After several more moments of surveying the quiet neighborhood, she slipped her gun from her purse and secured it in the waistband of her jeans, out of sight beneath her shirt. Sliding out from behind the wheel, she crossed the street to the one-story ranch-style house, her gaze darting around her, ever alert as she entered the house.
She had thought of moving out, countless times. After high school. After college. Hell, she’d even thought of running away before she finished high school—when Gideon had moved out and the loneliness had seemed too much to bear. When her grandmother had ignored her so completely that she began to wonder if she was invisible, if her existence mattered at all. To anyone.
But something kept her from going. Something besides being fifteen years old and having nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Her grandmother was her family. All she had other than Gideon. She couldn’t give up on her—on them. Not yet.
Gideon had been there for her as long as she could remember, arms always ready to hold her when she needed someone. But he deserved his own space now. Even at fifteen, she had recognized that. So she had stayed put, taking comfort in sleeping in the same bedroom that her mother had once occupied, staring at the same rose wallpaper that her mother must have stared at. Watching reruns of The Waltons and telling herself a family like that wasn’t impossible. It could be hers someday.
She’d stayed out of loyalty. Her grandmother was getting on in years. Kit didn’t like the thought of leaving her on her own. Nor could she imagine one day putting her in a home, a place where, ironically, she might feel the same loneliness and lack of self that Kit had felt living with her all these years.
But selfish reasons drove her, too. She’d stayed out of hope—and desperation—that one day she would connect with her grandmother.
She hurried up the drive. Using her key, she entered through the back door, letting the screen door slam behind her to alert her grandmother of her arrival. Her grandmother was the jumpy sort, always faintly surprised whenever Kit entered the house—an intruder, even after all these years.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee hit her once she entered the kitchen. The aroma always reminded her of that first night the police brought her and Gideon here.
She had sat at the kitchen table, her feet dangling inches from the linoleum floor as her grandmother prepared coffee for the officers. She had not lifted her gaze from the bloodstained hem of her nightgown, not even as they explained to her grandmother the events of that night—at least their version of events.
She remembered watching the police officer’s lips move in slow motion as he explained to her grandmother that her parents were dead. Her father butchered, it would seem, by her own mother.
Later, her grandmother put her in the shower, washing Kit with cool efficiency, uttering not a word as she rubbed her daughter’s blood from Kit’s toes with her chapped hands. With only the steady beat of water filling the air, Kit watched blood swirl down the drain.
Not a word spoken in comfort. Not a word raised in rage or denial over the shocking news that her daughter had murdered her son-in-law—and been shot dead moments before trying to kill her own children.
“Who’s there?” her grandmother’s voice, rusty from years of smoking, called out.
“Just me.” Kit left the smell of freshly brewed coffee and entered the living room, the hardwood floor creaking beneath her shoes.
Her grandmother frowned at her from the couch she occupied with Jack, her boyfriend for the last year and a resident of a nearby retirement community where she spent most of her spare time.
The Food Channel blared loudly from the ridiculously large TV screen her grandmother had splurged on last year because she claimed to have trouble seeing the television set from the couch. As long as Kit could remember, her grandmother preferred the television at decibel-shattering volumes.
Her grandmother looked surprised, faint annoyance lurking in her rheumy gaze. “Kit.”
“Good morning.” Kit greeted her over Emeril’s signature shout-out.
Her grandmother nodded hello, her gray wig so shiny it appeared lacquered. She brought a glass to her bright coral-pink lips and sipped. Even in June, she wore one of her brightly colored cardigans, purchased in bulk from the Dress Barn.
“I thought you were house-sitting for Gideon and Chloe.”
“Claire,” she corrected, only mildly appeased to see she wasn’t the only one subject to her grandmother’s disregard. “I needed to get some things.”
“Morning, Kit-Kat,” Jack chimed in his cheery accents. He rose to press a light kiss to Kit’s cheek. When he pulled back, his warm gaze settled on her face with attentiveness. “How are you, little duck?”
She smiled. Jack could always make her smile. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
He flipped a wrist in the air. “Ah, your grandmother keeps me busy. We’re going to the cinema this afternoon, a comedy Lois wants to see with that Vince Vaughn in it.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “I think she just wants to ogle the fella and make me feel inferior.”
Kit’s grandmother slapped him lightly on the hand. “Not true, Jack.”
“Inferior? You?” Kit clucked her tongue. “Never.”
“Care to join us?” he asked.
Kit’s grandmother pressed her lips together so severely they looked as shriveled as prunes.
“No, thank you. I have things to do today.” Like run for my life.
“Ah.” Jack nodded. “Then would you care for a mimosa or a snack?” He held a stained glass goblet up in the air and motioned to an array of tiny quiches on a tray on the coffee table.
With a fond smile at him, she selected a quiche off the tray. She knew her grandmother didn’t want her to linger. The older woman conveyed her displeasure as she fished an orange slice out of her glass with one gnarled, arthritic finger. No words needed to be said. Kit knew how to read the signs. Interrupting her date did not meet with approval.
