by Sierra Dean
Or maybe he just didn’t like that I always called him Snowen instead of Owen. There might be something to that, but it would have required me caring enough about his feelings to stop doing it.
Instead we just made every effort to avoid each other.
I stopped at a café down the block from my apartment to pick up a hot chocolate. The weather had that frigid bite to it that made you want to bundle yourself up in a million blankets and light a fire. Hot chocolate and a Netflix marathon of Narcos seemed like a decent alternative.
I was crossing the street and filling out an online order from my favorite pho place when I walked headlong into Cade, who was standing inside the door of my lobby.
Having narrowly avoided spilling my hot chocolate over both of us, my “Fucking shit” exclamation might have been a bit over the top.
“You should wear a fucking bell,” I said, checking to see that the lid was still secured on my drink.
Cade smirked. “I wasn’t moving. You’re the one who should look where you’re going.”
“Pho isn’t just going to order itself, buddy.” It had been weeks since I’d been so close to him, and I was wielding my sarcasm like a shield because I was afraid the second I stopped talking he was going to see the truth written all over my face.
I glanced around and noticed he was waiting here alone. “Where’s Bernard?” It wasn’t like my doorman to bail on his post.
“Wardrobe malfunction with his pants.” Cade inched towards me. “Very unlucky.”
I laughed in spite of all my attempts to seem unmoved. I’d missed him. I’d missed him so desperately that I caught myself doodling his name on stationery while I was in temple meetings, and more than once I’d driven myself to the Washington state line before turning back around again.
Where did I think I was going, exactly?
“I hope he’s back in time to let my food up,” I said.
“Did you order enough for two?” He smile was warm, his fingers touching the cuff of my jacket.
“Who do you think you’re talking to here?”
His hair had gotten a bit longer since October, and his curls had become much more apparent. I brushed one back with my hand, letting the impossibly soft hairs wrap around my finger.
“Did you order enough to share, then?”
He turned his head while I withdrew my hand, so his lips grazed the inside of my wrist. For a fraction of a second I stopped breathing.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Eating pho with a friend.” Suddenly the space between the doors felt much too small, and I was sure at any moment the glass was going to start fogging up. The look he was giving me was decidedly not friendly.
“What are you really doing here?”
His smile was gone now, replaced by something moodier, more uncertain. The heat of his stare still simmered below the surface, but this wasn’t clear-cut lust. I didn’t know what this was.
“I keep having this dream, Tallulah. At first I thought it was just a nice dream. I thought it was because I missed you. But see, I’ve had this same dream almost every night for a month now, and I’m starting to think maybe…maybe it’s not just a dream.”
“W-what’s the dream?”
He took my hand in his, lifting my fingers to his lips, where he gently but oh-so-intentionally bit the pad of my thumb. “It starts with you and me in a hotel room.”
“That sounds like a good dream.” I swallowed hard.
“And it ends with you saying something I don’t think I was supposed to hear.”
My throat was dry, and I pulled my hand away from him, fumbling with the keys in my pocket, hoping I could get my door unlocked before my hands started shaking too hard.
I opened the door into the lobby and held it ajar for him.
Imelda said I couldn’t talk about it, and that was fine. I couldn’t change what hadn’t happened.
That didn’t mean we couldn’t make new memories, though.
“You should probably come upstairs.”
Thanks for reading Driving Rain! I hope you enjoyed Tallulah’s ongoing adventures. Look for Tallulah, Cade, and Leo to return again in book three, Highway to Hail in early 2018.
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· Think a friend would enjoy Driving Rain? It’s lendable through the Kindle lending library, so share it with a friend!
· Can’t wait to start another Sierra Dean book? Keep reading for a sample chapter of Bayou Blues, and get caught up on Genie’s story before Black-Hearted Devil releases this summer.
Bayou Blues – Genie McQueen Book 1
When your sister has saved the world, you have a lot to live up to.
Genie McQueen thought she’d seen it all after helping her big sister Secret stop the Apocalypse. The dead walked, New York City burned, and things nearly went to hell in a hand basket. After it was all over, the world knew about vampires and werewolves, and Genie’s life would never be the same.
But now, three years later, someone doesn’t want werewolves or any supernatural creatures to live alongside humans. A new anti-werewolf church with a charismatic leader and a cult-like following has declared open season on Genie’s whole species. When a member of her pack is kidnapped, she decides it’s time to stop going with the flow and to step up and fight for her people.
