Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(90)

A few minutes later the ground stopped spinning, and I tentatively lifted my head. "That was the same wolf."

"Yes."

"But it was at my cabin. We drove here…"

"I've heard a skinwalker can run as fast as a car. There've been reports of people riding along desert highways and seeing a wolf race past them, then disappear. Considering what just happened, I'll have to believe the hearsay."

"Why do you think he's coming back?"

"For you."

How could I forget? I was chosen. Special, special me.

"But why… ?" I indicated the fireball that had once been a house and a car. "If he needs me on the night of the full, red moon, doesn't it defeat his purpose to blow me into itty-bitty pieces?"

"Maybe he doesn't need you alive."

I lifted my brow, which felt a little singed. "You're quite the cheery fellow, aren't you?"

Clay shrugged. "I don't know what he's up to, why he needs you, what he's planning. All I know is that I'll make sure he's dead before we are."

I stared into his nearly black eyes, and I knew several things for certain. He meant what he said. I trusted him. And he wasn't crazy.

Clay and I were in this together now. No going back. Not if I wanted to live.

"We need to leave, Maya."

Clay clapped his palm against mine and hauled me up without any trouble. When I was on my feet, he kept holding on, and I let him.

His gaze drifted to my lips. I swayed, and I wasn't even dizzy. I wanted to kiss him, right there in the middle of another burning wasteland. We should be running for cover, calling the cops; instead we were staring into each other's eyes and puckering up.

Clay dropped my hand and stepped away. At least one of us had some wits left.

"He'll be back as soon as his people brain overrules his wolf fear of the flames."

He started walking toward a distant butte. I hurried after him. "Where are we going?"

"We can't stay here. We've got no cover. He blew up my car." Clay shook his head. "I really liked that car."

Just as I'd liked my house, my clothes, my computer. But I kept the thought to myself.

"I'd head to another house," he continued, "but this is the middle of the reservation. Joseph is a leader. I doubt anyone would help us."

I considered that they might do worse than not help, and agreed with his rationale. We were strangers. Outsiders. We didn't know who our enemy was. He could be anyone or anything.

"We'll find a place to hide. Set a trap. I wish we were near the mountains. I'm better in the mountains than the desert."

"You're the expert," I said. "Let's just steer clear of that canyon-of-the-dead thing. I don't suppose you have a map."

"In the car. Along with my rifle and extra ammunition."

I stopped. Clay kept walking. More had been lost than some of my hearing. We were in the desert with nothing but a Beretta, a Ruger, the bullets still in them, and each other.

How would I write one of the heroes in my action-adventure novels out of a situation like this?

I had no idea. My muse was still deathly silent.

"What are we going to do?"

"I told you. Set a trap. Kill him. Then file a report."

I giggled, and the sound held a tinge of hysteria. Clay must have heard it because he cut a quick glance in my direction, though he never faltered.

"I've done it before, Maya."

"You said this was your first skinwalker."

He shrugged. "A werewolf's a werewolf."

"You sure about that?"

"No."

I suppressed the return of the hysterical giggle. "Don't sugarcoat it, Clay. I can handle anything."

His face creased in concern. "Don't worry. I can."

"Worry? Moi? You can't be serious."

How did Clay know that worry was my middle name? Because he knew everything about me, or so he said. I wanted to know everything about him, or at least as much as he'd tell me. Besides, talking passed the time and might make me forget to look behind me every few seconds so I could see the wolf before it snapped at my heels or tore out my throat.

"Why are you better in the mountains?" I asked.

"I'm from Appalachia."

I recalled his use of "y'all" when we'd first met, but other than that, I'd never heard a trace of an accent.

"When did you leave?"

"Long, long time ago."

"Why?"

"There was nothing left for me there."

His words fell into a deep silence. I understood what he meant. I'd left behind family, friends, a condo. Still, there'd been nothing for me in Chicago either.

"Your family?"

"Dead."

The way he said it made me wonder, but the strained expression on his face wouldn't let me ask. I should have known he'd answer anyway.

"They were killed by werewolves. All of them."

"And you?"

"I wasn't."

"So you became a hunter."

"I was always a hunter. We needed to eat. I was out hunting the day—" He took a deep breath and walked faster. "The day they died. I came home and followed the tracks. I thought it was just wolves, though wolves don't behave like these did."