Thunder Moon

by Lori Handeland

  His gaze went to Claire and softened. He’d been trusting of no one but other Gypsies until her.

  I cleared my throat; they stopped mooning at each other and returned their attention to me. “We’re going to have to tell the populace something once they get wind of the autopsies and the exhumations.”

  “Something that won’t cause a panic,” Mal said. “Mobs come in all shapes, sizes, and centuries.”

  People did get up in arms very easily, and around here that would mean a lot of guns in the streets—a cop’s nightmare.

  “What about a virus?” Claire suggested.

  “Maybe.” Better to have people staying at home, wearing masks to the store, rather than running around in the forest with their weaponry. “I’ll talk to Doc. I’m sure he’ll have an idea.”

  Claire tapped her keyboard, and her computer came to life. “Let’s meet tomorrow.”

  “Same bat time?” I asked.

  “Same bat channel,” Claire answered.

  We’d watched a lot of classic TV as kids—my brothers’ favorite way to shut us up so they could do whatever it was older brothers did when forced to babysit.

  As I closed the door behind me, Mal asked, “What’s a bat channel?”

  I glanced at my watch. My shift had ended over an hour ago. A quick call to Jordan revealed there were no pressing emergencies that required my attention.

  “I’m headed home,” I said.

  I could do my research in the office, but I’d learned it was better to do anything funky on my personal computer. All I needed was to be under investigation for blowing up a citizen with a silver bullet and have the investigators discover I’d been researching werewolves during my on-duty hours.

  I checked in with Doc Bill on my cell as I drove out of town. He was on top of things—having already done the paperwork for the additional autopsies and the exhumations. The lack of a heart in Abraham had freaked Doc Bill out as much as it had me.

  “What are you going to tell the relatives?” I asked.

  “As little as possible.”

  “Seriously, Doc, we should get our stories straight.”

  His sigh sounded tired, and I felt kind of bad. The man was at least eighty and should have retired years ago. But his wife had died, and he’d kept working. He’d always seemed happy about it, until now. Can’t say that I blamed him, but I needed Doc on the job. I certainly couldn’t explain this mess to someone who wasn’t already with the program.

  However, when he spoke again, he seemed stronger. Doc knew what was at stake; he wouldn’t fail me.

  “I’ll tell anyone who insists on an explanation that we’re doing a study for the Centers for Disease Control.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can make it sound official. Government ordered. Hush-hush. Blah-blah-blah.”

  “And when they panic about the Ebola virus?”

  “I’ll swear whatever this is, it isn’t contagious.”

  “In other words, you’ll lie your ass off.”

  “Without a qualm, Sheriff. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, and a panic won’t help anyone.”

  “I like how you think.”

  “That’s because I think like you.”

  “And smart, too. You’re my kind of co-conspirator.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, then hung up.

  Another thing I liked about the man—he didn’t bother with niceties. He got the job done. I only hoped he’d get this job done before we had more bodies on our hands.

  I turned into my long dirt drive, holding tightly to the steering wheel as my dad’s truck jerked over the muddy ruts left by the storm. I hadn’t had a chance to ask Claire about my new squad car, but since the truck worked so well on the still-saturated side roads, that was probably for the best.

  The wheels bounced over a particularly large hump and rolled down the other side, sliding into my front yard and nearly slamming into the car already parked there.

  “Crap.” I’d forgotten about my date.

  Ian Walker wasn’t in his car. He wasn’t on the front porch. I glanced toward the trees, wondering if he’d gone to the creek, hoping to find me there as he had last night. How mortifying that he might think I’d actually wait for him at the water for more of the same ... although it wasn’t a half-bad idea.

  I had to remind myself that this was an affair, nothing more. Even though I’d broken my self-imposed rule on sleeping with a resident of Lake Bluff, that didn’t mean this was going to be anything more than a short interlude that would end badly.

  If that’s all this was, then where lay the harm in going directly to bed? After the day I’d had, I could use a little comfort, a chance to forget for a few moments everything that was whirling in my head.

