by Rebecca York
For a split second, it flashed into his mind that somehow Arnott had figured out what kind of creature was stalking him. Then he dismissed the notion as beyond the realm of possibility. The killer had shot at and wounded a large dog, maybe even a wolf. Then he'd found a knapsack and clothing. That added up to a man and an animal. A K-9 unit.
Sternly he reminded himself of what kind of man he was dealing with. Arnott fantasized about the brutal acts he wanted to carry out on the bodies of young women—and followed through with the scenario. But his type didn't go around imagining paranormal creatures in his backyard.
Still, that didn't mean the danger was less. He knew Arnott was deadly and resourceful. The trap was only another demonstration of his ingenuity.
All Ross's senses were on alert as he padded past oaks and poplars, wild cherry and dogwood, their newly budded branches swaying slightly as the wind picked up. He was a hundred yards closer to the fence when a more disturbing thought slammed into him.
If Arnott had gone to the trouble of setting out traps, he could also have set out alarms—which had already been tripped. If so, the bastard could be on his way out here, with an Uzi instead of the hunting rifle he'd been armed with four nights ago.
The wolf's mouth drew back in a snarl. He had his animal senses. The hunter had modern technology on his side.
Yeah, modern technology. He was sure he hadn't left the phone on. But all he needed now was for the damn thing to somehow ring. Then he'd be in big trouble.
DONALD woke to the sound of a bell ringing. For a moment he was disoriented, thinking it was the phone, blinking as he stared at the green numbers on the alarm clock.
One-twenty in the morning.
Who the hell was calling him in the middle of the night?
Anger warred with a flash of fear as he snatched the receiver from the cradle—and heard nothing but a dial tone. But the ringing persisted. Then he realized it was the alarm system he'd installed the day before.
Jesus Christ. He'd hit pay dirt. Already.
Leaping out of bed, he pulled on his clothes, grabbed some serious firepower, and pounded down to the gate.
His fingers were clumsy on the lock, and he cursed as he forced himself to slow down, get the numbers of the combination right.
The lock clicked, and he snapped it open, slipping outside into the night, the excitement of the hunt pumping through his veins. This time the bastard wasn't going to take him by surprise. This time when he saw the damn dog, he was gonna be ready. Or maybe it wasn't the dog—maybe it was the man. Well, that was even better.
THE need for caution warring with the need for speed, Ross continued on a course through the darkened woods that would take him near the spot where he'd dropped the knapsack. He kept his nose to the ground and all his senses tuned for trouble. His bad leg was throbbing dully now, but he ignored the pain.
To his right was another trap. Then another on the left, the metal cold and deadly in the darkness. How many of the fucking things did Arnott think he needed? He'd spent a lot of money on setting out a defensive perimeter. That was one more indication that the bastard wasn't living on his salary as a security guard.
The wolf paused, sucked in a deep breath. The scent of the killer was stronger here. But so was the Ross Marshall scent.
MEGAN stared at the clock on the bedside table. One-thirty in the morning. Ross had promised to call and tell her he was all right. But she hadn't heard from him, and she'd been lying in bed, feeling her pulse pounding in her temples, thinking that her blood pressure had probably climbed to one-fifty over ninety as she waited to hear from him.
More and more edgy by the minute, she slapped her fist against her palm. Damn Ross Marshall for making her care about him! Was he home safely? Had something bad happened?
Or was he even going to bother with a call?
Plumping up the pillow behind her head, she made an effort to relax. But it was impossible to let go of the tension.
Then, because she couldn't stand to lie in the dark another minute, she heaved herself out of bed, turned on the hall light, and padded down the hall to the kitchen. Picking up her purse from a chair where she'd set it when she brought in groceries, she opened the side compartment and felt for the slip of paper that had Ross's phone number. In the light from the hall, she read the numbers.
Again she glanced at the clock. One forty-five. By now he was probably home, fast asleep in his wide bed, while she was standing here in the kitchen with her teeth on edge.
The image of him lying in his bed made her fingers crumple the piece of paper. Carefully she smoothed it out again.
Damn him for doing this to her. Damn him for making her crazy with worry. Well, she knew how to pay him back.
Crossing to the counter, she lifted the receiver of the wall phone and reached toward the keypad.
THE wolf moved more slowly now, closing in on the strongest source of the Ross Marshall scent. When he came to a swirl of fallen leaves, he was sure that was the place. Although he couldn't see the phone, he could detect it nonetheless—either the instrument or something else he had carried close to his body. He was darting forward, ready to snatch it from the leaves, when he heard the sound of booted feet crunching on the dry ground. Coming toward him fast and eager.
Animal instinct briefly took over. Coherent thought fled from his brain. There was only fear. And searing pain—the remembered pain of the rifle bullet tearing into his flesh.
His breath was coming in sharp pants. The animal part of him wanted to turn and run for his life. The part that was human forced him to stay where he was, pawing at the leaves, struggling not to work too fast and screw it up.
The scent grew stronger. Then a slender rectangle of black plastic appeared among the leaves—a man-made intrusion on the forest floor. He lowered his mouth, caught the object in his teeth, then bolted for safety as a spray of bullets hit a tree trunk inches from his body.
