Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(101)

"Wait a second, you think I fainted because of Jack? Joseph? Hell, whoever?"

"Well…" He shrugged. "Yeah."

"No, Clay. The spirits spoke. There were so many of them, I got dizzy. I asked for help and bam, out went the lights."

I expected him to scoff at my talk of spirits, but I'd forgotten who I was dealing with. If he could be a Special Forces werewolf hunter, the fact that I could hear spirits wasn't anything to write home about.

"You didn't swoon in terror?"

"Sorry, no. But you did rescue me. My hero."

"Knock it off. I can't stop seeing you covered in blood."

I spread my hands wide. "Washed right off."

His gaze narrowed. "Your hands are burned."

"They'll heal. Next time I'll know better."

"Next time?" He shoved his fingers through his hair. "There isn't going to be a next time."

"You know that's not true."

He made a sound of frustration and yanked open the door. I followed him into the bedroom. The first thing I saw was the man sitting in the wing chair reading my notes.

"What is this, Grand Central Station?" I pointed the Beretta at his head.

"No." Clay put a hand over the barrel and gently shoved the weapon down.

The intruder lifted his gaze from the papers to my face. "You should never shoot a werewolf in mid-change," he said, his German accent so heavy it would have been comical under different circumstances. "That leaves too many questions and a very big mess."

"I'll keep that in mind. Who the hell are you?"

"Maya, this is Edward Mandenauer."

I stared with renewed interest at the former spy and present leader of the J?ger-Suchers. Most likely a handsome man in his day, he now owned every one of his eighty-plus years.

He'd seen many things and all of them haunted his faded blue eyes and sagging, drawn face. He was scarecrow thin and basketball tall. His hands were gnarled, spotted, his fingers crooked from breaks that had never healed right.

"You cannot publish this." He lifted my notes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

"Wait!" I sputtered, but he brought the two together and flames licked at my hastily scrawled words. I sighed. "Have you ever heard of freedom of speech, private property, the public's right to know?"

"Yes." He dropped the rapidly decomposing paper into a tin trash can.

"How are you going to erase the memory from my head? Same way?"

"Put a sock in it," Clay muttered. "He might look like your favorite granddad, but he isn't. He's dangerous."

I glanced at Mandenauer, who shrugged. "I am."

I wouldn't have believed either one of them, except there was something in Mandenauer's eyes, something in Clay's voice, that convinced me.

"Fine." I threw up my hands. "I'll keep quiet."

I wondered if McDonald's was hiring. Because that was the only other job I was qualified for.

"Can we trust her?" the old man asked.

"What do I have to do?" I asked. "Write it in blood? Let you cut out my tongue?"

"If you don't mind—"

Since he said the words with a completely straight face, I didn't think he was kidding. Clay must not have either because he moved in front of me.

"Leave her alone. She's been through enough."

"Precisely. You should never have involved her, Clayton. You know better."

"The skinwalker blew up her house. I didn't have much choice but to take her along after that."

"And Joseph? Was he of any help?"

We exchanged glances. Mandenauer frowned. "What?"

"Joseph was the skinwalker."

"Impossible. He's been a trusted colleague for years."

"He got sick of being on the losing side. It's happened before."

The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. If possible he appeared older than before. "Even the strong ones succumb. The allure of power is a human failing. Sometimes I think it would be easier to…" His voice drifted off.

"To what, sir?"

"Never mind." Mandenauer stood and crossed the short distance to the bed with a military bearing. "Any idea who this was?"

"Brendan Steiger," I said.

Both men glanced at me with a frown. I shrugged. "He was chatty. Something about payback."

Clay shook his head. "I don't remember the name."

"Why would you?" Mandenauer asked. "They don't wear dog tags while running through the forest." He waved a hand at the remains. "I will get rid of this. You must be going."

"Where?"

"Take Maya home."

"I don't have a home. Your pal Joseph blew it sky high."

Mandenauer's expression was both exasperated and exhausted. "Take her somewhere safe. We have a traitor in our midst."

"Steiger said he bought Clay's name and photo, his background and his whereabouts."

"J?ger-Suchers are turning up dead all over the country," Mandenauer murmured. "Now I know why."

"How many?" Clay asked.