  I climbed the porch steps and opened the door. Ian sat at my kitchen table. How had he gotten in?

  “The door was open,” he said.

  Which wasn’t like me. Of course I had been distracted lately—hot doctor, messenger wolf, ravens, crows, eagles, dead people.

  “I forgot,” I said. “There was—” I stopped. I couldn’t tell him even if I knew.

  “It’s all right.” He got to his feet, hovering by the table as if uncertain.

  “It isn’t. I didn’t think. I’m not good at—” I waved a hand.

  “Talking?”

  “No, that I’m good at. I suck at dating.”

  “Then we’re two of a kind. I haven’t dated since...” His voice trailed off, and he glanced down, his braid and the feather swinging across his face.

  I’d reminded him again of his dead wife. Maybe I wasn’t as good at talking as I’d thought.

  “I wrecked everything. I’m—”

  His head came up. “Don’t say you’re sorry. I’m glad you forgot.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “Glad?”

  “Grace, I’m a doctor. I’m going to forget a lot of things. Dates. Birthdays. There’ll be times I’m so wrapped up in something, I might forget your name.” My eyebrows lowered, and he laughed. “Kidding.”

  “You aren’t mad?”

  “Of course not.” He brushed his hair out of his face. “There was something we didn’t discuss the other night.”

  Discussion hadn’t been on my list of options, but I had a pretty good idea of where this was headed. “Protection,” I said. We hadn’t used any.

  “Yes. I... well—I didn’t think.”

  That made two of us.

  “I’m on the pill.” Had been for years. I wanted children, but a surprise pregnancy was not the way I planned to get them. “And I’ve never had unprotected sex.”

  “Never?”

  “Until you.”

  That admission felt like more than it was. It felt like some kind of promise.

  “I haven’t either.”

  Was he serious? From his expression, very. I wasn’t sure if I should believe him, but what reason would he have to lie? Besides, that milk had already been spilled, so to speak. No sense crying over it now.

  I smiled and his shoulders relaxed. He was as glad to have that conversation out of the way as I was.

  “What was so engaging that you didn’t get home until nearly nightfall?” he asked.

  “The usual.”

  “Which is?”

  He seemed awfully interested, but maybe it was just the natural curiosity of a non-cop for a cop’s life. I’d fielded such questions a hundred times before, but I really didn’t want to now.

  “Cats up trees, dogs in the garbage. Such is the life of a small-town cop.” Most of the time—just not lately.

  “Hear anything from Quatie?”

  “Did you? Is there something wrong?”

  “Not that I know of.” He spread his hands. “I was just making conversation.”

  “Oh. Right.” I shuffled my feet. “Thanks again for seeing her.”

  “My job and my pleasure. She’s a neat old lady.”

  I warmed at the description. She was.

>   “Did you still want to go out to dinner?”

  He seemed so out of place wearing a suit and tie in my eighties-style peach and teal kitchen. I’d run out of remodeling money a long time ago. His ring reflected the overhead light, flashing silver even though it was gold. His feet were bare; he’d kicked his sandals off at the door.

  I think it was the feet that got me—long, slim, tan. They made me want to take off my shoes, too, along with everything else. I crossed the room and kissed him.

  I needed to get to work, but right now I needed this more. From the way he kissed me back, he did, too.

  My fingers tangled in his hair, the sweep of the strands, the braid, the feather over my wrists made me shudder in anticipation. What would that feather feel like drifting over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs? I intended to find out.

  I backed away; he reached out, then stopped, clenched his fingers, and let his arms fall slowly to his sides. “I’ll go. You’re tired.”

  “Do I look tired?”

  “No.” He moved closer, his gaze wandering over my face, staring at me as if I were fascinating. “You look ... amazing.”

  I smiled.

  “That balm really worked.”

  My smile faded, but he didn’t notice.

  “I wasn’t sure it would.” He began to pat his jacket, his pants pockets. “I have to make a note. Check Quatie in the next few days and see if the results are the same.”

