Nightwalker

by Allyson James

  The skinwalker ran off into the darkness, still surrounded with glowing blue, until it was lost to sight. I blew out my breath in sudden relief and returned the spell ball to my pocket.

  The stench receded, a sure sign the thing had gone. Had Mama called off her pet? Or had some other entity interfered? I didn’t know, and at the moment, I didn’t care.

  I limped toward the pickup. The next burst of lightning revealed a dusty red truck that looked familiar, and my heart sank as I read the words on the now upside-down door, Fremont Hansen, Plumbing and Fix-It.

  “Shit,” I whispered. Fremont was the plumber I’d hired to help me restore the derelict hotel I’d bought on the outskirts of Magellan. Fremont was a friendly guy with a receding hairline and innocent brown eyes, who claimed to have a little magical ability of his own. “I can fix anything,” he’d boasted, wriggling his fingers.

  I closed my bloody hand around my cell phone, but the fall had smashed it. Plastic shards stuck to my fingers, and the batteries dangled from useless wires.

  I tossed the phone aside and crouched on the road next to the pickup’s cab. Blood coated the inside of the driver’s window, and I saw a head pressed against it.

  “Fremont.” I tried the door, but I couldn’t budge it. I hobbled around to the other side of the truck, my leg hurting like hell. The passenger window was open. I saw no gleaming pebbles of glass, so the window must have already been open before the wreck. The man lay in the blackness inside, upside down, neck bent unnaturally.

  I fumbled in the debris inside the truck and found no cell phone, and the frame was too crimped for me to open the glove compartment. I withdrew, my nose wrinkling with the stench of death.

  Another flash of lightning lit the sky, farther to the east, the storm moving on. The lightning died, and red and blue lights took its place, accompanied by the wail of a siren. I sat down, exhausted, my back against the pickup, as a vehicle came charging toward me, headlights blinding.

  An SUV with “Hopi County Sheriff’s Department” painted on its side stopped a few feet from me, its tires sliding a little on the wet pavement. The door popped open, and booted feet hit the asphalt, followed by sharply creased khaki pants. The boots were polished to a sheen, strange for a man who worked in the dusty desert all day.

  Nash Jones, sheriff of tiny Hopi County, squatted down next to me, regarding me with eyes ice gray in the glare of his headlights. Blearily I heard another truck pull up and more boots crunch on dirt and pavement.

  “Janet Begay.” Nash’s voice was flat and hard. He didn’t like me. When I first arrived in Magellan, I’d tried to talk to him about Amy McGuire, and he’d shut me down before I’d done more than introduce myself. Amy McGuire had been his fiancée. Jones had hated me before he’d even met me.

  He turned on a pinpoint flashlight and trained the light right into my eyes. “You all right?”

  “I’m alive,” I croaked.

  “You ran into him with your motorcycle.” His voice held no sympathy. “The impact flipped the truck. Am I right?”

  “Something hit him. Not me.”

  He didn’t believe me. “Can you get up? Do you need the paramedics?”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  Nash didn’t believe that either. A woman in a black coverall came over at his signal, and she helped me stand. Nash abandoned me while the woman got me to the back of a paramedics truck and cleaned the blood off my hands. She checked me over, took my blood pressure, felt my limbs for breaks, asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said no but asked her for a lift into town, my motorcycle wheel bent like it was. She agreed but said she had to wait for the sheriff’s okay.

  I felt hollow inside. Fremont was dead in that truck. Dead because a skinwalker sent by my evil goddess mother had missed me and hit him.

  Nash Jones and his deputies surveyed the accident and started cutting the body out of the truck. I sat there sick and miserable. The storm was dying, leaving me drained and sick as usual. I really wanted some coffee. Or a stiff drink. I was a lightweight drunk, so I never drank much, but tonight I’d make an exception.

  Nash returned and beckoned with a curt gesture. “Begay. Come with me.”

