Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  Irish chuckled, rolling her to her back. “Was that not enough voraciousness for you? Are you challenging my prowess, Librarian?”

  She giggled, running her tongue over his lips. “I think I just did.”

  Irish’s laughter filled her ears just before his mouth took hers and he kissed the challenge right out of her.

  Chapter 13

  Claire woke the next morning to the sound of her phone beeping. Reaching for it, she stretched, her body deliciously sore from their lovemaking.

  Irish lay beside her, his body so still, his skin so pale anyone else would be frightened.

  Vampire sleep had him in its throes, and she knew enough not to disturb him. Likely, she wouldn’t be able to wake him anyway. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his lean cheek, rubbing her nose against it, savoring waking up beside this man she wanted in her life beyond reason.

  Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed her phone and headed toward the kitchen for coffee, Mr. Darcy greeting her in his usual weave in and out of her legs.

  She slid the screen of her phone over and saw an unfamiliar number heading the text, making her brow furrow.

  But as she read, her eyes opened wide and her gut clenched tight.

  Now she had a name and a place.

  Claire gripped the edge of her countertop and fought for her breath, knew she should attempt to wake Irish and share this, knew she should reach out for help from someone. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t involve Irish. She knew all about the deal he’d had with Gannon for synthetic blood. His clan needed it.

  Which meant he couldn’t have anything to do with this fact-finding mission or Courtland would somehow find fault in him, find any excuse at all to hunt him down and kill him.

  This was pack business. Unfortunately, her immediate pack leader included Courtland—and because she didn’t know if Courtland was a part of it, not a chance in hell was she going to him. But she was going to damn well find out if he knew what Gannon had been up to.

  She wasn’t prone to snap decisions or impulsive behavior, but seeing this text, having this information handed to her, sent her flying to her bedroom to find clothes and supplies.

  She gave one last glance at Irish, his chiseled features so perfect. Leaning over, she dropped a kiss on his cheek, knowing he wouldn’t stir for hours if left to vampire sleep.

  Hopefully, he’d sneak out the same way he snuck in so no one would be the wiser.

  Throwing on some jeans and a sweater, Claire snuck out of the bedroom and grabbed her notepad, scrawling a quick note to Irish that read, Please remember, you promised to trust me. I’ll see you later. Love, your librarian

  * * * *

  Irish wasn’t too panicked until nightfall came and no one had seen or heard from Claire. He’d woken with a start, unsure where he was, grateful he’d told Liam he had business to take care of and wouldn’t be back until tonight.

  And then he’d found Claire’s note. So he’d spent all day trying not to panic, keeping his head on straight, going though the motions.

  As the day grew longer, and night fell, he had to admit, he was a little panicked. Under the guise of making sure the peace was kept, and Courtland hadn’t hauled her off to werewolf jail in some secret werewolf arrest, he’d gone to Freya, her closest friend.

  She didn’t like it when he’d shown up at her door. He could tell from the disapproval in her eyes and they way her face hardened. But according to Freya, Claire had texted her and asked her to feed Mr. Darcy for her until she got home later tonight, and that was all she claimed to know.

  So her definition of “see you later tonight” came and went, and still no Claire. He’d sent her text after text, circled her house, left her at least ten different voicemails like some lovesick fool, all to no avail.

  She’d said to trust her, and he was trying like hell to do that, but each passing second she wasn’t in his sights was trying his boundaries of trust.

  He’d spent part of the day looking for any obscure loophole in the reams of paper containing the laws of the packs and clans, searching for a way they could be together out in the open with the new rules. So far, he was shit out of luck, but he was going to keep at it.

  Because he wanted Claire. And some way, somehow, he’d figure out how to make her his—openly.

  To keep his mind busy in Claire’s absence, he’d decided to busy himself by disposing of Gannon’s body—for good. Just like he’d promised.

