Her Werewolf Hero (7 page)

Chapter 6

B
ron tossed the broken tracking device into the garbage can outside the gas station. He'd forgotten to throw it at the truck stop, and twenty miles later Kisanthra—Kizzy—had him pull over to use the restroom, so it was a good thing he'd remembered it now.

An antiques store across the highway beckoned with red flags fluttering at the four corners of the old barn building. Kizzy had said she'd like to check it out. And he'd agreed. He didn't mind sorting through antiques. It was a kick to recognize the things he'd once used in daily life. And they weren't in a rush. Unfortunately, they had time to waste as he waited to see what might come after Kizzy.

His eyes tracked the sky, seeking any sort of flying creature that may have had a bead on the tracker, broken or otherwise. He didn't know how witch magic worked, but the fact it had led him to her meant it was so powerful that it probably could still function even after the crystal device had been broken.

Could he take her home and walk away? He didn't think it was going to be that easy. And that wasn't any kind of emotional thing. He just had no way of knowing she could be safe.

Her dead boyfriend had actually clutched her heart from Purgatory while she lay dead on the operating-room table. How bizarre was that? But he believed her. She'd had dreams. Had said the doctor had remarked on the weird scarring he'd noticed on her heart.

No doubt about it, Kisanthra Lewis owned the Purgatory Heart.

He checked his cell phone. No calls from the director. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk to him again so soon. Good, bad or ugly.

Much as an afternoon of antiquing sounded like a ridiculous detour, it would keep him close to Kizzy and perhaps take her mind off the situation.

He checked to see if his phone could access the internet—he could do more research on the Purgatory Heart while wasting time here—but no luck. He shoved the phone in a cargo pocket on his pants leg.

From behind, Bron felt a woman's hands embrace him about the stomach, and she leaned in to give him a generous hug. He squeezed her forearms in reply, simply reacting.

But when she bounced around in front of him and put her arms around his neck, he knew what was coming. And he didn't have time to stop it.

Kizzy tilted up on to her toes and kissed him. Her fingers spread along his jaw, brushing his beard—yet she faltered and their lips lost connection. A giggle, and she returned for more.

An awkward first kiss, but Bron didn't push her away. Some crazy part of him wanted her to find her footing. To stay at his mouth. So he wrapped an arm across her back and spread the fingers of his other hand through her long, thick hair that felt clean and soft and like something he could get lost in and anchor himself to.

The second attempt at a kiss was sweeter and longer. She moaned into his mouth, and the vibrations hummed against his teeth. She tasted like coffee and boysenberries. Her chest hugged his, and the subtle weight of her unbound breasts felt good against him.

He had the sudden thought that beneath the shirt and flesh and bone beat a heart that had been touched by something other. Something that had once been cruel to her and hadn't the desire to let her go even in death. No man should ever be cruel to a woman, whether such treatment be manifested with bruises or words.

And yet, Bron had once been cruel to a woman. Had committed an unforgivable act against her.

He stopped the kiss, their lips close and his eyes opening to seek hers.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head, unwilling to detail the thoughts that threatened to crush the good feeling coursing through his system. A visceral sort of sensual adventure. Instead he asked, “Why did you do that?”

She shrugged and stepped back, shoving her hands in her jeans' back pockets, which lifted her breasts as she teasingly swayed side to side. “I wanted to know what it was like to kiss a man with a beard.”

Really? So she came out with it just like that? That was a new one to him. But he sensed her total honesty. “Glad to have obliged. I'll drive across the highway and park at the antique shop.”

She followed his path to the truck and grabbed him by the sleeve. “Are you really glad?”

“Sure.”

“Or do you think I stepped over the line?”

“No. I like a kiss from a beautiful woman any day.”

“I could kiss you again, if you're interested.”

He stopped at the passenger door and opened it for her. Her eyes twinkled in the sunlight, and she must have put on some ChapStick because her lips were so soft. Sure, he'd take another kiss. But then again, what was he thinking? This was a mission, not a date. And she and her crazy heart could never be compatible with his closed heart.

