by Paige Tyler
Hoping she was making the right decision, she turned off the path she was on, heading straight across the fog-shrouded cemetery in the direction of the main building and the front entrance. It was risky, going cross-country like this, but if her sense of direction was right, they’d be back at her patrol car in half the time it would take if they went the long way around.
Within seconds, the blurry outline of various shaped headstones and grave markers began to appear out of the darkness ahead of them. Rachel strained to hear the sounds of approaching sirens, but so far the only noise was her footsteps in the cold, crunchy grass, Hannah’s occasional moans of pain, and the chatter of the radio as her fellow officers called in their updated ETAs.
Hannah was nearly unconscious in her arms by the time Rachel saw the hazy outline of the main cemetery building. She picked up her pace, almost running across the parking lot. Off in the distance, sirens echoed faintly in the night and she prayed the paramedics would be part of the first group to arrive.
Rachel was so eager to get Hannah into the warmth and safety of the car she didn’t hear the crunch of gravel behind them until it was almost too late. She snapped her head around in time to see a huge man in clown makeup sprinting out of the fog, a big knife in his hand.
For the first time since becoming a cop, Rachel froze. Between the white greasepaint covering his face, the bloodred markings around his eyes, and the menacing red grin permanently etched around his mouth, he was like a nightmare come to life. Even his teeth, which he’d somehow tricked out to make it look as if they’d been filed down to sharp points like some kind of monster, screamed evil. A bright-orange fright wig completed the look, turning the big man into the most disturbing thing she’d ever seen, despite the big, bright-red nose he sported.
The clown was less than a foot away when Rachel finally snapped out of her daze. She instinctively curled around Hannah in an effort to protect her, praying the Kevlar fibers in her tactical vest would protect her own body.
Rachel flew forward like she’d been hit by a Mack truck. Her knees slammed into the gravel and Hannah sailed out of her arms with a high-pitched scream. A lightning bolt of fiery agony in her right shoulder blade let her know the demented clown’s knife had punched right through the vest. Shock kept her from feeling the full extent of the damage, she was sure, but she had a feeling the blade had gone deep enough to puncture a lung. The pain from the wound made her whole body go rigid, and for one terrified moment, she thought she might not make it home that night.
She screamed as the clown ripped the knife out. Crap, it hurt even more coming out than it had going in. Fighting off dizziness, she rolled to the side to avoid the next attack she was sure was coming her way. Another piercing scream echoed in the cemetery, and she worried the man was going after Hannah, but when she looked over her shoulder, it was to find the psycho coming at her again.
She managed to get her Sig out, but the stabbing pain in her back kept her from moving as fast as she usually did, and the damn weapon slipped out of her hand when the clown landed on top of her, crushing what seemed like every trace of air out of her already-damaged lungs.
Rachel punched, scratched, kicked, and shoved, but the man on top of her easily weighed over 250 pounds, and most of it seemed to be muscle. He was insanely strong—or maybe just insane. Eyes practically glowing red, he went for her throat, and those teeth she’d thought only looked sharp were actually as pointy and dangerous as they looked. The pain as they tore through the coarse fabric of her clothing and vest straight into her shoulder was nearly as bad as when he’d plunged the knife into her back.
She tried to reach her Taser, but the a-hole had her left arm pinned. There was no way she could get at her telescoping baton with him on top of her, either. So, she did the only thing she could. She reached down to the other side of her belt and grabbed her radio. She brought it up and smashed it against the side of her attacker’s head, hard. The plastic shattered into pieces, but it got the madman’s attention—and his teeth out of her shoulder.
She dropped the remnants of the radio and punched out blindly, feeling her fist connect with a jaw that felt like steel. Something popped in her clenched hand with a spasm of pain, but she ignored it, punching him over and over. One of the blows caught him in the eye and he reared back with a shout of anger.
Rachel was sure she had him on the ropes then. Until the knife slashed down again with a thud so solid she thought, at first, he’d missed her completely and struck the gravel-covered ground. But then searing pain exploded in the left side of her chest and she knew he hadn’t missed. Her scream of agony must have shocked the hell out of the clown because he jerked back, tilting his head sideways like a confused animal.
She grit her teeth against the pain and threw another punch at him. Her aim was crap and she completely missed his face, but she hit him in the throat, which was actually much better. The clown clutched at his neck with both hands, coughing and gagging like he was dying. She followed that up with a kick to the face, knocking off his stupid, red clown nose and breaking his real one with the heel of her heavy patrol shoe. Blood running down his face, he collapsed to the ground, coughing harder. Hopefully, she’d crushed his larynx and he’d choke to death.
Just in case he didn’t, she rolled over, trying to figure out where her Sig had gone. She couldn’t find it in the dark, but the move sent a spike of pain lancing through her chest. Crap. The knife was still in her. How the hell hadn’t she noticed it?
Rachel glanced down and almost passed out when she saw how deeply the knife was buried in her chest, and she momentarily wondered how it was possible for her to still be alive. Taking a breath, she wrapped her hand around the handle. She remembered a first-aid class saying something about leaving the knife where it was, that it could cause more damage on the way out. They were probably right, but there was no way in hell she was leaving it where it was. Not with that idiot clown already dragging himself to his feet. And definitely not when he could take it out and stab her again.