  He didn’t need a shovel; he had his hands and speed on his side. What he needed was for Claire to damn well text him back. It was almost eleven, and she was nowhere to be found.

  He’d walked rather than taking his bike, pushing his way through the thick trees of the campgrounds as he began to jog toward the spot where he’d left Gannon’s body.

  It hadn’t exactly been a lie when he’d taken Courtland to the abandoned campgrounds. Gannon was there. He just wasn’t in a trailer. He was buried under a fallen tree about three hundred yards away.

  As Irish approached the brush he’d thrown over the spot, he checked his cell phone one last time for something from Claire.

  Nothing. Damn her. All women ever wanted to do was communicate and suddenly she’d gone dark? He didn’t like it. It wasn’t sitting well with him.

  Clenching his fist, he attempted another exercise in trust before jamming his phone in his back pocket and coming to a complete stop at Gannon’s makeshift grave.

  He sniffed the air, the icy breeze carrying an unfamiliar scent.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He knelt at the fallen tree, lifting it with no struggle at all and gazing down into the hole.

  An empty hole.

  There was nothing but dirt and brush in it, but no Gannon.

  Jesus Christ.

  Where in the fuck was Gannon Dodd?

  Part 4: In the Zone

  Chapter 14

  A hand grabbed Claire from behind, clamping over her mouth and securing her body against the hand’s owner. The hand was strong, cool, the body firm, rigid with muscle and pressed against hers without an inch to spare between them. Her backpack, full of her clothing and what little food she’d been able to buy, fell to the ground.

  Her heart crashed in her chest, her instinct to rip the son of a bitch to shreds hindered only by the fact that she had to be very careful not to make too much noise. She was so damn close. After three days, she was too close to finding real evidence to screw this up.

  The air, rife with sweat and darkness, the kind of evil darkness only found in the Zone, clung to her overstimulated nostrils like grease on a hamburger, thick and oily. The alleyway, littered with used needles and garbage, might have choked her with its stench if not for the fact that she had one purpose.

  Get inside this damn condemned building and find the motherfucker who’d unknowingly set her on the path to murder.

  Her assailant pulled her farther into the depths of the alley, dragging her over the strewn litter, the crunch from the soles of her sneakers scattering disposed needles.

  He pulled her so fast, so hard, she had little time to assess what exactly he was, but he certainly wasn’t human. She’d found a human or two in the filth of the Zone—those who thought it exotic to hook up with a werewolf hooker or a succubus madam.

  The thrill-seekers, the scourge of humanity, they all came to the Zone, located in a small, locked-down portion of Quebec, to get their perverted kicks by doing a paranormal. So they could go home and slap their equally human buddies on the back as they retold the story of having a vampire suck them off.

  It made her gag when she’d discovered it wasn’t just her kind who came to the Zone; choke on the bile that rose in her throat when she’d discovered how valuable a clean, healthy paranormal was to some humans. Worth thousands of dollars in some cases.

  Learning that made Claire more determined to keep the innocent as far away as possible, and in order to do that, she had to get this big lug off her.

  Just as
she raised an arm to wrap around his neck, ready to pull his head down in order to gouge his eyes out, he snatched her hand, and whispered, “Oh, Librarian, you are a handful. So here’s how this is gonna go.

  “First, I’m going to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you so richly deserve for scaring the undead right out of me. It’ll hurt. But it’ll hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me. And yes, before you correct me, I meant it’ll hurt you more than me.

  “Second, I’m going to throw you down on any available surface and make love to you without an ounce of mercy. But not before you take a shower. You smell like dead fish.” There was a sniffing noise near her ear. “And Funyuns. Is that Funyuns? Anyway, when I’m done with you, Librarian, you’ll never leave my side again.”

  Irish.

  All the fight seeped right out of her, replaced by those stupid butterflies and relief. So much relief. Irish was here and all the fear, every sleepless night propped up under a bridge or causeway, watching her kind fall prey to drugs and helplessness, caught up with her.

