Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(94)
"What else do you dream of?" he asked.
"A cabin in the woods."
"Oops."
"Yeah. I hate the thought of running home to Daddy."
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
He wouldn't, but he'd never let me forget it, and neither would the bozos I called brothers. They'd already started a pool on when I'd call it quits. I'd put ten bucks on the space marked "not in this lifetime." However, if I was sent home in a pine box, did that mean whoever had the space nearest the date of my death got the money? Oh well, I wouldn't be around to be pissed off about it.
"Ever dream of a husband, a family?"
"No," I lied. Because I had—an eon ago when I'd still believed the line they fed little girls. That there's someone for everyone. One man, one woman, for all time.
I was two inches short of six feet. I weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. My hair was long and red, my skin white, except for the freckles. And I talked, daily, to people who didn't exist. Or at least I had before the damned writer's block hit.
"So there's no irate fiancé who's going to kick my ass?"
"Don't worry. Your ass is safe with me."
He chuckled, appearing to have forgotten the nightmare, which was exactly what I'd had in mind. But appearances are deceiving, because Clay suddenly stiffened and withdrew from my arms.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I didn't use a condom. I've never done that. Never. Hell, I didn't even think about it until now."
I hadn't either. No big surprise there. All I'd been able to think of, practically since we'd met, was getting him inside me. Now he'd been there, and left a little something behind.
My mind whirred, counting backward, letting out the breath I'd been holding. "We should be all right. The days are wrong."
"There's still a chance—"
"There's always a chance."
A tiny flutter began in my belly. I think it was hope. Or hunger. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. Which probably explained the lightheaded ness, but the stupidity was all my own. My mind was suddenly full of pink ribbons and blue bicycles. English stone cottages and wedding bells. I forgot who I was dealing with.
"This can never happen again, Maya."
"Barn door wide open, horse running down the street," I mumbled. "Or maybe up the stream."
"This isn't funny!" he snapped.
I jumped, wrapping my arms around myself as tears stung my eyes. Even though I'd just denied any need for home and family, his reaction hurt. I'd believed for just an instant that he saw me differently than other men, that he found me funny, pretty. That he might even consider me special.
"I'm sorry if the idea of making a baby with me is so disgusting."
"That's not it." He took a deep breath, which caught in the middle. "I tried to be normal once, tried to love someone and have a life. She was the one who paid."
"Serena," I whispered.
"You asked about my nightmare. This is it. I let someone get close to me, then the monsters take them away. They'll use you against me, and I can't let that happen."
"You could quit."
"No. I vowed over the bodies of my grandparents, my parents, my sisters, my brother, then Serena that I wouldn't stop until every werewolf was dead."
"You could be alone for the rest of your life. I doubt your family, or Serena, would want that."
"If I quit, people die. The survivors get my nightmares. I can't live with that either. I've lost those I loved twice. I wouldn't survive being a three-time loser."
"So you have nothing, love no one?"
"It's the only way I can go on."
Silence settled between us. When I finally slept, my dreams weren't happy, and when I awoke my cheeks were tight with dried tears. I was alone, just as I'd been in those dreams.
Gray light filtered through the scrub across the entry-way, illuminating my clothes strewn across the floor of the cave, revealing Clay's silhouette near the door. When he'd left me to stand watch again, I had no idea, but his absence had seeped into my subconscious, creating loneliness even though he was only a few feet away.
I got up, gathered my clothes, got dressed. I had just tied my flannel shirt around my waist and slipped into my shoes, when the snap of a twig and the ping of stone on stone made us freeze. Clay held up one hand indicating I should stay back, even as he reached for his Beretta with the other.
His trap had been sprung. Something lurked outside our cave. But what?
We'd heard no howls, no pitter-patter of tiny feet, not even the thud of great, big paws. Nothing until the snap, crackle, ping. Could a skinwalker fly?
I recalled the skins of the eagle and the raven in Joseph's cabin. I had a very bad feeling that it could.
"Hello, the cave. Anyone there?"
Clay frowned and his gun dipped a bit. The voice had been gruff, wobbly—the voice of a very old man.
Joseph? I mouthed.
Clay shook his head and leaned over to whisper in my ear. "Mandenauer said he's about my age."
"Hello?" the voice repeated. "You need help?"
Clay crept to the side of the entrance and peeked through the tiny hole in the covering. His shoulders relaxed at the sight.