“There's something going on in there,” she said as she twirled a finger near his temple. “Deep thoughts?”

“Possibly too deep. Get in, Kizzy.”

He closed the door behind her and walked around the front of the truck. Inside the cab, she played with her camera, and when she aimed the lens at him, he put up a palm to block the shot. “I'll want to know you've erased the shots of the harpies. And the vampire, if you got pics of that.”

“I will. I just...want to study them a bit first. I promise you can look at my camera before we part ways. That's what we're doing, right? Tonight you're going to drop me off at my doorstep and run away?”

He did not run away. But he never stayed beyond need or his welcome.

“I promised you I would protect you.”

“How do we know I'm safe?”

“We'll play it by ear. But I'll want to recon the place where you're staying first. When we arrive, I'll get a room for the night. Then, once I've determined all is clear, you can move back in.”

He navigated the truck across the highway and into the antique store's gravel parking lot.

“You don't need to get a room,” she said. “You can stay on my couch. It's comfortable. And you don't actually want to leave me alone for some big bad creature to come after me, do you? I mean, even if the coast is clear, it might be a good idea to hang around awhile to ensure that. Yes?”

“All right then. Your place it is. But I don't mind wasting some time this afternoon.”

“Yes! Let's get to the antiquing. I like to look for old cameras, so let me know if you spot any.”

He followed her into the dank and dark shop, and they spent the afternoon going through the dusty treasures on two levels in the barn. No cameras to be found, but they did have a soft-serve ice cream machine. Kizzy bought a vanilla and shared it with Bron.

They sat on the truck bed gate, Kizzy finishing the ice cream cone. She'd eaten most of it. Bron wasn't much for cold treats, but he wasn't going to refuse when she offered.

“You should have bought that branding iron,” she said of the iron that had fascinated him. It had a wolf's head with a bar across the neck. Some kind of cattle brand? Didn't make sense. But the other option, using it to brand wolves, had made him feel sick. No, it must have been used for decorative purposes. Either way, he wasn't a collector of things.

“I thought you said you understood the concept of traveling and living light?” he commented as he jumped down and offered his hand to help her down.

“That's why I didn't buy the iron rooster doorstop. My mom would have loved it. But you're right. Traveling with stuff? Not cool. We spent a long time in there. The sun is setting.”

“It's a few hours' drive back to Thief River Falls. Let's get going.” They hopped in the truck cab, and Bron steered them out on to the highway. “With luck, whatever is out there can no longer track the vibrations. I'll stick around through the night to make sure you're good to go. I'd like to see your work, actually.”

“Really?”

“You said you try for a paranormal atmosphere?”

“Yes. I've managed werewolves out of tree shadows and mermaid tails out of sun shimmering on waves. I'm always drawn toward the scene, and it either happens or it doesn't. I guess you could say the picture chooses me.”

“I enjoy playing with all the new devices, though I never find much time to snap a shot of the picturesque places I pass through.”

“New devices? Are you talking about my camera? Because that so makes you sound like a man from a long-past century. Are you sure you're not a time traveler?”

“I know for sure I am not. But I do know some witches are capable of time travel.”

“Really?” Attention captured, she turned on her seat to face him.

“I'm going to have to tell you about witches now, aren't I?” he guessed. It was a better diversion from revealing his knowledge of the centuries. “Here goes everything.”

They chattered on the drive that took them through small towns that boasted populations of less than three hundred and others that were merely a few businesses along the highway that offered antiques, beer or gas. Bron didn't speed. He wasn't in a hurry to return Kizzy to her home.

“When did you start believing?” he felt compelled to ask. “In the paranormal?”

“It all started with an outhouse.”

“Do tell.”

