Night Creatures Short Stories Read online

  “The animal skin. If this were our skinwalker, we’d have a dead man and a wolf skin, side by side.” He frowned. “I’m not sure if either one of them explode at the touch of silver. I guess we’ll find out.”

  “If that isn’t a skinwalker, what is it?”

  “Red wolf. Native to the Southwest.” He frowned, shook his head. “Only rabid wolves attack.”

  “I saw Old Feller,” I muttered. “I so don’t want to go there.”

  “Relax. No weaving. No drooling. I’ve seen rabid animals. This one wasn’t.”

  “Then what the hell?”

  Clay lifted his eyes and scanned the steadily encroaching darkness. “The skin walker’s controlling the wolves.”

  As if they’d heard him speak, a chorus of howls rose toward the rising red moon. A heated haze made the orb appear wobbly.

  “Controlling how?”

  “A skinwalker is both witch and werewolf. I have no idea what the extent of its powers might be.” He stared at the horizon for several moments. “We’d better find a cave.”

  “Is that where they hide?”

  He jerked his head in the direction of the howls. “Does that sound like they’re hiding to you? They’re coming after us. We need a place where our backs are protected and I can set a trap. You ready?”

  I jumped to my feet without his help. “Let’s go.”

  Clay led me over rocks—no tracks, little scent—to the east, then the west. I was exhausted by the time he found a cave.

  We squeezed through a hole that opened on a room just large enough for us to lie down and move around a little. The fit was far from ideal, though Clay said he couldn’t have constructed a better place for us to make a stand. There was even a small puddle of water near the back of the hallowed-out cavern, a miracle at this time of year.

  The howls had faded as we hurried through the night. Clay set up his ingenious trap in front of the entrance—something with sticks and rocks that looked like a child’s game from the Stone Age. He covered the tiny entrance with brush, leaving an opening at the top for the nearly full moon to shine through.

  “Anything trotting by in the dark should just keep on keep-in’ on,” Clay said, as he bathed my wolf bite with water from the puddle.

  “Do you think we lost them?”

  “Maybe.” He lifted his eyes to mine and shrugged. “Did you want me to lie?”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled and smoothed my hair. “I promised I’d protect you.”

  His smile faded when his fingers brushed the scrape on my cheek. I reached up and put my hand on top of his, pressing his palm to the reddened skin. “I know you will.”

  For a minute I thought he might kiss me and I caught my breath. But he slipped his hand from beneath mine and busied himself tearing another strip from his T-shirt.

  The garment barely covered his pecs. I had a hard time focusing on anything but smooth, rippling skin until he tightened the bandage on my wrist with a little too much force. “Hey!”

  “Sorry.” He let his hands fall to his lap. “I haven’t done a very good job of protecting you so far.”

  “You saved my life. Several times. I’m sticking with you, Clay. Alone I’d be meat. Together, we’ll be all right.”

  He stared into my face, as if trying to gauge my sincerity, then patted the elbow of my injured arm. “As long as that doesn’t get infected, we’re all set.”

  Infection. What a pleasant thought.

  “Lucky you got bitten by a wolf.” Scooting closer to the entrance, he drew up his knees and rested his wrists on top. He held both the Ruger and the Beretta. “In ancient times domestic dogs, the descendants of wolves, licked their masters’ wounds. Their mouths held healing properties.”

  “I should be hokey-pokey then.”

  “As soon as we get you some antibiotics. Go to sleep, Maya. That’s the best thing you can do.”

  I took off my flannel shirt and used it for a pillow. The cave warmed from the heat of our bodies, but the ground was hard and always would be. I didn’t expect to sleep, but I did.

  I awoke to an ear splitting chorus of howls. The sound reverberated through the small cave. I sat up with a gasp. The moon had shifted; the cave was dark.

  A hand clamped over my mouth. I would have struggled, even screamed, except Clay’s touch, his scent, his very taste was familiar.

  My tongue darted out to meet his palm, and he started, then pulled away as if I’d burned him.