Tightening her grip, she clenched her jaw and tugged on the knife. It took more force than she would have thought necessary, but the first stomach-twisting sensation of the blade sliding out distracted her from that fact. Then the soul-searing pain arrived, threatening to overwhelm her. For a moment, she was tempted to give in to the blackness threatening to consume her, but then Hannah screamed.
Rachel lifted her head to see the clown turning his attention to the girl. If Rachel lost consciousness, Hannah was dead. And Rachel had promised not to let the bastard hurt her again.
The sirens in the distance were gradually coming closer, but they were still too far away to matter.
Tossing the knife away, Rachel scrambled to her feet to go after the insane man in the clown makeup. It might have been smarter to keep the weapon, but in truth, she feared that, in her condition, he’d take the blade away from her and use it on Hannah.
For a big man, he was ridiculously fast. He lunged for Hannah, wrapping his huge hand around her ankle and dragging her toward him with a grunt. Hannah kicked at him with her free foot, trying to get away by pulling herself across the gravel as she screamed at the top of her lungs.
The clown continued to crawl forward, moving like some deranged monster, so focused on Hannah all of a sudden it was like Rachel didn’t even exist. Maybe he assumed she was too weak to come after him—or already dead. Either way, he didn’t notice her behind him pointing her Taser at his back.
Rachel waited until she was two feet away to squeeze the trigger—so close she couldn’t possibly miss. The barbed probes deployed with a pop, stabbing him through the shirt he wore. The Taser clicked like crazy in her grip as it dumped thousands of volts into the man. He groaned but didn’t seem nearly as fazed by it as she’d expected.
Not wanting to lose even that small advantage, Rachel reached behind her back and pulled out her cuffs, then jumped on his back. If
she could get his arms restrained, she and Hannah might just make it until backup—and EMS—arrived.
The clown immediately lost interest in Hannah, releasing his hold on the girl and turning on Rachel with a vicious roar. She still had the trigger on the Taser depressed and it was still clicking like it should. By now, he should have been screaming in pain and writhing around on the ground, but it wasn’t having any real effect on him. Wrapping one hand around her throat, he grabbed her left shoulder with the other, nearly crushing her bones as he shoved his thumb into the stab wound in her chest.
Rachel tried to scream as the pain hit her, but the hand around her neck made that impossible, and all that came out was a strangled sound. She swung a punch at him, hoping to get him to release her. She didn’t realize until her fist connected with the side of his face that she was still holding her cuffs in her hand.
His head rocked back hard, but it seemed like he’d barely noticed the blow from the heavy steel cuffs, despite the blood that ran down his paint-smeared cheek. If anything, it seemed to piss him off even more and he tightened his grip around her throat.
Rachel’s vision started to dim and she knew she was going to die. This freak was going to kill her, then he was going to kill Hannah.
Like hell.
She punched him again and again and again. She didn’t aim, didn’t even think, but simply fought for her life…and for Hannah’s.
Rachel wasn’t sure how many times she hit him, but at some point, she realized he wasn’t moving and that his hand was no longer wrapped around her neck. Her arms were so weak she could barely lift them any longer. She had no idea where the Taser was. And those damn sirens still seemed so far away.
She used what little strength she had left to roll the clown over onto his front, then yanked an arm behind his back and got one of the cuffs around his wrist. Even semiconscious, he was strong enough to resist her efforts and she couldn’t get his arm around to cuff that wrist. It didn’t help that it was coated in so much of his blood she couldn’t get a grip on it.
That was when she realized it wasn’t his blood but hers.
She was bleeding to death.
Refusing to think about what that meant, Rachel tried to pull the man’s left arm around, but the stab wounds in her chest and back were making it difficult to get a breath. Her vision was getting fuzzy, too. Suddenly, it was like she was viewing everything through a curtain. One that was getting thicker by the second.
She was close to giving up when a slender pair of hands reached out and covered her own. Rachel lifted her head to see Hannah kneeling beside her. Even in the darkness, the young girl’s face looked pale. She’d lost almost as much blood as Rachel.
Hannah didn’t say anything as she helped get the clown’s left arm back behind his back, then worked with Rachel to get the cuff on his wrist. Once that was done, it was like every ounce of energy left in Rachel’s body evaporated and she slumped down to the ground on one hip.
Suddenly, she was surrounded by warmth as Hannah moved close and settled down at her side. The girl wrapped an arm around her, resting her cheek on Rachel’s shoulder. “Thank you for saving me. And for not leaving me. Or letting him hurt me.”
“I made a promise,” Rachel said softly. “I never go back on a promise.”
Hannah didn’t say anything for a moment. “He’s not really a clown, is he?”
Rachel shook her head, alarmed at how dizzy even that simple movement made her. “I’m pretty sure he’s not. But if he is, then he’s the worst clown in the world.”
Hannah lifted her head from Rachel’s shoulder to gaze into the fog at the blue and red flashing lights of the police cars that were coming closer. After a moment, she put her head on Rachel’s shoulder again.
