Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(84)

I wasn't scared—much. If he'd wanted me dead he could have left me in the house, or left me to the wolf. Still, I wasn't about to argue with a Ruger.

He climbed behind the wheel and spun the SUV in a circle, tires spraying dirt across the ruins of my brand-new diesel station wagon. I'd parked a little too close to the house for its comfort.

"Do you have a name?" We bounced over a rut at far too fast a clip, and my head nearly banged against the ceiling. "A driver's license?"

His mouth was set, his eyes intense, as he tried to keep the car from flipping off the narrow path. "Clayton Philips. Clay."

"And you're what? Special Forces?"

His gaze flicked to me, then back to the road. "Sure."

Sure? Does anyone but me see "lie" written all over that?

"How do you know my name?"

He opened his mouth, and the wolf bounded directly in front of the car. I gasped, braced myself, expecting him to hit the brakes. Instead, he hit the gas.

The wolf was quicker than any wolf I'd ever seen—not that I'd seen very many—and leaped into the brush mere centimeters ahead of the SUV's fender.

At last Philips used the brakes, and I was thrown forward, then back, with such force my head struck the seat and my breasts got an overenthusiastic hug from the seat belt.

"Hey!" I shouted, but he was already out of the car, gun drawn.

"Lock the doors," he said, and then he was gone.

"Creep. Jerk."

My gaze went to the ignition. No keys.

"Asshole!" I muttered, unbuckling the seat belt and reaching for the door. Fingers on the handle, I hesitated. I could go back to the cabin, but why? No house, no phone, no freaking car. I got mad all over again.

I glanced down the trail. What if I walked to town? Twenty miles away. Ha. I hadn't walked a mile since high school, and then only because the Nazi gym teacher had made me. Besides, Philips would catch me, then we'd have the dragging and the threatening and the guns all over again.

Still… I gazed longingly at freedom.

A wolf slammed into the passenger window. I shrieked and scuttled back.

The animal slavered, snarled, snapped, trying to get to me despite the barrier. Red-tinged drool ran down the glass. Aw, hell, had Philips gone and gotten himself killed?

The wolf disappeared, and my eyes widened as the latch thunked. I smacked my finger onto the button and all the doors locked with a satisfying thwack. There was something very strange about this wolf.

Living in Chicago, I didn't come across many wild animals, but even I knew they weren't very good at opening car doors.

I couldn't see the wolf, couldn't hear him any longer. Maybe he was gone.

The front of the car dipped. He stared through the windshield, snarling. Where was my rescuer now?

As if he'd heard the question, the wolf's head lifted, cocked. He glanced toward the trees, then back at me.

A sudden sweat, icy cold and dizzying, broke out on my skin, as I stared into brown eyes surrounded by a whole lot of white. I suddenly understood what had bothered me about the wolf.

I blinked and looked again. Yep. People eyes, wolf body. I tried to get my mind around the concept, but I kept coming up short on an explanation.

Then several things happened at once. The wolf's mouth opened; a breeze ruffled the trees, and swept through the car. I'm not sure how, since all the windows were closed. But my hair fluttered, the sweat on my skin tingled, and I heard a single, muffled word that sounded like—

Philips burst out of the woods. He pointed the Ruger at the wolf on the hood, and I ducked. Holding my breath, I waited for the glass to explode, then shatter all around me.

Nothing happened.

I didn't want to lift my head and risk getting it blown off by my new pal, the gun-happy psycho. Instead I twisted on the seat so I could see through the windshield. The wolf was gone.

The sudden release of the door locks made me yelp. But it was just Philips with the only set of keys. He narrowly missed sitting on my head as he climbed behind the wheel, then took off while I was still struggling to fasten my seat belt.

Silence settled between us as he stared intently through the windshield. Speeding like a bat out of hell and hitting every bump on the road must require complete concentration.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What do you think?"

Was he being a smart-ass? I couldn't tell. Considering my penchant for sarcasm—blame the behavior on my brothers; biting wit was the only weapon I'd had against their superior strength—it was surprising I couldn't recognize the same in him.

"Skinwalker," I said.

His foot slipped off the gas and the car jerked, but he managed to recover the next instant. "Where did you hear that?"

I opened my mouth, closed it again. How was I supposed to explain that the wind had spoken inside the car?

Obviously he hadn't heard anything, so the wolf hadn't talked, the wind hadn't whispered.

I thought Philips was crazy? He needed to get in line. Behind me.

"Around," I mumbled.

The car slid to a stop. He put the transmission in park. "Around where?"

From his reaction, the word meant something to him. I wanted to know what.

"You tell me what 'skinwalker' means, then I'll tell you where I heard it."