  Paws padded outside. Noses snuffled, tracing the ground for a hint of our scent, but none came close to where we hid in the darkness.

  A solitary howl in the distance was answered by the others nearer our hideaway. The snuffling ended, the paws retreated. We were alone.

  “They’re gone,” Clay whispered, his breath warm, arousing, along the sensitive skin below my ear.

  I turned my head, our noses brushed, and the next instant our mouths met. Who kissed whom? I have no idea. I only know that I’d never wanted anyone as I wanted him. I didn’t care how close to death we’d come, how close we might yet come. Perhaps that was even the reason behind our desperation. If tomorrow was the end, at least we had tonight.

  The complete darkness surrounding us was as arousing as the texture of his skin beneath my fingertips and the taste of his mouth against mine. I kept my eyes wide open, yet I couldn’t see a thing. Every touch a surprise, each caress was a mystery.

  I let my hands drift over the stomach that had tantalized me, allowed my fingernails to scrape the pectorals I’d fantasized about. What was left of his shirt disappeared, as did every stitch I now owned. The only strip of cloth on my body remained wrapped around my wrist.

  Nudity had always embarrassed me. I wasn’t small. Too many hours spent with my butt in a chair meant I wasn’t toned. I’d never be tan. Men had wanted me, but they had never yearned. In the darkness, I was a goddess and Clay was my slave.

  I sensed him above me, like a great dark bird—hovering, hunting, waiting to swoop.

  I liked the not-knowing, the aura of danger that clung to him like cologne, the possibility of death just beyond the realm of our cave.

  What had happened to safety girl? She’d died in the flames that had consumed everything that was left of her life.

  I wanted to run naked through the trees, skinny-dip in the ocean, make love on the beach, the grass, the desert floor. I wanted to do every one of those things with him.

  Was I experiencing kidnap dementia? Bonding to my tormented? Falling in love with a man who could never be any more than a one-cave stand? Maybe. But I’d worry about that after he made me come.

  I hunted for the zipper of his camouflage pants and couldn’t find one. I did find an impressive erection, which I explored through the coarse material.

  His guns weren’t in their holsters. He’d no doubt held them while the wolves prowled outside and left them… Lord knows where. Oh well, one less thing to remove.

  I slipped my hand into the waistband of his pants, filled my palm with smooth, hard flesh, then stroked and kneaded him to greater heights.

  I wanted to feel all of his skin against all of mine, so I tried to locate that zipper again but had no better luck.

  “Are these locked?” I murmured into his mouth.

  He reached between us, fumbled a bit and the waistband gave way in my hands. Seconds later he was naked, too, but instead of letting me run my fingers all over his toned, tanned skin, he traced his lips down my neck, over my breasts, along my belly, then my hip, performing amazing, innovative tricks with his tongue and his teeth.

  My fingers toyed with what was left of his hair. His tongue swept across me once, then dodged back and lingered. I arched, and the rocks of the cave floor scraped my back. I couldn’t focus, didn’t care. He pushed me harder and harder, faster and faster, until I was moaning, begging for release.

  As I flew over the edge, the first contractions of my orgasm making my insides clench and spasm, he slid into me. Like a surfer catch
ing the wave, he rode mine, drawing out the pleasure. Slowing down, then speeding up, playing me until I was limp, satisfied, exhausted. Only when he kissed my eyelids, nibbled my nose, did I realize he was still hard and hot, still ready to go.

  Aching, sensitive, I didn’t think I had another round in me, but I was wrong. He laid his head on my chest and his breath chilled my sweat-slicked skin. My nipples hardened as he nuzzled the underside of my breasts.

  He licked one tight bud in a lazy, possessive swirl, then bit the edge lightly before drawing me into his mouth to suckle in a copycat rhythm to the slide of our bodies—in and out, shallow to deep, tip then full hilt.

  The friction began again. With skillful manipulation he brought me to a second climax, and this time he followed me there. The pulse of his ejaculation made my own release linger. By the time my body stopped dancing, his movements were languid as he rolled to the side, tugged me off the ground and into his arms.

