Night Creatures Short Stories

by Lori Handeland

  I wanted to sleep in a clean bed—with Clay. All I had to do was convince him that he wanted that too.

  Clay took one look at me when I walked out of the emergency room and winced.

  “It only hurts when I laugh.”

  He didn’t answer, and I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut.

  We stood in the waiting room, the silence stretching between us for far too long. I had to say something. “Now what?”

  As soon as the words were out, I wanted to take them back. I’d given him the perfect opportunity to say goodbye, and I wasn’t ready.

  “I want champagne,” I blurted. “A shower, food, not necessarily in that order.”

  “I can arrange that.” He whipped out a new cell phone with the speed of a gunslinger at high noon. Minutes later a limo slid to a stop at the entrance of the hospital.

  Champagne peeked out of an ice bucket. Crackers and cheese lay on a crystal tray. I’d never seen anything so wonderful, or tasted anything so wonderful either. Sitting back, I let my gaze wander over the car and the driver.

  “J-S sent him. He’s trustworthy.”

  My eyes widened as I realized Clay’s life was in danger from every monster on the planet. There was a leak at Jäger-Sucher headquarters.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The Biltmore.”

  “Really?”

  The Arizona Biltmore was a landmark designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Nestled at the foot of Squaw Peak, the place was gorgeous—and expensive. I’d never be able to afford a night there on my own. But on the Jäger-Suchers? What the hell.

  “You can’t leave me alone tonight.”

  Clay opened his mouth to refuse, I could see it in his eyes, and I blurted the first lie that came to my lips. “I need to be woken up every hour. Concussion.”

  His mouth closed with an audible snap of his teeth. “Of course.”

  Guilt swamped me, but I shoved it away. I was going to seduce him—a first for me, but hey, so was getting shot at and kidnapped and any number of things that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. My life was one adventure after the next these days. I’d have a spectacular story to write just as soon as I could find a pen and some paper.

  Would the ending be happy? I stared at Clay over the rim of my champagne glass. It would if I had anything to say about it.

  An hour later I was squeaky clean from a shower and pleasantly tipsy from the champagne. I sat in a big, plush chair in the first suite I’d ever set foot in, writing down everything that had happened to me before I forgot it. As if.

  Clay was using the shower, and the thought of slipping in behind him and letting the water seduce us both pulled me out of my story.

  The bathroom door opened, and a soapy-scented mist poured out. Clay appeared through the fog, a towel looped around his hips, his skin moist, shiny, hot.

  My pen and paper dropped to the floor. His head jerked up and his gaze shifted to my shadowed corner. “You should be in bed.”

  “I know.”

  I walked toward him until I was close enough to feel the warmth of the steam. He stepped back, and I caught him by the towel, then yanked.

  “Maya—”

  My hand closed around him. He was already hard. I drew him closer.

  “We can’t,” he protested.

  I pumped my fist several quick strokes, and he leaped in my palm. “I think we can.”

  “Not can’t.” He groaned as I continued to work his skin back and forth against the shaft. “Should. I mean shouldn’t. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “Good. When you think straight, you think stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid to stay away from you. I’m a dead man. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I won’t let you die.”

  “You don’t have anything to say about it.”

  “I love you.”

  Shock flashed across his face. “You can’t love me. You just met me.”

  “Are you saying you don’t love me?”

  I held my breath. I’d been taking a chance to put my heart in the open so he could crush it. But I believed Clay cared about me, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying so hard to leave me behind.

  “If you can look me in eye, right now, and tell me you don’t want me I’ll—”

  “Obviously I want you, Maya. You can feel that in the palm of your hand.”

  I could, and it was unbelievably erotic to be talking about both love and death as he pulsed and grew at my touch. What had happened to safety girl? I’d left her in the desert with the snakes.

  The thought should have made me panic, instead it intrigued me. My life, until now, had been staid and predictable. What if I took a chance, faced the world, courted death instead of fearing it?

  I guess we’d find out.

  I kissed his neck, his jaw, ran my tongue up to his ear, and sucked the lobe between my teeth. The pulse at the base of his throat throbbed. I put my lips there, and his blood beat in time with mine.

  I stroked him again. He showed me what he liked—how hard, how soft, how fast.

  I wanted to taste him as he’d once tasted me. Sliding down his body, I took him in my mouth.

  “Maya—” he murmured.

  Protest or encouragement? I didn’t know, didn’t care. He was warm and alive. He filled me, and I no longer felt alone.

  He tasted like a desert night. Hot, salty, dangerous. You could die in the desert. We almost had.

  But we’d survived together and that had to count for something. Together we could do anything, face anyone.

  His hands cupped my head, urging me on. He wasn’t thinking of the past now, but then, neither was I.

  Suddenly he reached down and grabbed my arms, yanking me to my feet and kissing me, long and deep, with a hint of desperation that only made me want him more.

  Past, present, future? Whatever.

  My robe slid from my shoulders. I wore nothing underneath. I had nothing anymore but him.

  My skin tingled at his touch. His fingers fluttered everywhere. He soul-kissed me as he backed me toward the bed. My legs hit the mattress, and we tumbled onto the sheets.

