Night Falls on the Wicked (3 page)

He grimaced at the two-story, whitewashed house with its picket fence. In bigger cities he had the benefit of anonymity. By the end of the night everyone would know about the lone man in their midst. There would be stares, prying questions—none of which he would answer. Even if he did, no one would believe him.

At least the house sat directly on Main Street, where he could see most everything going on in the town. With this heartening thought, he stepped out of the vehicle and sucked in a bracing breath at the sudden cold, unexpected even though he’d been chasing his quarry through Canada for the last two months now.

The air cut into him and he shivered and burrowed deeper into his coat and wondered why the bastards had to pick the Great White North
as their newest area to terrorize. He inhaled deeply, sniffing the air, searching for any lingering scent of them, hoping they were still here. His skin prickled and tightened in that familiar way that told him they were here. Close.

He stared down the two-lane street. A truck approached, driving slowly through the curling white air that seemed to float everywhere. A big, thick-furred dog hopped around the back, jumping madly on his paws. His shiny dark eyes rolled wildly as he barked fiercely at Niklas. The driver yelled back for him to shut up, but the dog couldn’t silence himself.

Niklas stared impassively as the truck drove by, bearing the dog away. The dog knew. Sensed what Niklas was. Or rather what he wasn’t.

Opening the back door, he grabbed his gear from the back—three black duffel bags. Everything he would need to continue his hunt. Infrared goggles, winter camo, guns, knives, vials of silver nitrate, maps of the surrounding area. If it could be of use, he had it.

After checking in and avoiding the nosy clerk’s questions, he grabbed the local newspaper on the counter before tromping up the narrow stairs to his room.

He passed a maid carrying towels on the stairs. She moved to the side for him to pass, her wide
eyes devouring him. He was instantly aware of her increased heart rate and the spike in her body temperature.

“Hi,” she said, her voice breathy. Her gaze slid over his tall form, licked him up and down like she’d never seen a tastier treat.

He nodded once in greeting.

As he brushed past her, he felt her body tremor with excitement. She pushed up off the wall. “I’m Holly,” she blurted after him. “If you need anything, just call down to the front and ask for me.”

Her need filled his nostrils, a heady thing that could overtake him if he let it. Fortunately, he’d mastered control, well aware that it wasn’t actually him, not the
real
him that drew her. Sure, he was better than average, he guessed, but looks alone couldn’t get him laid within five seconds flat of meeting a woman. It was something more. She was responding to that part of him that he loathed. The magnetism that belonged to the beast.

Years of living this way—simply being what he was—had taught him to cope with moments like this. Even though instinct urged him to take her, seize her and what she offered him like a rutting beast, he was able to ignore the hunger as it flared to life, recognizing it for the meaningless desire it was.

The beast within him was all about primal
urges. Fucking was a part of that. He didn’t resist it all the time. Sometimes he answered the call, but he wasn’t like the others, his brethren, insatiable beasts that never resisted an urge. Not to fuck. Not to kill and feed.

He opened the door to his room, not bothering to look back and see if the maid still stood there. He could feel her. He knew she watched him.

Shutting the door behind him, he dropped his gear and moved to the room’s sole window. He’d requested a view of the street. If they were out there, stalking the town’s residents, it increased his odds of spotting them.

He looked down at the newspaper still clutched in his hand. The headline stood out boldly in black, block letters:
Wolf Threat Still Unresolved!

He snorted.

And it likely wouldn’t be resolved. Not unless he resolved it. Or they gave him the slip and moved on to new hunting grounds. Again.

He curled the newspaper in his hand until it crumpled. Not again. He wouldn’t lose them again. This was it. He finally had them. Cyprian would be his.

Across the street a figure walked, bent slightly forward as though fighting the wind. Despite the bulky jacket, he marked her as female. His gaze moved away from her, scanning up and down
the street, but then his gaze drifted back to her again. Something drew his eye. She wasn’t what he hunted, so he wasn’t sure what it was about her that snared his attention.

He could make nothing of her face set within the dark blue hood of her parka, but his skin tightened as he followed her progress down the sidewalk.