  I was almost asleep when Clay shifted, reaching for something. The scrape of metal on stone, he drew his gun closer, holding the weapon in one hand and me in the other. I liked the sense of safety in that image, and I drifted off.

  Sometime later, I was jerked awake. Disoriented, I tried to sit up, but Clay held me too tightly.

  The cave was still dark. I couldn’t see a thing. But I felt him trembling.

  CHAPTER 7

  “What’s the matter?” I whispered, placing my hand on Clay’s chest. His heartbeat raced beneath my palm.

  “Nothing,” he said harshly. “Go on back to sleep.”

  As if I could when he was so upset.

  His voice had slid south, the accent he’d lost found again. I lifted my fingers to his face, stroked his temple, played with his hair. Inch by inch he relaxed, but he didn’t fall asleep.

  “Nightmare?” I asked.

  He snorted.

  “Wanna tell me about it?”

  “So you can have nightmares too?”

  Just like that, his voice had returned to the flat, cultured tones that told no one where he’d come from, gave no hint of where he’d been.

  “Like I don’t already have them?”

  He shifted, as if to see my face, but he couldn’t in this darkest hour that always preceded dawn.

  “What do you dream, Maya Alexander?”

  He was asking about the bad dreams—the times when I awoke gasping and panicked, the nights I relived my mother’s death, I’d added twenty years to my age, but those dreams of a little girl left alone had never gone away.

  I’d be damned if I’d share past nightmares while we were fashioning new ones. Here, in the dark, in his arms, was the time for sharing happy dreams.

  “I dream of the New York Times!”

  “You want to own a newspaper?”

  “The list. Books? My job?”

  “Ah,” he said, though I could tell he didn’t understand. Non-writers rarely did.

  The New York Times Bestseller List was a rare accolade aspired to by every author who put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Not only did the list mean prestige and fame, it meant money. While I enjoyed the writing, I enjoyed the food, the clothes, the shelter too. Or I had until they’d gone boom.

  On any other day I’d have been worried sick over the loss of everything I owned. Since I’d be lucky to get out of this alive, and would therefore have no further need of stuff, I experienced a sense of freedom I couldn’t recall having since long before my mother had died.

  “What else do you dream of?” he asked.

  “A cabin in the woods.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah. I hate the thought of running home to Daddy.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  He wouldn’t, but he’d never let me forget it, and neither would the bozos I called brothers. They’d already started a pool on when I’d call it quits. I’d put ten bucks on the space marked “not in this lifetime.” However, if I was sent home in a pine box, did that mean whoever had the space nearest the date of my death got the money? Oh well, I wouldn’t be around to be pissed off about it.

  “Ever dream of a husband, a family?”

  “No,” I lied. Because I had—an eon ago when I’d still believed the line they fed little girls. That there’s someone for everyone. One man, one woman, for all time.

  I was two inches short of six feet. I weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. My hair was long and red, my skin white, except for the freckles. And I talked, daily, to people who didn’t exist. Or at least I had before the damned writer’s block hit.

  “So there’s no irate fiancé who’s going to kick my ass?”

  “Don’t worry. Your ass is safe with me.”

  He chuckled, appearing to have forgotten the nightmare, which was exactly what I’d had in mind. But appearances are deceiving, because Clay suddenly stiffened and withdrew from my arms.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I didn’t use a condom. I’ve never done that. Never. Hell, I didn’t even think about it until now.”

  I hadn’t either. No big surprise there. All I’d been able to think of, practically since we’d met, was getting him inside me. Now he’d been there, and left a little something behind.

  My mind whirred, counting backward, letting out the breath I’d been holding. “We should be all right. The days are wrong.”

  “There’s still a chance—”

  “There’s always a chance.”

  A tiny flutter began in my belly. I think it was hope. Or hunger. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Which probably explained the lightheaded ness, but the stupidity was all my own. My mind was suddenly full of pink ribbons and blue bicycles. English stone cottages and wedding bells. I forgot who I was dealing with.