  Probably the only reason he didn’t manhandle me was because the paramedics woman might get mad at him. Nash Jones had made it clear as soon as I arrived in Magellan that he resented the hell out of my presence and the fact that Chief McGuire had asked me here. Nash had never been officially charged regarding Amy’s disappearance, but he’d been questioned as a suspect, and the talk on the street was that no one knew for sure. The things Chief McGuire had told me about Sheriff Jones were . . . interesting.

  Nash didn’t touch me, but he made me hobble in front of him to his SUV. He opened the back door. “Get in.”

  “Why? The nice lady with the blood pressure cuff is giving me a ride home.”

  “I’m taking you to the sheriff’s office. For reckless driving, possible manslaughter.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t kid.”

  Jones could glare. He had gray eyes that could turn on you with the intensity of a supernova, black hair cut in the military style he’d brought back from his army time in Iraq, and a hard, handsome face. I’d seen women in Magellan and Flat Mesa turn their heads to watch him go by, his face marred only by a scar on his upper lip.

  “There’s something out there,” I said. “It hit Fremont’s truck, hard enough to flip it. It ran off, but the storm’s dying, and it could come back anytime. It can tear this SUV apart like a paper bag if it wants to. Skinwalkers are frigging strong.”

  He answered me with a flat stare. Nash Jones was an Unbeliever, one of those people who didn’t buy the fact that Magellan was built near a mystical confluence of vortexes, where the paranormal was normal. He’d grown up here but derided those who made money from the tourists who flocked to Hopi County in pursuit of the supernatural.

  “Get in before I throw your ass in.”

  “Shit, Sheriff, were you like this in the army? Not believing anyone who warned you of danger?”

  “There I was with trained men. You’re a Navajo girl from a sheep farm. Get in the damn truck.”

  “It killed Fremont, easy as anything.” I was close to hysterical tears. I liked gossipy, quirky Fremont.

  “It’s not Fremont.”

  I looked at him in shock. “What?”

  “It’s his assistant. Charlie Jones.”

  I’d seen Charlie helping Fremont work on my hotel’s plumbing, a quiet, kind of scruffy kid in his late teens who’d kept to himself. I’d known his first name was Charlie, but that was about it.

  “Jones?” I repeated.

  “My fourth cousin.”

  “Oh, Nash, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Nash gripped me under the elbow and all but threw me into the backseat. “Stay there.”

  He slammed the door, clicked a remote, and the locks engaged. As I suspected, the windows wouldn’t roll down for the prisoner in the back, and a black grill separated back from front, with another one blocking me from the storage space to the rear. I decided to be thankful that Nash hadn’t handcuffed me.

  I slumped down in the seat, but I knew I couldn’t hide. If the skinwalker wanted to find me again, it would. I didn’t sense it nearby, though. The flashing emergency lights and activity might be keeping it away. Skinwalkers didn’t like light, noise, crowds. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t rise out of the desert and attack again when Nash drove me away.

  I also worried about my bike. Would Nash leave it by the side of the road like a mangled toy? I could imagine him doing that, sending impound to retrieve it when he felt like it.

  I didn’t have much in the way of possessions, feeling freer without them, but that Harley was important to me. I’d ridden her across this country and down into Mexico, first on my own, then with Mick, then alone again, when I’d finally left him five years ago.

  The bike represented my mea
ns of escape. No matter how many roots I put down or how much trouble I got into, I could always throw a change of clothes into my saddlebags, swing my leg over my Harley, and disappear into the night.

  I saw the poor thing in the flicker of police flares, the wheel bent, the handlebars sticking up forlornly. It was a machine, a piece of metal, I told myself, but it was like looking at the twisted body of my own child.

  When Nash finally opened the driver’s door, I smelled no stench of skinwalker on the night. I inhaled, tasting the ozone tingle of the storm. I toyed with the idea of snatching the lightning’s power and zapping Nash with it, but that would make me no better than the skinwalker. Hurting for the fun of it. I shuddered.

  “Should I consider myself under arrest?” I asked.

  Nash slammed the door and put on his seat belt. “Being taken in for questioning.”

  “My bike?”

  “Deputies are impounding it. It’s evidence.”

  “Damn you, Jones, I didn’t run into that truck.”