Tagging along for the ride is a handsome troublemaker, Wilder Shaw, a pack outsider who just wants to save his brother, but will leave Genie’s head spinning in the process.
Equally troubling are the ghosts of her past she can’t quite shake, the nightmarish figures who haunt her even when she’s wide awake, and a dark magic inside her she hasn’t yet learned to tame.
Things are about to get messy in the bayou.
Chapter One
Hunt.
Hard earth sped by beneath my feet, but I barely felt it. The exhilaration of running made it seem as if I were flying, and there was nothing under me but wind and joy. The night air was alive with scents, and while the scenery blurred past me too fast to see, I was picking up the story of my environment with every inhale.
The pungent smell of algae, still warm from baking in the day’s sun, gave the air a dank, swampy odor, which made me feel like I was home. It also gave me a good indication of where the land ended and the water began.
There was nothing for me near the water’s edge. Most of the animals in the trees were fair game: small rodents, rabbits and other easy prey. Sometimes I’d find a real challenge and get to stalk a deer through the spongy bog. But where the moss and peat gave way to proper swamp and land became water, I was hesitant to get too close.
I was not the scariest thing out for blood during the full moon.
Once—and only once—I’d crossed paths with an alligator who mistook me for an easy meal. Werewolf versus alligator might sound like a kickass premise for a bad Syfy channel monster movie, but in my case it had been one of the worst nights of my life. If not for my heightened healing ability, I would still have some nasty scars to brag about.
But you should have seen the other guy.
That particular fight was not something I had any desire to repeat, no matter how badass the story made me sound. Just thinking about it made my heart beat a little faster. So, in spite of the water’s edge being an ideal place to catch easy prey unaware, it also put me at too great a risk. Instead I stuck to the trees, avoiding the swamp and the hiking trails as well. At this time of night the area was mostly clear of humans, but I didn’t like to take chances.
Boldness wasn’t my problem—I had it in spades these days—but I preferred to be smart rather than to tempt fate. Foolhardy was just another way to say stupid.
Leave it to me to still be a goody two-shoes while I was covered in fur. Some habits were hard to break no matter what form I took.
Hunt.
My wolf urged me forward, driving me on at a breakneck pace. I’d caught a whiff of rabbit, and now my singular mission was to sink my teeth into it. The frenzied patter of its heart sent out vibrations I could feel, singing a perfect ode to my hunger. Feed feed feed. My mouth watered, and I bared my teeth, though there wasn’t an animal in sight for me to menace. The wolf was desperate for the kill, and she and I were of one mind on the subject.
Once I’d learned to yield to the wolf within, I was able to turn off the magical part of my brain and simply be the wolf. Like most werewolves, I was thirteen when I first started shifting. The same age young hereditary witches came into their power, something most wolves didn’t have to consider. Unluckily for me, I’d inherited both gifts, leaving my magic and my wolf to collide in a disastrous and literally explosive way. That was how I came to spend my formative years getting to know the ins and outs of a swamp very well.
Now I was older, a little wiser, and definitely had a better handle on my magic.
I skidded to an abrupt stop, nails digging into the damp ground. Sniffing the air, I parsed the layers of scent, dismissing the bog water and night breeze until the only thing remaining was fear. Sweet, delicious fear. It smelled like dying flowers and fresh blood.
Movement low to the ground caught my attention, and I went rigid, ears upright, listening intently. There. I could practically feel the creature’s heartbeat in my mouth.
I crouched low, my whole body coiled like a spring as I moved closer inch by inch to where the nervous rabbit lay in wait, thinking it was hidden from me. One moment it was frozen, the next it bolted, and I went after it, pouncing before it had a chance to hide again. My teeth pierced its neck, and there was a brief glorious moment where I could taste every ounce of its fear, then it went limp.
The hunt was over.
I ate quickly, the flavor less satisfying now that the fear was gone, but the meat was delicious and reinvigorated me for the run back. Night was coming to an end, and when the sun rose, I didn’t want to be isolated in the middle of the swamp. My wolf might have a good natural sense of direction, but not all my supernatural abilities translated from my animal form to my human one. I set off running again, zigzagging my way through the woods, still avoiding the edge of the water. It felt good to burn off my energy, bringing myself back to nature and the place where I had been at home for so long.