  “This can never happen again, Maya.”

  “Barn door wide open, horse running down the street,” I mumbled. “Or maybe up the stream.”

  “This isn’t funny!” he snapped.

  I jumped, wrapping my arms around myself as tears stung my eyes. Even though I’d just denied any need for home and family, his reaction hurt. I’d believed for just an instant that he saw me differently than other men, that he found me funny, pretty. That he might even consider me special.

  “I’m sorry if the idea of making a baby with me is so disgusting.”

  “That’s not it.” He took a deep breath, which caught in the middle. “I tried to be normal once, tried to love someone and have a life. She was the one who paid.”

  “Serena,” I whispered.

  “You asked about my nightmare. This is it. I let someone get close to me, then the monsters take them away. They’ll use you against me, and I can’t let that happen.”

  “You could quit.”

  “No. I vowed over the bodies of my grandparents, my parents, my sisters, my brother, then Serena that I wouldn’t stop until every werewolf was dead.”

  “You could be alone for the rest of your life. I doubt your family, or Serena, would want that.”

  “If I quit, people die. The survivors get my nightmares. I can’t live with that either. I’ve lost those I loved twice. I wouldn’t survive being a three-time loser.”

  “So you have nothing, love no one?”

  “It’s the only way I can go on.”

  Silence settled between us. When I finally slept, my dreams weren’t happy, and when I awoke my cheeks were tight with dried tears. I was alone, just as I’d been in those dreams.

  Gray light filtered through the scrub across the entry-way, illuminating my clothes strewn across the floor of the cave, revealing Clay’s silhouette near the door. When he’d left me to stand watch again, I had no idea, but his absence had seeped into my subconscious, creating loneliness even though he was only a few feet away.

  I got up, gathered my clothes, got dressed. I had just tied my flannel shirt around my waist and slipped into my shoes, when the snap of a twig and the ping of stone on stone made us freeze. Clay held up one hand indicating I should stay back,
even as he reached for his Beretta with the other.

  His trap had been sprung. Something lurked outside our cave. But what?

  We’d heard no howls, no pitter-patter of tiny feet, not even the thud of great, big paws. Nothing until the snap, crackle, ping. Could a skinwalker fly?

  I recalled the skins of the eagle and the raven in Joseph’s cabin. I had a very bad feeling that it could.

  “Hello, the cave. Anyone there?”

  Clay frowned and his gun dipped a bit. The voice had been gruff, wobbly—the voice of a very old man.

  Joseph? I mouthed.

  Clay shook his head and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Mandenauer said he’s about my age.”

  “Hello?” the voice repeated. “You need help?”

  Clay crept to the side of the entrance and peeked through the tiny hole in the covering. His shoulders relaxed at the sight.

  “Ancient white guy,” he told me.

  “Sounds like a new rock group.”

  His lips twitched. I liked it that he found me funny. I liked it that he’d found me at all. Just my luck he’d sworn off women along with his life.

  Clay tore down the covering with a sweep of one hand and crawled into the daylight. I followed, standing stiffly at his side. We’d slept longer than I thought. The brush over the entry had shaded the rising sun amazingly well. From its position in the sky the day was well past noon.

  My first sight of our visitor made the word “ghost” whisper through my head, and not because he was pale. His skin was as sun-bronzed as Clay’s and showed the wear of countless years. His hair was long and white, his clothes had seen better days. Perhaps in the year 1895.

  He looked like the poster boy for a gold rush—grizzled prospector complete with six-guns and a mule. His pack animal pulled for all it was worm—which couldn’t be much considering the gnarled forelocks and swayed back—at the very end of its tether.

  “Stop that, Cissy.” The old man yanked on the rope. “We’ll be off in a bit.”

  He grinned at us, several black gaps appearing where teeth should be. “I’m Jack.”

  “Clay Philips. Maya Alexander. We could use a little help, Mr.—”

  “Just Jack, boy. No need to ‘mister’ me.”