  I saw now why he’d warned me about forgetting things. Give him a medical miracle and he was in another world. I couldn’t blame him, but now was not the time.

  Taking his hand, I led him toward the stairs.

  Chapter 17

  He had the good sense to keep quiet as we climbed to the second floor and entered my room. Once there I pulled off my gun belt, unloaded my Glock, and shoved everything into a drawer.

  I turned, expecting him to be stripped to the skin. Instead he stood in the doorway staring. I had used most of my remodeling money here.

  We’d walked into a forest—or at least that was the impression I’d wanted to convey. The walls, the bedspread, the heavy curtains were green, with detailing that made them seem like long, swaying blades of grass. The carpet held the blue of a mountain lake reflecting a sunlit sky. I’d bought sheets and pillowcases in a muted violet, the same shade as a lily pad. A miniature fountain in the corner spread the peaceful sound of running water.

  “You must sleep right through the night in a place like this.”

  The way Ian said it made me think he didn’t sleep through the night often. Some people didn’t. My dad had been one. He’d wandered the house at all hours, making it extremely difficult for me or any of my brothers to sneak out. When we were kids we’d thought he did it on purpose, but now I realized he’d been troubled—by my mother’s desertion, the stress of raising five kids on his own, the job, probably all three.

  Then, just when he and I were starting to get along, bonding over the job in a way we’d never bonded over anything else, he’d died on me. Massive coronary, just like Claire’s father. My dad had been older than hers by at least twelve years, me being the youngest and Claire being the only. However, Dad had shared with Jeremiah Kennedy not only a close friendship but also a deep love for booze, cigarettes, and red meat. However, I didn’t want to think about my father, or anything else, right now.

  “Shut the door,” I said.

  When the door closed, this room became an island, filled with the sight and sound and scent of serenity. I pulled candles out of the nightstand, fumbled a bit for a match. A soft glow swirled through the room—the forest beneath a murky moon.

  Ian took a deep breath. “Grass, water.” He frowned and breathed in again. “The air right after a thunderstorm. Where did you get those candles?”

  “My great-grandmother made them.”

  Another thing I couldn’t do if I couldn’t read her papers. She’d created the most amazing candles that gave off scents no one in the world could duplicate. She’d lived on the proceeds from the ones she sold to a gift shop in town. Every time I went past the place, the owner begged me to tell her how Grandmother had done it, but I didn’t know.

  “These are the last of them.” I peered into the flames, mesmerized.

  I felt him come up behind me. “Thank you.”

  That he understood what the candles meant, and what it meant to use them, made my stomach flutter. When he kissed the back of my neck, my stomach dropped toward my toes.

  His hands slid around my waist, his palms resting on my belly as if he knew the turmoil going on beneath my skin. I leaned back, absorbing his heat, enjoying the pressure of him against my spine. Arching, I rubbed myself along his hardness, and the hands that had been gentle were gentle no longer.

  He gripped my hips, pulling me more tightly against him, then running his palms up my ribs, cupping my breasts through the heavy material of the ugly sheriff’s uniform. I had to get it off; I had to feel all of him against all of me.

  Buttons opened under my busy fingers. His were occupied releasing my pants.

  “Wait,” he whispered as I began to shrug out of the shirt, his breath tickling the moistness left on my neck by his mouth and making me shiver. “Let me touch you like this.”

  Before I could ask or even wonder what he meant, he spun us around so that we were facing the mirror above my dresser. The candles gave off just enough light so I could see everything. My uniform blouse gaped open, my lacy white bra peeking from beneath. My pants unbuttoned, unzipped, the silken V of my panties revealed, as well as the swirling, curling darkness that lay beneath.

  His hand stark against my belly, his skin lighter than mine, our hair the same shade of ebony. Him wearing a suit, all buttoned up and stiff. Me in my uniform, unbuttoned and loose. We looked like an ad in Hustler.