  “Save it.” He put the SUV in gear and pulled out past the flipped pickup as the deputies lifted my Harley and tossed carelessly it into the back of their truck.

  Nash didn’t turn on his emergency lights, but he gunned the SUV and roared down the highway. Ten miles along, the road ended in a T-intersection, another narrow highway heading north to Flat Mesa, the other south to Magellan. My hotel stood here, at the Crossroads, a dark, forlorn square against the darker sky. The Crossroads Bar, which shared a parking lot with the hotel, was lit and swarming with people.

  I gazed longingly at the hotel, picturing my bedroom in the back with its waiting bed and bathroom, even if the water didn’t work yet. That hotel was my haven, my defiance if you like.

  Nash turned left, passing the hotel without stopping, and headed north toward Flat Mesa.

  End of Excerpt

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  Pride Mates

  Book One

  of Shifters Unbound

  The New York Times Bestselling

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  by Allyson's alter ego

  Jennifer Ashley

  Pride Mates

  Shifters Unbound

  Book One

  by Jennifer Ashley

  Chapter One

  A girl walks into a bar . . .

  No. A human girl walks into a Shifter bar . . .

  The bar was empty, not yet open to customers. It looked normal--windowless walls painted black, rows of glass bottles, the smell of beer and stale air. But it wasn't normal, standing on the edge of Shiftertown like it did.

  Kim told herself she had nothing to be afraid of. They're tamed. Collared. They can't hurt you.

  "You the lawyer?" a man washing glasses asked her. He was human, not Shifter. No strange, slitted pupils, no Collar to control his aggression, no air of menace. When Kim nodded, he gestured with his cloth to a door at the end of the bar. "Knock him dead, sweetheart."

  "I'll try to keep him alive." Kim pivoted and stalked away, feeling his gaze on her back.

  She knocked on the door marked "Private," and a man on the other side growled, "Come."

  I just need to talk to him. Then I'm done, on my way home. A trickle of moisture rolled between Kim's shoulder blades as she made herself open the door and walk inside.

  A man leaned back in a chair behind a messy desk, a sheaf of papers in his hands. His booted feet were propped on the desk, his long legs a feast of blue jeans over muscle. He was a Shifter all right--thin black and silver Collar against his throat, hard, honed body, midnight-black hair, definite air of menace. When Kim entered, he stood, setting the papers aside.

  Damn. He rose to a height of well over six feet and gazed at Kim with eyes blue like the morning sky. His body wasn't only honed, it was hot--big chest, wide shoulders, tight abs, firm biceps against a form-fitting black T-shirt.

  "Kim Fraser?"

  "That's me."

  With old-fashioned courtesy, he placed a chair in front of the desk and motioned her to it. Kim felt the heat of his hand near the small of her back as she seated herself, smelled the scent of soap and male musk.

  "You're Mr. Morrissey?"

  The Shifter sat back down, returned his motorcycle boots to the top of the desk, and laced his hands behind his head. "Call me Liam."

  The lilt in his voice was unmistakable. Kim put that with his black hair, impossibly blue eyes, and exotic name. "You're Irish."

  He smiled a smile that could melt a woman at ten paces. "And who else would be running a pub?"

  "But you don't own it."

  Kim could have bitten out her tongue as soon as she said it. Of course he didn't own it. He was a Shifter.

  His voice went frosty, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out. "You're Brian Smith's lawyer, are you? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I don't know Brian well, and I don't know anything about what happened the night his girlfriend was murdered. It's a long time ago, now."

  Disappointment bit her, but Kim had learned not to let discouragement stop her when she needed to get a job done. "Brian called you the 'go-to' guy. As in, when Shifters are in trouble, Liam Morrissey helps them out."

  Liam shrugged, muscles moving the bar's logo on his T-shirt. "True. But Brian never came to me. He got into his troubles all by himself."

  "I know that. I'm trying to get him out of trouble."

  Liam's eyes narrowed, pupils flicking to slits as he retreated to the predator within him. Shifters liked to do that when assessing a situation, Brian had told her. Guess who was the prey?