Changing directions, he twisted through a tangle of wild roses and blackberries, lowering his head to avoid the sharp thorns. The man couldn't follow without getting badly scratched, but he sprayed the thicket with a hail of bullets.
The frightened animal part of him would have dashed straight for the safety of the truck. The human part knew that would be a fatal mistake. Making a wide circle around the vehicle, he ducked through more brambles and emerged, breathing hard.
He was in no shape to run for his life. But he had no choice, so he sprang ahead, outdistancing the man with the gun. Behind him, he could hear Arnott pelting through the forest, but he sensed he was out of danger now. The man could never catch him.
He slowed his pace as a tantalizing thought wafted into his mind. He could circle back, get behind the man, spring on his shoulders, and bring him down before he even knew what had hit him.
On a surge of adrenaline, he imagined pinning his quarry to the ground, sinking his fangs into the column of the neck.
The sweet, hot taste of blood welled in him, and a vivid image of the kill filled his mind like a bright light that blotted out all conscious human thought.
He was pure animal now as he turned and raised his head, sniffing the air, drinking in the scent of the man with the gun.
Body quivering with renewed purpose, he started back the way he'd come, eager for the feel of his teeth punching through soft tissue, crunching through bone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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THE WIND SANG a hunting song in his blood. A song without words. A song that drew him forward, primed him for the kill.
But he had taken only a few eager steps when the screech of an owl above the treetops broke the stillness of the night. The bird dived toward some small animal on the ground. In that instant, reason came flooding back through the wolf's brain cells, and he stopped in his tracks.
His jaw snapped around the phone he still carried in his mouth, and his right front foot pawed the ground. For long moments he stood with his body trembling and his breath rushing hotly
in and out of his lungs as he forced himself to stand in place. Forced himself to forgo the unholy pleasure of showing his enemy who was hunter and who was prey. Of wreaking vengeance for the bullet that had almost killed him.
Silent, subdued, he turned and started for the place where he'd left the truck.
Minutes later he had transformed to human shape, welcoming the pain that came with the change. Dressing quickly in his pants and shirt, shoving his feet into his shoes, he climbed behind the wheel. His skin was covered by a film of perspiration from the pain in his leg and from the effort of controlling his instincts. His motions were jerky as he started the engine and pulled off the shoulder of the road, his back wheels spinning on gravel as he roared away into the night, the beat of his pulse drumming in his temples.
DONALD heard the car engine and sprinted toward the road, heedless of the brambles tearing at his pants legs. Breathing hard, he broke through the cover of trees and saw the bulk of a large vehicle—an SUV moving rapidly away. Red taillights mocked him. He zeroed in on the pool of light between them where the license plate rode low over the bumper.
Straining his eyes, he picked up the first two letters—DE. But that was all he could get. And he couldn't see the color or figure out the model in the dark. He was aiming at the bastard when headlights came blazing around a curve in the road, and he froze, a stream of curses tumbling from his mouth. He couldn't risk a shot, not when he might hit another vehicle. He waited until the other car had passed. Then, in frustration, he lifted the Uzi and squeezed the trigger, letting loose a hale of bullets into the trunk of an oak tree, bark flying as the projectiles hit.
His finger didn't loosen until the clip was empty.
"Fucker," he spat. "Fucker."
He was talking about the man, not the big dog he'd shot at again. The man had been back here in the SUV, waiting for the animal—ready to peel rubber the moment the animal appeared.
He stared in the direction in which the vehicle had disappeared. DE. How many license plates began with those letters? A couple of thousand, he was sure.
Anger bubbling inside him, he walked slowly back through the woods, kicking at debris on the ground. But he didn't let his anger get the better of him. Methodically he illuminated the path in front of him, being careful not to step in any of the steel-jawed traps he'd set out.
The dog had been lucky. Or smart. Or something. An involuntary shiver traveled down his spine, and for a moment he allowed his brain to conjure up an image of a devil dog. Satan's spawn. Come to punish him on earth for his sins.
He shook off the ridiculous notion. That dog out there was no supernatural apparition. It had come in a truck with its master. And it was just a very well-trained animal. He'd shot it, hadn't he? And followed a trail of its blood.
Shot it four nights ago, he realized with a start.
Shit, he hadn't even been able to locate the vet that had treated it. And now it seemed to be good as new.
Well, animals healed faster than people, didn't they? Or maybe it was another dog. Maybe the fucker stalking him had a whole kennel full of the yapping bastards primed and ready to go. Maybe he was some kind of K-9 nut.
Still cursing, he started off again in the direction of the gate, swinging the light in an arc across the forest floor. When he hit a spot where the ground covering had been disturbed, he paused and squatted down.
It looked like the animal had pawed into the leaves.
Jesus. Had the man dropped something else, something besides the knapsack and his clothes? He sifted his fingers through the ground cover, feeling nothing. Standing again, he gave a savage kick at the dirt, imagining he was kicking the man in the head or the guts, thinking about all the things he was going to do to the guy when he finally caught up with him.