The night sky was turning purple-blue as I found my way back to the abandoned military encampment of Fort Pike. Sometimes, when luck wasn’t on my side, I’d find party-happy teens or adventurous ghost hunters wandering the grounds. I didn’t like to encounter people when I was in my wolf form. Though my human mind still worked for the most part, I didn’t have the same inhibitions or morals holding me back as I did when I walked on two legs. If someone were to lash out at me or make me feel threatened, I wouldn’t hesitate to attack them. During the full moon my wolf ruled me, and while I might feel bad about it after the fact if I hurt someone, it wouldn’t stop me.
It was best, then, not to put myself at any risk of running into any people. Werewolves had a bad-enough reputation without the media painting us as thoughtless killers too. That would be a PR nightmare I wanted no part in.
My nails clicked against the stone floor, but they were the only sounds. Tonight I was alone. I stopped beside the neatly folded pile of clothes I’d abandoned before my run and lay on my belly, licking the blood from my paws. I could push myself to change early, but it would hurt more. If I waited another fifteen minutes until the sun was up, the transition would happen naturally, without too much discomfort.
I watched between the open arches as the horizon changed colors. It wouldn’t be long now.
Then I saw her.
My first reaction was surprise. I hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and humans made so much noise they were impossible to miss. She couldn’t have gotten this close without arousing my attention. Those thoughts vanished when I focused on what I was seeing.
She moved between the shadows as silent and slippery as a ghost, but ghosts didn’t have a smell. Whatever she was, she stank of charcoal and burnt skin. I got up and edged away, baring my teeth and growling. The implicit threat should have been enough to keep her at bay. Most sensible people don’t approach a huge wolf whose teeth were flashing.
It didn’t slow her down at all.
As she oozed out of the shadows, my snarl faltered, and a small whimper of confusion escaped me. She crept forward, her arms akimbo like a broken mannequin who was reassembled with all the wrong parts. Her head was tilted sideways at a painful angle, broken and mangled. Skin peeled away, baring flesh and bone in raw red-and-white patches.
She advanced on me, and I backed away, though my natural instinct resisted. I didn’t want anything to do with her, but I was stubborn to the core. Royal werewolf blood and a long history of lectures from my uncle Callum meant I never wanted to yield the upper hand to anyone, not even a walking immolation-monster, or whatever she was.
Behind the stink of charred skin was a reek of death and sulfur.
She wasn’t human.
That should have been obvious at first glance, what with the blackened skin and impossible bone structure, but I’d seen enough truly weird things in my life that I never took anything at face value. Her smell, however, was unmistakable. The sulfur scent was a hallmark of something dark and demonic.
Her mouth opened, wider than a human mouth could, and a horrible, screeching yowl emerged, croaking and grinding like rocks in a blender.
Then she was gone, blowing apart like smoke as the sun rose.
Moments later the shift took me and remade me, leaving me naked and panting on the brick, shivering from the too-recent memory of what I’d seen.
What the hell was she?
And why did I feel like I should know?
To keep reading Bayou Blues, click here.
Also By Sierra Dean
Secret McQueen
The Secret Guide to Dating Monsters
Something Secret This Way Comes
A Bloody Good Secret
Secret Santa
Deep Dark Secret
Keeping Secret
Grave Secret
Secret Unleashed
Cold Hard Secret
A Secret to Die For
Genie McQueen
Bayou Blues
Black Magic Bayou
Black-Hearted Devil (in 2017)
Rain Chaser
Thunder Road
Driving Rain
Misfits & Mayhem
A Low Down Dirty Shane
Boys of Summer
Pitch Perfect
Perfect Catch
Dog Days
Autumn
Winter
Spring
Summer
The Complete Dog Days Saga
Other Works
Chasing Kings
Night Moves
We Don’t Need Another Hero
About Sierra Dean
Sierra Dean is a reformed historian. She was born and raised in the Canadian prairies and is allowed annual exit visas in order to continue her quest of steadily conquering the world one city at a time. Making the best of the cold Canadian winters, Sierra indulges in her less global interests: drinking too much tea and writing urban fantasy.
She’s also a book lover (of course!), obsessive collector of OPI nail polish and the owner of way too many pairs of shoes. You can usually find her spouting off Kroll Show references or imagining what her wedding to Richard Madden will be like (hopefully not red).
Find her online at http://www.sierradean.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter
Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Bayou Blues – Genie McQueen Book 1
Chapter One