  Brian had done the predator-prey thing with Kim at first. He'd stopped when he began to trust her, but Kim didn't think she'd ever get used to it. Brian was her first Shifter client, the first Shifter, in fact, she'd ever seen outside a television news story. Twenty years Shifters had been acknowledged to exist, but Kim had never met one.

  It was well known that they lived in their enclave on the east side of Austin, near the old airport, but she'd never come over to check them out. Some human women did, strolling the streets just outside Shiftertown, hoping for glimpses--and more--of the Shifter men who were reputed to be strong, gorgeous, and well endowed. Kim had once heard two women in a restaurant murmuring about their encounter with a Shifter male the night before. The phrase "Oh, my God," had been used repeatedly. Kim was as curious about them as anyone else, but she'd never summoned the courage to go near Shiftertown herself.

  Then suddenly she was assigned the case of the Shifter accused of murdering his human girlfriend ten months ago. This was the first time in twenty years Shifters had caused trouble, the first time one had been put on trial. The public, outraged by the killing, wanted Shifters punished, pointed fingers at those who'd claimed the Shifters were tamed.

  However, after Kim had met Brian, she'd determined that she wouldn't do a token defense. She believed his innocence, and she wanted to win. There wasn't much case law on Shifters because there'd never been any trials, at least none on record. This was to be a well-publicized trial, Kim's opportunity to make a mark, to set precedent.

  Liam's eyes stayed on her, pupils still slitted. "You're a brave one, aren't you? To defend a Shifter?"

  "Brave, that's me." Kim crossed her legs, pretending to relax. They picked up on your nervousness, people said. They know when you're scared, and they use your fear. "I don't mind telling you, this case had been a pain in the ass from the get-go."

  "Humans think anything involving Shifters is a pain in the ass."

  Kim shook her head. "I mean, it's been a pain in the ass because of the way it's been handled. The cops nearly had Brian signing a confession before I could get to the interrogation. At least I put a stop to that, but I couldn't get bail for him, I've been blocked by the prosecutors right and left every time I want review the evidence. Talking to you is a long shot, but I'm getting desperate. So if you don't want to see a Shifter go down for this crime, M
r. Morrissey, a little cooperation would be appreciated."

  The way he pinned her with his eyes, never blinking, made her want to fold in on herself. Or run. That's what prey did--ran. And then predators chased them, cornered them.

  What did this man do when he cornered his prey? He wore the Collar; he could do nothing. Right?

  Kim imagined herself against a wall, his hands on either side of her, his hard body hemming her in . . . Heat curled down her spine.

  Liam took his feet down and leaned forward, arms on the desk. "I haven't said I won't help you, lass." His gaze flicked to her blouse, whose buttons had slipped out of their top holes during her journey through Austin traffic and July heat. "Is Brian happy with you defending him? You like Shifters that much?"

  Kim resisted reaching for the buttons. She could almost feel his fingers on them, undoing each one, and her heart beat faster.

  "It's nothing to do with who I like. I was assigned to him, but I happen to think Brian's innocent. He shouldn't go down for something he didn't do." Kim liked her anger, because it covered up how edgy this man made her. "Besides, Brian's the only Shifter I've ever met, so I don't know whether I like them, do I?"

  Liam smiled again. His eyes returned to normal, and now he looked like any other gorgeous, hard-bodied, blue-eyed Irishman. "You, love, are--"

  "Feisty. Yeah, I've heard that one. Also spitfire, little go-getter, and a host of other condescending terms. But let me tell you, Mr. Morrissey, I'm a damn good lawyer. Brian's not guilty, and I'm going to save his ass."

  "I was going to say unusual. For a human."

  "Because I'm willing to believe he's innocent?"

  "Because you came here, to the outskirts of Shiftertown, to see me. Alone."

  The predator was back.

  Why was it that when Brian looked at her like this, it didn't worry her? Brian was in jail, angry, accused of heinous crimes. A killer, according to the police. But Brian's stare didn't send shivers down her spine like Liam Morrissey's did.