DRENCHED in sweat, Ross drove as if furies were pursuing him. Tonight he'd almost done it again. He'd almost lost control and ripped out his enemy's throat. At the last minute, sanity had returned.
Human sanity. Not the primitive instincts that ruled the wolf.
Those instincts had almost overwhelmed him. Yet somehow intellect had won out tonight.
Was it only the screech of the owl that had saved him? Or would he have stopped himself before he leaped for the man's throat, jaws snapping?
He didn't know. But he wasn't going to give himself the benefit of the doubt. Not when he remembered the hot joy of the hunt.
He felt a tight, choking sensation in his throat. Pushing the accelerator to the floor, he tried to outrun the wolf. But the creature kept pace with him—a part of himself that he could never cast away. The dangerous, primitive part that most men never encountered on a conscious level.
It was different for him. But he had never been under the illusion that he was like most men. He was the outsider. The man who could never completely trust the humans around him—because they would turn against him if they learned his secret. Even Jack Thornton, his friend. Or as close to a friend as he'd ever hoped to have. After Michael had died, Adam had tried to get close to him. But he hadn't responded to his younger brother's overtures. He'd been too depressed, he realized now. Then he'd decided that there was no use in establishing a relationship, when one or both of them was likely to die.
He thought of his father. Another loner, hiding his true self from the world. Was the need for secrecy what had transformed Vic Marshall into a hard, cynical man focused on his own needs and his own pleasure?
In all the years that Ross had hated the man, he'd never thought of his father in those terms. Never felt any sympathy for him. Now he wondered if his judgment had been too harsh. He'd taken care of his own—his wife and his children—in his fashion. He'd even let the boys stay home until they got old enough to challenge his authority, Ross thought with a snort, remembering Troy's and his own battles with the Big Bad Wolf.
His mind scrambled to escape from the thought of his home—lost to him forever—and came winging back to Megan.
He'd promised to call her.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the dashboard. Two-thirty. She couldn't be up now, waiting to hear from him. Could she?
She'd forced the promise from him at a vulnerable moment. Which canceled out any obligation, as far as he was concerned.
Pulling to a stop in front of his house, he cut the engine and sat in the darkness, staring out at the familiar landscape. His home.
He had named it Díthreabh. His refuge. As a wolf he could roam his property, letting go of all the human problems that plagued him.
Tonight he had already prowled through the woods—hunting for human prey. And the outcome had brought him to the brink of disaster.
Moving slowly, his body worn out from the physical and emotional turmoil of the night, he limped into the house and found himself gravitating toward the kitchen counter, where he'd tossed Megan's business card. He stared at the white rectangle, remembering the way they'd stood in the kitchen early this morning. She'd hastened across the floor toward him, and he'd taken her in his arms. She'd wanted to kiss him. And more. He had seen it in her eyes, felt it in his blood.
An hour ago he had felt something else in his blood. The killer lust of the wolf. The animal that lived in the same body with the rational man. He'd sworn to control the animal, keep it on a tight leash. Tonight it had broken that leash—leaped out of control with a savage fury that had frightened him to the depths of his soul. If he had a soul.
Was he human—or animal?
Despair choked him, cutting off his breath. He didn't know how to find his humanity. Not tonight.
Not tonight. When he felt as if he were standing alone on a desert island in the middle of an endless ocean.
Then, from somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, an old Simon and Garfunkel song floated into his mind: "Bridge over Troubled Water." He thought of the words, then thought of that bridge—stretching, stretching across a wind-tossed ocean to the lonely island where he stood alone. Megan was on that bridge, running toward him the way she'd come
to him in the kitchen, her eyes so large and beautiful, looking at him. Ross Marshall.
She'd reached for him, and he'd clasped her in his arms. A man holding a woman. As simple as that.
With a sound of pain that rose from deep inside him, he snatched up the card, then pulled the phone from his pocket. Feeling a need, a desperation that was almost beyond control, he lifted the receiver to his ear and punched the On button.
After four days of lying in a pile of leaves in the woods, the phone was stone-cold dead, and a curse rose to his lips.
Striding down the hall to the office, he dropped into the desk chair and reached for the charger—with its extra battery. When his fingers closed around the spare, he breathed a sigh of relief. Inserting it into the phone, he listened for the dial tone, then punched in Megan's number. After switching the light off again, he leaned back in the comfortable chair and closed his eyes.
She answered on the first ring, and a feeling of warmth and gratitude flooded through him when he heard her voice. "Ross. Thank God."
She sounded relieved, the relief tinged with other emotions that brought a painful pressure to the region of his heart. She was worried and angry, and he longed to soothe her. "How did you know it was me?" he asked softly.
"Who else would keep me awake, waiting for him, until… almost three in the morning?"
"You're angry."
A breath sighed out of her. "Well, I was worried. I thought of calling you. Then I realized that would be a bad idea."
The way she said it increased the painful pressure in his chest. "I just got back. I told you I was going to be late."
"Did you run into a problem?" she asked anxiously.
"No," he lied, because he hadn't called to worry her. He had called because she was the only person in the world who could ease the aching knot of tension in his chest.
"You have the phone? You're all right?"
