Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(85)

He made an aggravated noise. "Maya, we don't have time for this."

Which reminded me…

"How do you know my name?"

He sighed and put the car into gear. "Fine. I can drive and talk."

"Walk and chew gum, too, I bet."

Philips' lips twitched, and he shot me a quick sideways glance. Dark eyes wandered over every inch of me just as they had when I'd been wearing nothing but a towel. I shivered, though the air in the car was more hot than cold.

I'd been kidnapped by a handsome, mysterious stranger. Some women would be envious. I was… highly stressed.

This entire scenario resembled one of my books—books in which I safely orchestrated adventures for people who didn't exist outside my own head. There was a reason for that. I was no good under fire, and I never would be. Every time I took a chance, I got burned. Life, love, the pursuit of happiness—none of those adventures had gone very well for me, so I'd stopped trying.

I'd had a dozen jobs before I'd found writing. I'd failed at every one. Another reason I was panicked at the thought of failing this time.

Boyfriends? They never lasted. Happiness either. Just ask my mother.

I dragged my eyes from Philips and pointedly stared out the window. His sigh held both disappointment and resignation.

"Do you know anything about the Navajo?" he asked.

"They live…" I frowned and glanced at the sun, gauged our direction and pointed. "Thataway."

Philips snorted. "Anything else?"

I shook my head. "You've heard the extent of my knowledge on the Navajo nation."

"Yet you know we're chasing a skinwalker."

"We are?"

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Gotcha," I murmured. "What's a skinwalker and why are we chasing one?"

"A skinwalker is a Navajo witch who thrives on destruction, murder, mayhem."

I flashed on an image of the smoldering remains of my house and car, the face at the window, the grenade. None of this added up.

"I thought witches were peaceful, that hags stirring cauldrons were just a myth."

"Modern-day witches are peaceful. Their creed is to harm none. Skinwalkers aren't modern. They're ancient and very pissed off."

"Why?"

"No one knows. The Navajo are extremely close-mouthed about the dark side of their culture. Most live in harmony with their world. They don't kill animals or humans for the sake of killing. The skinwalker wants to inflict as much pain and misery as possible just because it can."

"Nice guy."

"Not a guy."

"Girl?"

"Not exactly."

"What exactly?"

He shook his head. "I kept my part of the deal. Where did you hear the word 'skinwalker'?"

I sighed. "This is going to sound nuts—"

"Tell me something that doesn't today."

"Fair enough. While you were in the woods and the wolf was on the hood…" I paused.

"What?"

"Well, I heard the word on the wind. In a closed car." I glanced at him, but he continued to stare out the windshield. "You don't seem surprised."

"I've seen some mighty surprising things in my life."

"Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on then."

"Did the wolf appear strange to you?"

I nodded, remembering the human eyes. I considered all that I'd seen, all that had happened.

The face at the window, the rattle at the door, the canine whimper. Then the man's tracks blending with those of a wolf. A whisper when there was no one around but me and a wild animal. None of it made any sense.

"A skinwalker is both a witch and a werewolf," Philips said, "and this one seems to have a hard-on for you."





CHAPTER 4


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"Me? You said the grenade was meant for you."

"It was. Ever seen a wolf toss a grenade?"

"I've never seen a wolf before today."

"You didn't see a wolf today either. That was a-—"

"Werewolf. Right. Do your handlers know you're loose?"

"Joke away. I'm all that's between you and that thing."

"And just who are you?"

"Clayton Philips."

"I know your name, jerk-off, what are you? Cop? Soldier? Psycho?"

"I'm a J?ger-Sucher."

I'd taken German as a foreign language. Don't ask me why. The only time I'd ever had any use for it was now.

"Hunter-searcher?" I translated.

He glanced at me with surprise and some interest. "Right."

"What does that mean?"

"We're a division of the government—"

"Never heard of it."

Reaching the main road, we bounced from dirt onto pavement.

"A secret division," he continued.

"Why, yes, Virginia, there is an X-file. If it's a secret why are you telling me?"

"You need to know what we're up against."

"A Navajo werewolf."

"You don't believe me?"