“I don’t like clowns,” Hannah said.
“No one likes clowns,” Rachel replied.
Her vision was getting dimmer by the second and breathing was almost too painful to bother with. She wasn’t going to make it until help arrived.
“Rachel!”
She jumped at the panic in Hannah’s voice. That’s when Rachel realized she’d fallen over and was lying on the ground near the clown, staring straight into his open eyes. She freaked, horrified he’d fully regained consciousness at the same time she was losing hers. The thought of what he could do to Hannah even though he was in cuffs terrified her.
“Rachel, you have to stay awake!” Hannah shook Rachel’s shoulder. “They’re almost here. I can see the red and blue lights.”
Rachel tried to do as Hannah asked, but her eyelids were suddenly so heavy. Nothing hurt anymore, so that was good. On the downside, it was getting harder and harder to breathe. It struck her that she was dying. The fact that backup had arrived and that Hannah would be okay made her feel better about that.
But as she lay there on the cold ground, staring into the clown’s glowing red eyes, Rachel realized she was still scared—of leaving Hannah behind after making her a promise and of being so close to this creepy-ass clown. More than anything, though, she was scared of dying. There was still so much she’d never had a chance to do with her life. Like learn to play a musical instrument like she wanted to, travel to exotic places she’d dreamed about, or even fall in love. Panic began to overwhelm her as she realized she was never going to get a chance to do any of it.
As that fear threatened to choke out what little breath she had left in her lungs, the clown grinned at her, his bloodied lips pulled wide as if he could sense her terror and it was the most amusing thing he’d ever seen.
That nightmarish smile of his—and the all-consuming fear she felt—was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.
Chapter 1
Dallas, Texas, Present Day
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like crap.”
From where she sat on the bench lacing her boots in the SWAT team’s locker room on the second floor of the admin building, Rachel glanced up to see fellow officer Khaki Blake regarding her with concern. Tall with long, dark hair and brown eyes, Khaki was the only other female werewolf on the Dallas PD SWAT Team. But more than that, she was Rachel’s best friend. And when friends started a conversation with don’t take this the wrong way, it was because they knew you would.
“We just ran ten miles cross-country for physical training this morning,” Rachel pointed out, returning her attention to her boots. “How do you expect me to look?”
“I didn’t say you looked tired. I said you look like crap.”
“What’s the difference?” Rachel asked, not sure she wanted to know.
“Tired means you stayed up late binging something on Netflix,” her friend said. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Rachel finished lacing her boots, then sat up with a sigh. In addition to the showers and locker room, there were also a handful of cots as well as a kitchenette. If you had to work a double shift, it was nice to be able to come up here to catch some rest.
Beside Khaki on the opposite bench, a black cat named Kat that belonged to one of their teammates regarded Rachel thoughtfully. Unlike Tuffie, the playful pit-bull mix the SWAT pack had adopted the previous summer, Kat acted like she owned the place. When she wasn’t up here watching the guys clean up after PT or hanging out with her rescuer, Connor, she wandered the compound looking bored. If the expression in her feline gaze now was any indication, she completely agreed with Khaki. It was times like these that made Rachel think the animal knew a whole hell of a lot more about the world than any cat should.
“I haven’t been sleeping much lately,” she said quietly.
Khaki frowned. “You’re still having nightmares, aren’t you?”
Rachel nodded. She hated admitting it, but it wasn’t like Khaki didn’t already know about the hellish dreams. Her friend had quickly picked up on the fact that something was bothering Rachel after s
he and some of their pack mates had come back fresh from a fight with a nest of vampires in Los Angeles a few weeks ago.
It might be stupid, especially since she and her pack mates were werewolves, but discovering vampires existed had shocked the hell out of all of them, including Rachel. So, when Khaki assumed she was a little off because of what happened in California, Rachel hadn’t corrected her. It’d seemed easier to let her friend think she was suffering PTSD from the fight with the bloodsuckers than to admit she’d been dealing with nightmares—and other things—ever since werewolf hunters had attacked the SWAT compound two months ago. That night, she’d screwed up and let one of the hunters get away, even when she’d had the man right in her sights.
A little while after, she’d started picking up bizarre scents that none of the other werewolves in her pack seemed to notice. Scents that both attracted and scared the hell out of her. Even worse were the shadows she caught out of the corner of her eye—shadows that were frequently horrifying but, at other times, almost comforting.
As bad as her waking hours were, it was the nightmares that were causing her the most distress. She’d been having traumatic dreams ever since going through her change that night in the cemetery in Chattanooga, but they’d been nothing compared to the terrors she was experiencing lately. The endless horrors of being chased, hunted, and savagely attacked that she revisited on a nightly basis would jerk her out of sleep, heart pounding and sobbing in fear. They were the kind of things that made a person never want to go back to sleep for as long as they lived.
“You know,” Khaki said as she stood up and strapped on the last of her gear, “there are people you can talk to about stuff like this. I know Cooper talked to a psychologist a few times and really thinks highly of her. I’m sure he could get you in to see her.”