“I was on a camping trip with my dad. He'd take me out every summer. Gave Mom a little vacation from us. We owned a cabin on Lake Bronson, but it didn't have an indoor toilet. The path to the outhouse was lighted, so I was never scared to make the trip alone right before I had to go to bed. But one night I heard the howl just as I was stepping out of the outhouse. And I saw eyes. Big, gold eyes. I know it was a werewolf.”

“Did you now?”

She nodded, her eyes as wide as he imagined they had been when she'd been little and had heard—most likely—a bear.

“I never ran so fast in my entire life. I was shaking and screaming when my dad got hold of me. I explained to him the werewolf might be out there. He just laughed and said it was probably a bear.”

“But you believed otherwise?”

“I did. I've heard bears growl. This was different. It put the hairs up all over my body. Anyway, after that I started my education in all things paranormal. I read every book I could get my hands on. Watched all the late-night movies I could manage without my parents finding out.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

Bron nodded. And then he fell dead serious. Eight. The same age as Isabelle. Had his long-lost Isabelle ever been so afraid? Of course she had. And he had not been there to protect her or even to laugh and tell her the scaries were just something else.

“But the real catalyst to believing in all things dark and creepy?” Kizzy eyed him and waited for his nod. “I took a picture of a ghost when I was twelve.”

“I didn't think ghosts were photogenic.”

“Oh, it showed on film. I used my mother's old Polaroid camera we'd found in the attic. It still had a film packet in it, so I rushed downstairs and took a picture of my dad sleeping on the couch. When it developed, there was this orb near his head, and I know it was a ghost. Grandpa had died just a few months earlier.

“My mother grabbed the photo. And get this, I swear I saw her sniff back a tear, but then she tossed it in the garbage and said I was being ridiculous. Ghosts were nonsense. Later that night, I snuck down to the kitchen and claimed the photo from the garbage can. I stuck it in my copy of
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
. I think that book got sold at the rummage sale before my parents moved to Brussels. I should have saved it.”

“You know those odd orbs of light are a common occurrence on photographs,” Bron said.

“I know that. Could be dust or the play of sunlight. But this was different. And I simply
knew
it was a ghost. You know, like when you get a visceral feeling of what is real or right?”

“Intuition.”

“Exactly! And ever since, I've been fascinated with the paranormal. I was actually convinced one of the boys in my twelfth-grade English class was a werewolf. Not one of my finer moments. I sat behind him. He was so hairy and always scratching the back of his neck. Yuck.”

“You don't like a man with hair?”

“Not all over his hands and arms and neck. It was thick and black. I knew he was a werewolf. The most evil of them all. I actually followed him on the night of a full moon during a kegger out in the woods. It was a bust. He was just another stoner looking to score some drugs beneath the bridge.”

Bron rubbed his beard. “So no on the hair, eh?”

“I like beards. I learned that when I kissed you.” She winked at him. “But werewolves? They freak me out.”

“Huh.” Not great. And all because of a hairy boy and an outhouse adventure in the dark?

“So I know you believe in the paranormal, Bron. I mean, holy Hannah, you're armed and prepared to take out all sorts of creatures. How did you get involved with all things woo-woo and become a Retriever?”

“It's a long story. I was in a weird place with my life. Drifting. Met a guy in a tavern—er, bar—who needed assistance finding an Egyptian lycanthropy totem.”

“More werewolves,” she chimed in.

“Right. It started with that mission, and I've been doing it ever since. It feeds my desire for constant movement and exploring new places.”

“We're a lot alike in those matters. I can't stay in one place too long now. I'm always searching.”

“For vampires?”

“Been there, done that. I think I'll try something a bit tamer next time, like faeries.”

“Faeries are the nastiest of the nasty. I'd steer clear of them.”

“Really? But they seem so...”

“Fluttery and magical?”

She nodded.

“The realm of Faery is dangerous and mysterious, and—I don't know a lot about the sidhe, but what I do is that I'd rather take on a whole tribe of vampires than one angry faery.”

“Wow. That's fascinating. I wish I could bombard you with questions, but—can you pull over?”