy’s head had him launching the shotgun back at the man’s feet as he ran for his bike. He gunned the engine, tearing out of the thicket of trees and skidding onto the ice-covered road.

  * * * *

  Claire pounded the icy water, unable to focus enough to shift her way out of this. Would shifting even help? She was a strong swimmer, both in shifter and human form, but the water was so damn cold.

  The salty water slapped at her face as she fought the choppy waves and snow began to fall in fat white flakes.

  Her car had sunk like the Titanic, but thankfully, due to her strength, she was able to break the windshield and swim to the surface minus too many cuts.

  And now here she was, on the surface, freezing her ass off. She fought to untangle herself from her coat and scarf, items that would only slow her down with the weight of the water. If Courtland was responsible for this, he owed her a new damn wardrobe.

  Her heart throbbed against her ribs and her teeth chattered as each frosty wave crashed over her body while she fought like hell to keep from succumbing to fatigue. The hell she’d drown in the Atlantic Ocean before she had the chance to do what needed to be done.

  That thought made her fight harder.

  Visibility grew worse by the second as her eyes scanned the landscape for some rocks, anything to swim toward that would give her respite. Hypothermia would set in if she stayed in the water much longer, which pushed her to keep her arms and legs moving.

  Anxiety warred with fear when she thought of missing her meeting at the lighthouse. What if something had happened and she hadn’t been there to prevent it? What if it was too late?

  Who had driven her off the side of the bluff—and why?

  The quick glimpse she’d gotten of the truck before she’d toppled over the craggy rocks hadn’t at all resembled Courtland’s, or any belonging to the Dogs.

  Panic gripped her as she wondered if her accident was a result of her pending meeting at the lighthouse. Oh God. Please let everything be okay.

  “Claire!”

  She heard her name over the roar of the waves, sputtering a cough when the salty water invaded her mouth.

  She stopped flopping momentarily, stilling her body to listen again, gasping for air, fighting the numbness crawling along her legs and arms.

  But there was nothing.

  As she lifted her arms to begin again, stinging pain sliced through her frozen limbs, making her cry out loud.

  Focus, Claire, you’re superhuman, for Christ’s sake. Swim, bitch, swim!

  Her vision began to blur, her breathing growing shallow, her brain a fuzzy clump of cotton candy—until she heard it again.

  “Claire!”

  Irish. Yeah, that sounded like Irish!

  Oh, you moron, how could that be Irish? No one knows where you are. She was delusional. Did that happen when hypothermia set in?

  Wait. As a werewolf, could she even die from hypothermia? Was it really only silver bullets and wolfsbane that could do them in? Because neither of those elements were involved in Gannon’s death. But she was a little fuzzy on the were handbook right now.

  Jesus. She was a librarian involved in a murder. A librarian. How had this happened? How had her quiet life come to this?

  Her head began to drum out a painful beat when she flopped to her back, hoping to float in order to catch her breath, her teeth gnashing together from chattering. The sky was covered in clouds swishing back and forth to the tune of the wind, the snow falling from them battering her face.

  “Claire!”

  It was muffled and watery, but she’d swear…

  “Claaaire!”

  That was so Irish.

  Oh, it was not. What would he be doing out here in the middle of the ocean, Claire? Besides, do vampires swim? And even if they do, again, why would he be here when no one knows where you are?

  Even in death, when you should be reflecting on your life, atoning for your sins, you’re hearing Irish, still dreaming up scenarios involving him as your hero. Really, Claire, what does this say about you as a strong, independent woman? And if you’re going to dream up someone calling your name, why not go for the gold and set your sights on Hugh Jackman? You do remember Wolverine, don’t you? Sure, Irish is super-duper hot, but is he Wolverine hot?

  Her name roared in her ears again, only this time the voice was right up against her eardrum, the lips pressed to the outer shell of it, cold.

  Strong hands grabbed her around her waist, pulling her body close, the sound of a hand slapping against the water met her ears as water rushed past her, filling her mouth, leaving her hacking and spitting.

  Something hard and sharp hit her back, making her cry out, and then those hands that had scooped her up rolled her over, thumping her back until she felt the tight lump in her chest begin to loosen. “Don’t you dare need mouth-to-mouth, Claire Montgomery. I damn well can’t breathe and you know it! If you shame me by dying because I can’t perform a simple act like breathing—”

  “You’ll what?” she asked on a watery cough, before taking a deep breath and filling her lungs with cold, salty air.