  His palm smoothed the skin of my thigh, my rear, my spine. Lifting his head, he stared into my face. Only when his gaze darkened, and he started to inch away did I remember what I looked like.

  Scrapes, bruises, black eye, stitches. He believed I’d been hurt because of him. He was wrong. Without him I’d be dead. I had to make him understand that I needed him. Forever. I knew only one way to do that.

  Lacing my fingers behind his neck, I drew him closer and made him kiss me again. The hand/blow job had excited me as much as him. I arched, and he slid along the part of me that cried out for a man—this man.

  “Now,” I whispered into his mouth. “Please.”

  He didn’t hesitate, just lifted his hips and plunged all the way home. I was wet, tight, excited. Only a few deep strokes, and I shattered, squeezing and contracting around him. The pulse in his neck jumped as he came, and I latched on to his skin, tasting him as we both shuddered with a release that went on and on.

  When he stilled, I nuzzled him behind the ear. I loved the scent of his hair, the taste of his skin. He kissed my unmarked cheek, then gently brushed his fingers over my black eye. “I’m sorry.”

  I sighed. My plan hadn’t worked. He still didn’t see how much we needed each other to survive. I’d have to be more direct.

  “I’m not. I don’t regret a single thing that brought us together. I didn’t realize how alone I was.”

  “You’ve got four brothers. You were never alone.”

  “I was alone in a crowd, until I found you.”

  “You didn’t find me. I was sent.”

  “Even better.”

  He made an exasperated sound and rolled to the side. I’d have been insulted, if he hadn’t caught my hand and held on tight. “Are you always so happy?”

  “No.” In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t been
downright cranky. “You make me this way.”

  He laughed, and I laid my head on his shoulder. His breath brushed my temple, slower and slower until he was asleep.

  I dreamed of blue booties and pink hats, cabins in the deep woods and a love that could survive anything.

  Nevertheless, when I awoke it took me only an instant to understand that Clay was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

  CHAPTER 10

  He’d left his Beretta and a cache of silver bullets. Nothing says “I love you” like guns and ammo.

  I held the weapon in my lap, stroked the metal, absently checked the load. When the door of the suite burst open and a strange man flew inside, I flicked the sheet over both myself and the pistol. The guy had a crazy look in his eyes, but he didn’t have a gun or a knife that I could see.

  “Where’s Philips?” he demanded.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You came with him. I saw you. I’ve been waiting.”

  He was breathing heavily. Sweat dotted his upper lip and his brow. He opened the curtains, and the silver sheen of the just-past-full moon streamed in. He bathed in the light as if it were cool water in the heat of a sandstorm.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  He turned toward me and his eyes glowed. Ah, hell. He leaped onto the bed, onto me, and I stifled a scream.

  “Brendan Steiger. I wonder if Philips will even remember why I spent my life savings to buy his.”

  “Buy his what?”

  “His name. His picture. His whereabouts.” Steiger’s voice, half man, half beast, scraped against my skin like a razor. “He’s not here? I’ll just kill you. Payback.”

  His head lowered, and he sniffed my neck, licked me from collarbone to cheek. I caught the scent of blood. He’d already been a busy boy.

  The man’s face began to change. His nose lengthened, his teeth grew, fur sprouted from his pores, but his eyes remained human.

  “Even better,” he snarled. “I’ll make you like me. Then he’ll have to hunt down his lover and put a bullet in her brain.” He laughed and the sound melded into a howl. “I wish I could be here to see it.”

  “Too bad you won’t be.”

  I shot him right through the sheet. Flames erupted from the wound, and his howl went on and on. I shoved the body away, but not quickly enough. I was covered in blood and my palms were burned. Nevertheless, I sat on the floor unable to move as the half man, half beast sizzled on the king-sized bed. This hotel was not going to ask me back.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall. Clay stumbled into the room. One glance at me and he fell to his knees. “What happened?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. The mess on the bed should be answer enough.

  “Come on, Maya. Into the shower.”

  I let him lead me from the room and urge me beneath the heated spray.

  “You left me,” I said.

  “I had no choice. You wouldn’t survive in my world.”

  “I’ve done pretty well so far.”

  Silence met my statement. Had he run off again?

  I peeked around the shower curtain. He leaned against the sink, head down, shoulders bowed. I hated to see him so defeated.

  “Why did you come back?”

  He glanced at me, misery all over his face. “I tried to go, but I couldn’t. I—”

  “What?”

  “I was worried. And I was right.”

  “How you figure?”

  “The werewolf.”

  “I did just fine without you.”

  He scowled at the gun still clutched in his hand. “Dammit, Maya, I love you.”

  “Don’t sound so happy about it.”

  “Just because I didn’t leave tonight, doesn’t mean I don’t have to in the morning.”

  “Like hell.”

  I was feeling better minute by minute. Sure, it had been a shock to have a man break in, turn into a werewolf, and try to eat me, but I’d handled it. Everything would be all right, unless Clay really left.