  His fingers slid beneath the tan waistband; then lower still, they crept beneath the white silk, one finger unerringly finding the center and stroking.

  I arched, my shirt parting as my breasts thrust upward, seeming to strain at the soft white cups of my bra. He nuzzled my ear; his teeth worried the lobe, as his finger continued to stroke. I was so interested in that finger, I didn’t notice his hand releasing the catch on my bra until the pressure eased and his palm swept over the tingling peaks.

  My eyes remained open, watching him, watching me, watching us. I couldn’t see what he was doing beneath the cover of the bra still hanging over my shoulders, shrouding my breasts; I couldn’t see what his finger was doing beneath the white silk of my panties, which only made what I felt more exquisite.

  His thumb rolled my nipple, then joined with the forefinger to pluck me in a rhythm equaled by the strokes between my legs. His tongue swirled into my ear with a similar beat as my blood pulsed in time with the throbbing of his penis pressed to the curve of my spine.

  One more hard thrust of his finger and I cried out, riding the wave, riding his hand as he drew out the orgasm. Lights flashed in front of my open eyes so brightly I was forced to close them, even though I wanted nothing more than to watch the two halves of myself—the woman and the warrior—cry out as one.

  When it was over, he turned me around and kissed me. He was still hard against my stomach. I wanted to touch him as he’d touched me. My fingers worked at his belt, his buttons, the zipper. He began to protest and I bit his lip, just a nip, one I could soothe with my tongue.

  As he’d done, I slid my palm down his stomach, enjoying the flutter of the muscles beneath his skin; then my fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his briefs, immediately encountering the smooth, hard length of him.

  I took him in my hand, rubbed my thumb over his tip, then worked him until his tongue was darting in and out of my mouth and his hips were pumping in time to the flick of my wrist. When he was so close I didn’t dare go any further, I shrugged out of my shirt, my bra, then stepped out of my boots, my slacks, my socks. Holding his gaze, I dipped my thumbs into my underpants and lost them, too.

  H
is eyes flowed over me like water over rocks; smooth and cool they caressed. When he reached for his tie, his fingers shook, and I took pity on him.

  “Let me.” I undid the knot, tossed the length of silk aside. Made short work of his buttons, revealing his beautiful smooth chest inch by glorious inch.

  Shoving the jacket and the shirt from his shoulders, I couldn’t help but pause to taste him; then I became distracted by the slope of his collarbone, the flat, dark disc of his nipple, and the spike of his ribs and hips.

  “Grace, you’re killing me.”

  Lifting my head, I smiled. “Not yet.”

  I stripped him of the rest, admiring the way his penis sprang out of his underwear ready for anything. Then I inched him backward until his legs met the bed, and gave him a little shove.

  He fell, bouncing once and laughing. The sound was so light, so uncommon coming from him, that I paused just to listen. But when I didn’t join in, he began to sit up, so I straddled him.

  I didn’t think I could be ready again so soon, but I couldn’t wait; I didn’t want to, and from the way he cursed when I pressed my damp curls against him, he didn’t want to, either.

  Lifting myself, I took him in, my breath coming faster as he filled me, stretched me, took me. His palms cupped my hips, pulling me down as he pressed up, and I began to move.

  “Wait,” he managed, voice hoarse, the desperation at its edge a contrast to the word. He tightened his fingers, stilling me.

  “Are you crazy?” I fought against his hold, needing to move as much as I needed to breathe.

  “Shh.” He yanked the band off the end of my braid. “Shake it out.”

  I did, my hair flying, sliding across his chest, flicking his face, cascading over my shoulders, my breasts, rippling all the way past my hips.

  “Now,” he said.

  I clenched my thighs, ready to ride. But he flipped me onto my back, the movement so sudden, so unexpected, all I could do was fall.

  I landed with an oomph, and I had no time to recover as he slid into my body once more. We were both on the edge, so close we shook with it. I lifted my legs, crossing my ankles at his spine, the movement pressing us together just so.