  Irish knelt beside her, hauling her close to him, pushing her hair from her eyes with gentle hands. “Must everything be like a challenge on Survivor with you, Claire?”

  She chuckled then coughed again while Irish pounded her back some more. “Outwit, outlast, outplay,” she muttered, allowing him to throw her over his shoulder and carry her up the side of the bluff, the squish of his soaked boots resonating in her ears with each swift stride he took.

  When he set her down on the hard, icy ground, her head popped up. “The lighthouse!” she gasped. “I have to get there.”

  “For?”

  “My date with Hugh Jackman.”

  “Wolverine-schmolverine. Can he read minds? No, Claire. No, I don’t think he can.”

  “When you look like that, you don’t have to,” she teased, trying to rise, only to wobble, her ankles caving inward. Damn. She needed to get to the lighthouse.

  Irish was up and right behind her, tucking her to him, his leather jacket slick and soaked. “What’s at the lighthouse, Claire? Quit screwing around and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  “I’m not screwing around, Irish, and how did you find me?”

  “I went to meet Courtland to handle some business, Rosy told me he was in town, I rooted around in his head and found out he was gunning for you again. I followed your scent, which led me to the vicinity of the lighthouse. Easy-peasy. So who did this?”

  She shook her head, letting a dripping-wet Irish lead her to his bike, now covered in snow. “I don’t know. It was a truck, for sure. Pushed me right over the bluff like I was lighter than air. That’s all I know, but I did get a glimpse of the truck, and it wasn’t one I recognized. Now, you go home, and I’m going to the lighthouse.” Then she shivered violently, her body buckling with the shudder.

  “Um, no. You’re going home and we’re going to warm you up and then you’re going to tell me what’s at the lighthouse. Which, by the way, is deserted. I flew through it before I saw you bobbing around out there like a buoy.”

  Relief sliced through her. No one was at the lighthouse—or had someone been at the lighthouse and been taken from the lighthouse? “You can fly? Do your wonders never cease?”

  He grinned, slicking his hair back with his hand. “No. They’re endless.” Then he un-smiled, his eyes searching hers. “Now what’s at the lighthouse?”

  She sighed a ragged puff of air. “I like to go to the lighthouse to read sometimes. It’s my me-time. I love to listen to the waves crashing and smell the salty air. I just really needed to get away and catch my breath.”

  “Well, that’s not gonna happen now. You can read at your place. Where it’s warm. Get on the back of the bike, Claire. I’m taking you home.”

  “But what about Hadley?” she hedged,
crossing her arms over her chest to prevent another violent batch of shivers. “Doesn’t she need you to help her with her homework?”

  He pointed to the bike, his expression stern and perfect and adorable. “I just texted with her twenty minutes before I saved your cute ass from drowning. She’s at home with Liam, safe and sound. On the bike. Now. Before you freeze to death.”

  She hesitated once more, her teeth chattering. “Liam’s with her? You’re sure?”

  Irish cocked his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s the deal with Hadley?”

  Claire gave him her “duh” look. “I can’t believe you’d even ask that. Someone is out there, running people off the road. Not to mention, my pack is all in a tizzy over Gannon. Do you want Hadley injured in this mess? Courtland’s pissed at you, Irish. I wouldn’t put it past him to exact revenge—even if it’s through a child. If he’s even half as bad as Gannon, he’s asshole through and through.”

  “Point, fair maiden. But fear not, like I said, Hadley’s safe and sound at home. Now, on the back of the bike.”

  She shivered again, her bones aching. “Nope. We can’t be seen together. You go. I’ll shift and run home.”

  “Nope. On the back of the bike or I tie you to it.”

  “So gallant.”

  “I prefer chivalrous.”

  “You’re preferences won’t matter when you’re dead.”

  “Already there.”

  She winced. “Sorry. That was insensitive.”

  Irish threw his thickly muscled leg over the seat, gunning the engine. “Get on. Now. No sass.”

  “I said no. We can’t be seen together. Isn’t it enough that Courtland’s calling you my boyfriend? I mean, where did that label come from? We’ve hardly spoken to each other in the five years since I came to Rocky Cove, and now, because we’re suddenly like Siamese twins due to this mess, people are talking.”

  Irish paused. “Courtland called me your boyfriend?”

  “He did. When I saw him in town today just before I drove out here. And that was after I apologized…” Here came the guilt again.