  I shut off the water, wrapped myself in a towel, took the gun out of his hand. “We’re together, and that’s the way we’ll stay.”

  “You almost died. Because of me.”

  “I lived because of you. Time and time again. We’re better together than apart. When are you going to see that?”

  “You fainted at Canon del Muerto. Not that it wasn’t a good thing at the time, but—It was too much for you.”

  “Wait a second, you think I fainted because of Jack? Joseph? Hell, whoever?”

  “Well…” He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “No, Clay. The spirits spoke. There were so many of them, I got dizzy. I asked for help and bam, out went the lights.”

  I expected him to scoff at my talk of spirits, but I’d forgotten who I was dealing with. If he could be a Special Forces werewolf hunter, the fact that I could hear spirits wasn’t anything to write home about.

  “You didn’t swoon in terror?”

  “Sorry, no. But you did rescue me. My hero.”

  “Knock it off. I can’t stop seeing you covered in blood.”

  I spread my hands wide. “Washed right off.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Your hands are burned.”

  “They’ll heal. Next time I’ll know better.”

  “Next time?” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “There isn’t going to be a next time.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  He made a sound of frustration and yanked open the door. I followed him into the bedroom. The first thing I saw was the man sitting in the wing chair reading my notes.

  “What is this, Grand Central Station?” I pointed the Beretta at his head.

  “No.” Clay put a hand over the barrel and gently shoved the weapon down.

  The intruder lifted his gaze from the papers to my face. “You should never shoot a werewolf in mid-change,” he said, his German accent so heavy it would have been comical under different circumstances. “That leaves too many questions and a very big mess.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Who the hell are you?”

  “Maya, this is Edward Mandenauer.”

  I stared with renewed interest at the former spy and present leader of the Jäger-Suchers. Most likely a handsome man in his day, he now owned every one of his eighty-plus years.

  He’d seen many things and all of them haunted his faded blue eyes and sagging, drawn face. He was scarecrow thin and basketball tall. His hands were gnarled, spotted, his fingers crooked from breaks that had never healed right.

  “You cannot publish this.” He lifted my notes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

  “Wait!” I sputtered, but he brought the two together and flames licked at my hastily scrawled words. I sighed. “Have you ever heard of freedom of speech, private property, the public’s right to know?”

  “Yes.” He dropped the rapidly decomposing paper into a tin trash can.

  “How are you going to erase the memory from my head? Same way?”

  “Put a sock in it,” Clay muttered. “He might look like your favorite granddad, but he isn’t. He’s dangerous.”

  I glanced at Mandenauer, who shrugged. “I am.”

  I wouldn’t have believed either one of them, except there was something in Mandenauer’s eyes, something in Clay’s voice, that convinced me.

  “Fine.” I threw up my hands. “I’ll keep quiet.”

  I wondered if McDonald’s was hiring. Because that was the only other job I was qualified for.

  “Can we trust her?” the old man asked.

  “What do I have to do?” I asked. “Write it in blood? Let you cut out my tongue?”

  “If you don’t mind—”

  Since he said the words with a completely straight face, I didn’t think he was kidding. Clay must not have either because he moved in front of me.

  “Leave her alone. She’s been through enough.”

  “Precisely. You should never have involved her, Clayton. You know better.”


  “The skinwalker blew up her house. I didn’t have much choice but to take her along after that.”

  “And Joseph? Was he of any help?”

  We exchanged glances. Mandenauer frowned. “What?”

  “Joseph was the skinwalker.”

  “Impossible. He’s been a trusted colleague for years.”

  “He got sick of being on the losing side. It’s happened before.”

  The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. If possible he appeared older than before. “Even the strong ones succumb. The allure of power is a human failing. Sometimes I think it would be easier to…” His voice drifted off.

  “To what, sir?”

  “Never mind.” Mandenauer stood and crossed the short distance to the bed with a military bearing. “Any idea who this was?”

  “Brendan Steiger,” I said.

  Both men glanced at me with a frown. I shrugged. “He was chatty. Something about payback.”

  Clay shook his head. “I don’t remember the name.”

  “Why would you?” Mandenauer asked. “They don’t wear dog tags while running through the forest.” He waved a hand at the remains. “I will get rid of this. You must be going.”

  “Where?”

  “Take Maya home.”

  “I don’t have a home. Your pal Joseph blew it sky high.”

  Mandenauer’s expression was both exasperated and exhausted. “Take her somewhere safe. We have a traitor in our midst.”

  “Steiger said he bought Clay’s name and photo, his background and his whereabouts.”

  “Jäger-Suchers are turning up dead all over the country,” Mandenauer murmured. “Now I know why.”

  “How many?” Clay asked.

  “One is too many. But three, so far.”

  Clay cursed and I slid my hand into his. The old man lowered his gaze to our joined fingers. “What is this?”

  “Holding hands. Show of affection. You should try it sometime.”

  “I have. It leads to more serious shows of affection.” He studied us for several ticks of the clock. “Which I can see you’ve already sampled.” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling and tapped his foot. “Agents are dropping like flies. If they aren’t being killed, they’re falling in love. What is the world coming to?”