  Claire twisted around, launching herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in it. “You’re here!” He was here. She loved so much that he was here.

  Instantly, Irish wrapped his arms around her, hauling her close, pressing his lips to her forehead almost as though he were relieved, too. “I am. But don’t you even think for one second I’m going to let you distract me. So before I run roughshod over you, before I give you the come-to-Jesus talk, I’m going to try to be fair and hear you out first. I want to know what’s going on and I want to know now. Do we have a deal?”

  “No,” she whispered against the cool skin of his neck, clinging tighter, thinking that he was wrong. She didn’t smell like Funyuns. It was stale tortilla chips. There’d definitely been some of those in the Dumpster she’d hidden in last night while two cracked-out men fought with their equally cracked-out dealer.

  Irish unwound her arms from his neck, placing her hands on his chest, and gave her that Irish look of reproach. “Now, now, Librarian. No is not the answer I’m looking for.”

  She pressed her cheek to his broad chest, so happy to see him. “Remember when I asked you to trust me?” she mumbled, inhaling his scent, reveling in his strength, needing to be near someone good, someone with integrity.

  “I do. That was three days and three nights ago, and at least three hundred years off my life ago. You’ve gotten all the trust you’re getting from me.”

  Claire gripped the collar of his jacket. “I can’t, Irish. If I do, bad things will happen. Please believe me.” Bad things she wouldn’t be able to control. A race war to end all race wars.

  “Bad things are going to happen if you don’t, Claire-Bear, because I’m going to tie you to a bedpost and leave you there until you tell me what the hell is going on. Now, I know you think I’m Mr. Pussycat these days, and you can wrap me around your little finger with the bat of those gorgeous eyelashes and the swish of your damn fine ass. But I’m here to tell you, I deal with some downright unsavory assholes all the time. You, infuriating lady, are cake. So, what the hell made you come to the Zone? Alone?”

  She walked her fingers up his chest, ran one along his granite cheek and smiled. “Do you really like my eyelashes and my ass, Irish McConnell?”

  “I’ll like them as much, if not more, tied to a bedpost. Talk to me, Claire. Let me help you. Something—something much bigger than you—is going on, and I want to help. You just have to let me.”

  Claire swallowed hard. She wanted to share. She wanted to see the person responsible for this snowball from hell pay. Pay hard. But she needed proof this thing she was hunting for, this heinous pig she’d mutilate given half the chance, really existed. She needed proof for council—solid, irrefutable proof.

  Maybe she could tell him some of it—just a piece of it, enough to keep him from browbeating her. She was beaten down enough. If Irish put the screws to her after three solid days of no food and showers, she’d likely cave if he looked at her cross-eyed.

  He held up a finger under her nose. “But wait. You smell like the breath of a thousand rotting souls. How about we go somewhere and get you cleaned up? Maybe some food?”

  “Do you mean real food? Or someone’s leftover food from a garbage bin? Because I just don’t know if I can stomach Abuelito’s cheesy nachos another day.” Her stomach responded by rolling in wonky fashion.

  His coal eyes went concerned. “You haven’t been eating? I know it’s the Zone, but there are plenty of places to eat, Claire. The depraved eat, too.”

  She wrapped her arms back around his neck and sighed. “I had limited funds, vampire. I didn’t want to use my credit card in case someone tracked it. You know the government keeps a close eye on how and where we spend our money. It was my estimation that Claire the Librarian frequenting an establishment in the Zone would inspire suspicion. We, as a civilized race, aren’t allowed in the Zone, if you’ll recall rule number eleventy-billion from the government. And I only took a little cash from the bank before I left so as not to raise eyebrows.”

  Cupping her jaw, he surprised her by grinning. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

  She sighed, her shoulders aching from the tension of the past three days. “Well, everything but where I’d sleep for three days…or shower…or use the facilities.”

  His chuckle was light and breezy. “Get on that bike, and don’t give me a hard time about it, Claire Montgomery.”