He studied her closely, eyeing the slim length of her legs in her fitted black pants. They were nice. Long and shapely. It was probably just that. He needed a woman. He thought back, trying to recall the last time he’d had sex. Maybe he should call down for Holly after all.

He moved from the window and went back to his bags, organizing his gear with new determination for the night’s hunt. He couldn’t distract himself this close to his goal—this close to capturing the lycan who’d infected him and robbed him of his mother, damning her soul and sentencing him to an empty life, forever trapped between two worlds. Forever alone.

A
fter work the following day, Darby regretted not squeezing in her much-needed trip to the grocery store on her day off. She glanced at her watch as she left the diner. The store closed in another half hour. Barely enough time, but she was low on milk. Since she didn’t particularly enjoy dry cereal, she figured she’d just have to postpone her run. This wasn’t a big city where the store kept late hours. Family-owned, it pretty much shut down right at eight.

Halfway down the block from the diner, she hesitated for a moment. A crowd was gathered at the end of the street in front of the grocery store. She didn’t do crowds. Not if she could help it. She never knew what might trigger a vision, but she knew that more people around her seemed to increase the odds.

Hovering there, she stomped her boots on the sidewalk, shaking snow loose, trying to pretend there was a reason for her standing in the middle
of the sidewalk as she tried to make up her mind about whether to brave the crowd or not.

Things had been smooth lately, better than expected actually. Isolating herself, keeping a low profile was working apparently. She hadn’t suffered a vision in over a year, but that didn’t mean she was free. She’d never be free. She could never return home and she wouldn’t be so naïve as to think that she could.

Staring down the crowd with narrowed eyes, she clenched her jaw and strode forward with hard steps. She’d given up enough already. She wasn’t going to go hungry—even for one night. Nor was she going to go back to the diner and eat one of Sam’s greasy burgers either. One for lunch had been enough. Tonight she planned on enjoying a little pasta with basil and a glass of wine. She sighed in pleasure, almost as though she could taste it now.

Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to hang around and rub elbows with the lot of them. She’d be in and out in a flash. She’d walk directly past the crowd into the store, buy what she needed and be gone. With a decisive nod, she stepped forward.

As she neared the store, she saw everyone grouped around a beat-up old pickup truck, peering inside the back. A man stood in the truck bed wearing full camouflage.

“No thanks needed!” he called out with a wide wave to the crowd. “Every once in a while someone needs to show the wild beasts of the world that we’re masters of this land!”

The nape of her neck tingled in warning as he bent down with a grunt, and she knew something was coming that she wasn’t going to like. She told herself to turn, to walk away and not look, not watch what was unfolding, but her feet were rooted to the earth.

She gasped when he came back up with a grunt, hefting the carcass of a wolf. He showed off his trophy with pride to the crowd. Blood stained the brown and gray fur. The animal’s dead eyes stared out lifelessly—like inanimate marbles.

Clapping and hoots of approval erupted from the crowd. Darby looked away, unwilling to stare too long into the creature’s frozen eyes. She’d seen enough in that one glimpse. It was there, locked in the wolf’s expression, that last moment of life when he realized it was all over. She read the fear, the panic still mirrored there that begged for more time—for life.

More cheering exploded. She risked another glance only to see a second wolf hoisted for display.

She almost imagined she could feel the tattoo on her shoulder tingling with a kindred connection
… an awareness of sorts. Crazy, she knew. She’d gotten the tat a few years ago, after leaving Seattle, leaving her aunts and cousins—after she’d said good-bye to Jonah.

Jonah
. She sighed at the memory of him. He’d been her friend—a demon slayer made a particularly
good
friend to have. She hadn’t thought of him in a while. She missed him—hoped he was happy with Sorcha. It took Darby only a glimpse of them together to see that Jonah would never be hers … that her feelings for him would never be returned. They would only ever be friends.

He’d taught her a valuable lesson though—that not everything was what it appeared to be. It was a lesson she never forgot. Jonah should have been something feared and reviled, something as evil as the very
things
that hunted her. Instead, he’d been her savior on more than one occasion. Before she took on a life of isolation and had to start looking out for herself.