Chewing, she quickly swallowed down the small bite of egg and spinach. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Her grandmother nodded, dropping her orange rind on the tray and reaching for one of the little quiches.
Kit hovered in place for a moment, feeling that something should be said. She had no idea when she would return. If she ever would. After this morning she had to wonder.
This could be the last moment she ever saw her grandmother. She felt that she should say something. Anything. But what? What could she say when there had never been a hint of sentiment between the two of them? No matter how much she’d wished it to be otherwise.
At a loss, she turned and made her way down the hall. To the room she had slept in since the age of eight. The room that had once been her mother’s—that still felt as though it belonged to her. To anyone else but Kit.
Her grandmother had led her to that room after her shower that long-ago day. Her hair wet and tangled about her head, she’d settled back on the floral bedspread that felt faintly dusty beneath her. She hadn’t bothered to crawl beneath the covers. Simply curled into the smallest ball possible and watched the flickering shadows on the walls, wondering if any of them might turn out to be more than shadow, as real as the monster her mother had turned into. As real as her father’s corpse, mauled to death by her mother.
The faded rose wallpaper, wilted and peeling in some places, now looked harmless in the morning light. No shadows anywhere.
She moved to her dresser, taking out clothing and adding it to another bag. Grabbing a backpack from the closet, she unlocked her chest and filled it with additional guns and ammo. Zipping the backpack, she moved to her bedside table.
Her mother’s cross hung from the lamp, dangling in the air where she could always see it. Some nights she stared at it until she fell asleep, picturing it around her mother’s neck, one of the only clear images left to her, in a past before she ever knew that monsters existed. Outside of fairy tales, anyway.
She closed her fingers around the cool chain and slid it into
her pocket. On her bed, a ratty, one-eyed bear sat in the center, cozy between two pillows.
Gideon told her their parents had given it to her their last Christmas together. She couldn’t remember, but she lied to Gideon, to herself, pretending that she did, pretending the bear meant something, pretending it held an emotional attachment for her.
Turning, she left the bear on the bed.
Finished packing, she slung her bags over her shoulder and turned to leave the room, jumping at the sight of Jack in the doorway.
“Sorry, duck. Did not mean to frighten you.”
“It’s all right,” she replied a little breathlessly, her heart hammering.
“Thought I’d catch a moment with you while your grandmother freshens up for the movie.” His gaze swept over the bags slung over her shoulder. “Already on your way out?”
“Yes.”
His gaze lighted on the necklace at her neck. “Ah, you’re wearing it. I thought it would suit you.”
Her hand flew to the small bronze amulet hanging from the delicate chain at her throat. Her finger absently traced the gold fleur-de-lis pattern at its center. “Yes, I love it.” He had surprised her with the necklace a few months back, finding it at one of the many antiques villages he and her grandmother frequented. Too bad he hadn’t married her grandmother. Then Kit would have had a grandparent who actually cared about her.
She feigned looking at her watch. “Well, I’m running late.”
He stepped aside and motioned her through the door.
She strode down the hall and through the kitchen.
“Kit.”
She stopped in the kitchen and turned to face him.
“Is everything okay?”
Her throat thickened for some reason. Because he cared about her? Or because he had grown to know her well enough to know when something was wrong? She blinked fiercely. Too bad he hadn’t been around when she was growing up.
“It’s nothing,” she assured him, walking across the kitchen to press a kiss to his bristly cheek.
He nodded, trying, she knew, to look gruff and unaffected. He waved a hand at her. “Go on your way. I don’t want to make you late.”
Turning, she hurried outside, the door slamming behind her, the sound ringing in the air with a finality she felt deep in her heart. Her gaze swept her surroundings as she hurried toward her car. Tossing her things inside, she slid behind the wheel.
Pulling from the curb, she noticed a silver Hummer turning the corner and coming up fast behind her. Squinting into the rearview, she recognized the man sitting behind the wheel. Rafe Santiago.
Her foot ground down on the accelerator. He may have let her get away back at her brother’s house, but considering whom he worked for—and that they wanted her dead—she wasn’t risking another confrontation. And she definitely wasn’t letting him follow her to her brother.
Zipping out of the neighborhood, she trusted her knowledge of the area to outrun him. After several more turns, she left the sleepy residential area and turned onto a four-lane highway. Zigzagging out of traffic, she smiled when she noticed him slipping two cars behind. She gunned through a yellow light, chuckling when he got stuck at the red. Before he could catch up, she swerved to the far-right lane and turned. Several more turns put him well behind her.
She continued to swerve through traffic until she reached the freeway she needed to take out of town. Still, it was several more minutes before she relaxed. Before she felt her shoulders ease back down from her ears, the tension ebb as tall buildings gave way to suburbs.
Soon, she would be out of the city. At the next town, she would look for a used-car dealership shady enough to exchange her car without filing the proper paperwork.
Then she would put miles, and one state, between herself and Rafe Santiago.
And forget that she had ever met the man.
