Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(58)

He stopped walking, scratched his head, and started pacing again. "No, more likely, he was taking you to the winning side, the bartender. Sorry bastard probably didn't want to be detained for questioning or have to come back for a trial, with a busload of witnesses, so he did the punk thing and started his engine so he could roll. I pulled the gun because I didn't want you hurt by either side, and I was fixing the bus while it all happened, anyway. Before tonight, we never met each other, and I was just helping a damsel in distress. The eyes—cats. A rundown joint like that would have cats everywhere to chase away mice or rats… I didn't hear dogs bark, so that's what probably ran by the window fast. Cats move faster than dogs. Right?"

He stopped pacing, nearly winded, and stared at her. "I'm not putting you down, or your belief system down, or talking bad about your momma, your people, or whatever. I'm just trying to keep us as far away from the bodies that dropped as possible. We can't go telling this stuff that sounds like dementia to a sentencing judge, if we get caught up in a dragnet. If they try to pin a crime on us—believe me, an insanity rap ain't no day at the beach, and doesn't always work, anyway. So, if the police ask, that's the story."

"Okay," she said just above a whisper, standing and going to him. She looked into his eyes and touched his cheek. She could feel his hard pulse through her skin and almost kissed him. "If you say so, that's the story."





CHAPTER 3


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A shiver ran through her as the adrenaline surging in his blood wafted toward her. The night was calling her beyond the protective ring, and a sudden hunger began to grip her. As long as she never took an innocent before the cleansing rituals were done… as long as she never polluted her system with human blood from a kill… before the teeth came, she had a chance. She walked away from him and sat down, rubbing her arms.

"I've got a blanket in my saddlebags," he said, not asking her if she wanted it.

She only nodded and closed her eyes tight. He had to stop being so kind. She could feel her gums thicken as he walked away, her will a shred of dental tissue from not being her own. She had to remember that she was still human, and hadn't died yet. That was the last phase.

"You hungry?" he asked, coming back to put a blanket around her shoulders. He set his guitar down inside the ring, but stood near her waiting for a response.

She clung to the rough fabric and wrapped it around her all the way up to her neck. She shook her head no. The question had made her shudder. He had to get away from her. She used her chin to motion toward his guitar. "Why don't you play? It's going to be a long night."

She relaxed when he slowly withdrew from her side. She could smell the blood and sweat on him.

"Like I said, I just mess around." He sat down and opened the case, glancing at her. "It's an acoustic. Don't always have a place to plug in an electric axe. But, one day, when I find myself somewhere permanent, I'm getting a Fender. The real McCoy."

"The one you have is beautiful," she said quietly, truly meaning it as she watched the fire bounce off the highly polished wood. "Where'd you get it?"

He paused and rubbed the body of the instrument. "Don't laugh. I got it from my mom." He looked at her, expecting her to laugh. But her eyes held understanding.

"Why would that make me laugh? Mothers will give you their life blood."

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or that something he couldn't describe that glittered in her eyes, but she made him feel safe to tell her what he hadn't told another soul. "I told her I wanted it for Christmas when I was fifteen. I saw it in a window in town. I wanted this guitar more than anything. And she stole money from my dad—well, it wasn't really stealing, she just shorted the supermarket allowance, you know, ten dollars here, twenty dollars there, for a whole year so she could buy me this." He started tuning it as he talked, the memory hard to verbalize. "She got beat up that morning, and my dad threatened to break it. She stood the whipping, told me to run with it, and never look back. Took me six more years to heed her advice."

"I'm sorry," Tara murmured. "There are all kinds of demons… your mother sounds like a good woman."

"Don't be sorry," Rider said, chasing the memory with a swig of liquor and letting the pain fade. "But you're right. There are all kinds of demons, so maybe what your people believe isn't all that far-fetched." He played a little riff. "Yeah, Mom is a good woman. I'm going to send her some money to get away from my father."

He was glad that Tara didn't say another word while he picked up and down the bridge and tightened his wires, deciding. What would he play for her? He closed his eyes and listened to the night. He better understood the sad country songs he'd always shunned. But she wasn't country western… had something extra. Spanish guitar, a little funk, some blues, something Native American spiritual, something sensual, something honest, something that cut across all his known boundaries… she was something he'd never played before. He just let his hands work and follow her rhythm while they composed Tara on the fly.

Without a doubt, he'd wanted a woman before. But something about this one was different. Half of his mind wanted to pursue what that something different could be, the other half of it was rapidly losing perspective as the music hit his bloodstream and became her.