The tattoo of the wolf that covered her left shoulder blade served as a reminder of everything Jonah had taught her … and of the past she’d left behind. It gave her some connection to everything and everyone she’d lost. It made her feel less alone.

She bypassed the crowd and made her way quickly through the store, grabbing some milk, a fresh loaf of bread and some basil. Even walking
through the aisles, she could still hear the furor outside.

The cashier, too busy staring raptly out the storefront window, hardly looked at Darby as she paid. With the recent attacks, those dead wolves were more than a pair of trophies. They symbolized justice to the townspeople. Darby shook her head, sad at just how wrong they were—and at how the innocent animals had to suffer for their mistake.

With her small bag in her arms, she sucked in a breath before emerging outside again—almost as if she were about to dive into a dense fog of poison. Anyone watching would have assumed she was bracing herself for the cold and not the mob overflowing the parking lot.

She couldn’t help eyeing the scene as she walked, fiddling with her scarf at her neck to better cover her chin and mouth, not watching where she was going and running smack into the back of someone.

It was like hitting a wall. She fell backward, her bag of groceries falling onto the ground. Elbows in the snow, she watched as a small tub of butter rolled several feet away before stopping.

Embarrassed, she hopped up and quickly began gathering her things, her boots crunching over the snow-buried ground. She didn’t look up. Not even
when the man she’d run into squatted beside her and handed her the loaf of bread. She kept her eyes averted, muttering beneath her breath.

This was something she’d mastered. Never looking at people directly. When you looked them in the face, people talked to you way too long and tried to dig past the exterior.
Never engage
. She lived by this mantra. That’s why waitressing worked so well for her—even if the pay was barely enough to keep her clothed and fed. No one really wanted to talk to their server. People just wanted their food and to be left alone. A waitress was practically invisible—and invisible was what she’d set out to become.

Accepting the bread from the stranger, her gaze locked on his hand. All of her stilled at the sight. Even her lungs ceased to draw breath.

His hand was masculine, the wrist strong and narrow. Capable. The back of it lightly sprinkled with fair hairs and traced with faint veins. The sight was all achingly familiar. Although not in a specific way. It wasn’t a specific hand belonging to a specific man.

Her reaction was familiar. Her single-minded focus something she’d felt before. Back when she didn’t want to be invisible. When she yearned for Jonah to notice her.

She remembered what it felt like to center all
her attention on a single masculine hand, hoping she would look up and find
his
eyes on her, seeing her. Finally, truly, seeing her. At last.

She recalled how her chest would tighten at the glimpse of his hand, the brush of tapering fingers against any part of her. She’d spend hours lost in daydreams of what it would feel like to have that hand touch her, stroke her until she arched and purred like a cat beneath his expert ministrations.

Despite the bitter cold, she suddenly felt hot, flushed with warmth. This hand sparked something deep inside her, woke a dormant piece of herself she’d only ever felt stir and come alive around Jonah. Useless as her feelings had been. Jonah had never looked at her that way, never felt that kind of attraction for her. And now his heart belonged to another.

She snatched up her bread with a muttered thanks, grateful the girl she used to be was gone. She wasn’t the same girl of three years ago, given to girlish infatuations. She didn’t become giddy and experience butterflies for a guy with nice hands. She wasn’t the type to languish after a guy. She wasn’t even the type to waste her breath talking to one anymore. There wasn’t any point after all.

“Sorry.” Stuffing the rest of her things back into the sack, she rose to her feet. “I wasn’t looking
where I was going.” She let herself look at him then, having regained control of herself.

And then she lost it again. Her composure flew away.

It was like coming face-to-face with an angel. Dropped from sky to earth, he stood right in front of her.

Her mouth sagged a little as she drank him in—the deeply set indigo eyes, the square jaw and perfectly carved lips. Fascinating creases carved into each cheek just alongside his lips. Lips made for kissing. She swallowed past the sudden thickness in her throat.