CHAPTER 10
Kit stared at the single-story building through her windshield, feeling herself grimace. She guessed the motel would not require a credit card. That was something. The most important thing. Although whether it would give her lice remained to be seen.
The squat building reminded her of some motel out of a horror movie. The kind that sat along a remote desert highway with hardly any cars in the parking lot. Just your car and that of the truck driver set on murdering you in typical gruesome horror-movie fashion. The main difference—the one that had persuaded her to pull over—was that this motel sat along a busy intersection and several cars occupied the parking lot. Sighing, she grabbed her wallet, left her parked car, and entered the front door, trying to ignore the fact that the desk clerk took her money behind a glass cage and asked whether she wanted to pay by the hour or the night.
Paying her twenty-nine dollars, she stepped back outside. Luckily, she had found an after-hours used-car dealership, and she was now the proud owner of a Taurus sedan. Well, she was the owner for at least another week. That was all the time the salesmen had promised her before he would report the vehicle stolen. A small crime, it seemed, for the gift of her car. She sank back behind the wheel and drove a few hundred yards, parking the car directly in front of room eleven.
She let herself inside the room. Closing the door behind her, she could not help thinking it had the consistency of cardboard. She gave the simulated wood a pat and grimaced. It wouldn’t stand up to lycans. But then, she had always marveled that a steel door and walls of steel effectively contained Darius every moonrise. If any lycans tracked her, nothing except silver would stop them from getting to her anyway.
After driving steadily for the last several hours, she prayed that she was home free. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should even go to Gideon. Should she expose him and Claire to such a risk?
The room smelled of stale smoke and moldy carpet. She dropped her bags on the full-size bed and tossed her brown paper bag of takeout on the small table near the window. Falling gracelessly into one of the chairs, she pulled her gun out and set it within reach, on the table.
Turning her attention to her dinner, she pulled the foil-wrapped burrito from its bag. Despite the appetizing aroma of melted cheese, she could manage only a few bites. Her temples throbbed.
The same questions that had plagued her as she drove still buzzed through her head: How long would she go to ground? Where would she hole up? She couldn’t spend a lifetime looking over her shoulder.
Suddenly the dream of marriage and half a dozen kids seemed farther away than ever. As distant as reruns of The Waltons she watched over coffee and cereal. Foolish and naïve and completely beyond her reach. Not that the dream had ever loomed close. Gus fixing her up on one date wasn’t going to get the job done. Survival suddenly took on larger proportions and made all other wishes foolish and small.
Rewrapping the burrito in its foil, she tossed it the trash bin and stood, stretching muscles cramped from long hours behind the wheel. How long until Rafe Santiago quit looking for her? Before they all quit?
We’ll meet again, Kit March.
His eyes had glowed black fire as he said those words. Hard to believe he hadn’t meant them.
A warm flush stole over her as she recalled the hard press of his body against hers, the firm feel of his hands on her face as he pulled her closer. Gentle yet strong. She squeezed her eyes tight, banishing the feelings, ordering the heat those memories evoked to dissolve.
Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Damn if she wasn’t confused. He wanted her dead. And her brother. Probably Claire, too. Rafe Santiago’s helping her had clearly addled her thinking. He was not her savior. Merely a thug who worked for EFLA and who enjoyed playing with her, like a cat that toys with a mouse before devouring it. And just as deadly. Little better than the lycans she hunted. The only difference was that he was human.
Flipping on the television, she picked up the remote control and scrolled through the limited channels, wishing she could get the Houston news and decipher any NODEAL and EFLA activity. She
could usually detect which homicides were lycan hits, especially when some happened to be her doing. Or Gideon’s.
Finding nothing, she opted for a Law and Order rerun.
Sitting at the end of the sagging mattress, she nudged off her sneakers, laces still tied, and watched Jack McCoy deliver his signature closing argument. If only her life drama could be solved in a one-hour segment.
Getting up, she strolled to the window and peered out through thick canvas curtains, searching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The parking lot was lit a hazy red from the motel’s perimeter lights. Metallic hoods gleamed ominously in the night. Her sedan sat directly in front of her door, unobtrusive among some of the more vibrant colors of the other vehicles.
Seeing no one among the smattering of vehicles, she let the curtains fall back in place. Stepping into the tiny bathroom, she stripped and took a long shower, letting the warm water beat down on her bowed head and melt the tight muscles of her neck.
She washed her body, one hand slowing at her throat, stopping to caress the necklace Jack had given her, her thoughts softening. At least someone would miss her. Would wonder about her when she never returned home. She would miss him, too. And Gus. The crusty barkeep could always make her laugh.
After several moments, she forced herself to move, scrubbing herself with her loofa and a mild unscented soap she had brought. For once, she decided smelling sweet enough to eat was not such a good idea. With lycans out for her blood, she wasn’t looking to attract the creatures.
Not for the first time, she wondered at her insistent need to hunt, to destroy lycans at the expense of everything else in her life: A husband. Kids. Family. Maybe she didn’t really want those things. Not as she thought. If she did, she should have been able to set aside her quest for vengeance.
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