  She began to back away, shaking her greasy hair. “Oh, no. I’m not leaving the Zone, Irish. I can’t. I’m close. I can feel it.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Close to what, is the question? Are you so close now that you can’t leave?” Irish’s eyes scanned the worn brick building, cracked and in disrepair, his gaze followed the length of it to the top floor.

  “Well, not as close as I could have been, because now you’ve blown my cover.”

  He gave her his deadpan stare. “Your cover? Lookit you, little Miss Alias. I could hear you from a mile away, Claire. How do you suppose I knew where you were? How I found you? The Zone is pretty vast. You need to work harder, ninja.”

  He was right. She’d stumbled through this entire stay in The Zone like a two-year old in her mother’s high-heels. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. “That’s only because you’re a vampire and you have good nostrils.”

  He pointed to the brick before crossing his arms over his chest. “And this building doesn’t house vampires? What if the undead lives here and they smelled you?”

  Points. He had so many.

  Okay, so she didn’t know what it housed. It was only a hint of a hint from some drifter demon, but it was all she had after skulking about the scum of the Zone and coming up dry. Of the four people she’d summoned the nerve to talk to, four people she’d carefully scoped out by watching and waiting, none would even entertain her when she asked about the name she’d been given in that text. They either cringed and ran away, or clammed up.

  “I don’t know what it houses, Irish. You didn’t give me time to find out,” she hissed, frustrated with herself for not using her nose to her advantage. She knew Irish’s scent, but she’d let fear and adrenaline overpower common sense.

  Footsteps crunched behind them, stilling their words. Her heart jumped to her throat, clogging it with the fear of ending up caught. Neither of them could be caught here. She wasn’t sure if it would be worse to end up caught by the people who frequented the Zone, like the rumored murderer or two in hiding, or the authorities who did sweeps from time to time to check identifications and passports. Jail or death by mutilation? Hmmm…

  Irish put his finger to his lips as raucous male laughter and slurred words filled the rank air in a putrid cloud of profanity.

  Claire held her breath, praying whoever they were, they wouldn’t round the corner and find them in the alleyway.

  As the hard thunk of boots on concrete grew closer, her pulse quickened. She readied he
r stance. She might not look like much, but she was no slouch when it came to defending herself, and she’d do so if pressed.

  Because if the person who she thought lived in this building really lived in this building, and the feet she heard belonged to him, things were going to get ugly—fast.

  Chapter 15

  Irish was next to her in a blur of legs and feet, pulling her close to him, dragging her backward toward the wall and planting one on her lips.

  “Nice ass,” someone sneered. Someone with a raspy voice thick with too much booze. Laughter ripped across the cold breeze in varying degrees of tone.

  When she tried to pull out of Irish’s arms to address whomever was leering at her ass, Irish pulled her in tighter. “Not a word, Claire,” he muttered against her mouth, continuing to probe her lips.

  “Hey, lovebirds! Take your shit somewhere the fuck else,” another, even more slurred voice ordered.

  Irish lifted his head, but only enough to say, “Sorry, man. Just got paid. You know what it’s like. Got carried away with the goodies.”

  There was cackling, lots of men cackling because they thought a man had spent his paycheck on a hooker. Only a group of men would high-five each other over a complete stranger blowing his hard-earned money on paid sex.

  She heard sniffing before the man said, “Yeah, yeah. Now move it along, bloodsucker. Go fuck somewhere else. This is private property.”

  “Keep your head down and your mouth shut, Librarian,” Irish warned, before pulling her by the hand. He nodded at the group of men. “You got it.”

  And she mostly followed his orders as he swept her out and away from the alley. She did keep her head down—sort of. She only lifted her head for the briefest of moments to find a crew of four men, well-dressed in expensive dark suits, Italian leather boots, and muted ties. Their language led her to believe they were all thugs, but their clothing said they had fat wallets. So they were paid thugs.