Last Wolf Standing (5 page)

Walking to her dresser, she studied her pale reflection in the beveled antique mirror on the wall while slipping the clasps free on her small silver hoops, then unfastened her slim watch and slid off her bracelets. A refrain from one of the Celtic CDs Mic played throughout the day in the store found its way into her mind, and she began humming softly, determined to ignore that lingering unease, until she felt a cold, clammy chill crawl over her skin, her palms going damp and hot.

Something’s wrong, she thought dully, experiencing the oddest sense of viewing the situation from afar. The feeling tightened, sharpening, until she feared that she wasn’t alone, even though she’d seen no one when she’d walked into the room. But on the opposite side of her bed, just behind her, was the closet—and she couldn’t remember if the door had been open or closed when she’d entered the room…and was suddenly too afraid to look. Had she remembered to lock all the windows earlier? Damn it, living in a quiet neighborhood had made her careless, because she couldn’t remember checking them before she’d left for work that morning!

“There’s no such thing as monsters,” she muttered, determined to stay calm, but every terrifying scene from every nightmare she’d ever suffered began playing through her mind. A deep, bone-jarring tremor shook her body like a frail, fragile leaf caught in the destructive fury of a storm, and she watched in a numb daze as her hand lifted, reaching toward the surface of her dresser where she kept her mail. Her fingers touched the cold, hard metal of the antique letter opener Mic had given her last Christmas, and as they curled around the silver handle, she heard the telltale creak of a floorboard. A sickening feeling slipped through her, like something sticky and wet sliding over her skin, sending her stomach into a roiling spin. Her breath stopped, suspended, held tight in her lungs as she raised her wide eyes and caught the reflection in the mirror above her dresser.

It was behind her, at the foot of her bed, visible over her left shoulder. Tall, over seven feet at least, with fangs and fur—and a head that resembled the terrifying shape of a wolf.

She opened her mouth to scream, but before the bloodcurdling cry had clawed its way out of her throat, the beast was on her, knocking the dagger-shaped opener to the ground. It twisted her easily, taking her to the floor, where it slowly looked her over out of dark, lifeless eyes that shone as blank and black as a doll’s. Despite her frantic struggles, long, lethal-tipped claws took possession of her wrists, lifting her arms up high over her head, stretching her out beneath its hard, oppressively heavy body straddling her thighs. An overpowering combination of animal musk, pine-scented forests and a sharp acidic odor filled her head, and Torrance screamed again, if she’d ever stopped screaming—but she couldn’t hear anything over the terrified roaring of her heart, unsure if the sounds of her horror were trapped in her throat or shattering against the walls, drowned out by her heartbeat.

“Well, well, aren’t you a tasty little piece?” it drawled in a deep, guttural voice, the words awkward as they made their way past the muzzled shape of its mouth, fangs gleaming whitely in the graying light of her bedroom. It almost looked as if it were smiling at her, and for some reason, that scared her more than anything.

“Who the hell are you?” she sobbed, fear making her own voice sound demonic, deep and rasping and raw.

“My sweet, sweet Little Red,” it laughed roughly, its warm breath pelting her in the face, humid and hot and sickly. “Didn’t your new half-breed warn you about me?”

“Who? Warn me about what?” she cried, paralyzed within its powerful grip. It held her far too easily, and the cold, painful knowledge of imminent death settled heavily into her gut.

“Don’t you know the reason for a Bloodrun, little human?”

“A Bloodrun?” she grunted, so sick with fear she felt nauseous. “What are you talking about?”

“Your new boyfriend tracks down my kind and kills us like animals, simply because we accept what nature meant for us. Because we’re not afraid to embrace our natural hungers.” It leaned closer, the tip of its dark muzzle all but touching her nose, and this time she knew it was smiling as those black, shiny lips pulled back with malicious humor, its mouthful of razor-sharp teeth promising untold horror. “You’re not Dillinger’s normal taste when it comes to his playthings,” it rasped, tilting its massive head to the side as it studied her out of those emotionless eyes. Leaning closer, she felt the wet roughness of its tongue lick up the side of her throat before curling playfully around the shell of her left ear. She whimpered, hating the pitiful sound, and the monster laughed softly as it whispered in her ear, “No, you’re not his usual taste at all. But I think I’ll enjoy eating you all the same, honey girl.”

Chapter 3

T hey’re real…they’re real…they’re real…

Torrance chanted the silent refrain over and over within the thick, black haze of terror clouding her mind, while the werewolf’s oppressive weight held her down. She knew she should fight, struggle, scream…but after hearing those last words, all she could do was lie there beneath the monster, paralyzed by fear. It spread through her limbs like an intravenous drug, numbing her body while her heart pounded to a painful, resonating beat that threatened to rupture her chest. A lifetime of nightmares, of horrific images of blood and pain, fangs and razor-sharp claws, crept over the surface of her body like a spider, tangling her in its insidious web.

“The more I lick right here,” that gruff, garbled voice chuckled with malicious pleasure against her throat, the monster’s rank breath meaty and humid as it reached her nose, “the richer the scent of your fear grows.”

No. No. No. This can’t be happening. Can’t be happening. Can’t be happening.

Its massive head shifted, muscled, heavily-furred shoulders bunching as the creature moved down her body, dragging its mouth against the upper part of her chest revealed in the now-gaping neck of her shirt, torturing her with the teasing slide of its teeth. “I’ll tell you what,” it taunted, long, lethal claws clicking ominously against the hardwood floor, heavily padded palms damp with sweat where they gripped her wrists in a biting, bruising hold that numbed her fingers. “Why don’t we have a little fun and see just how scared we can get you?”

How scared? She was already filled with terror. The realization that she was a coward burned in her belly like acid, but no matter how fiercely her pride raged against it, Torrance couldn’t throw off the smothering wave of fear.

And he knew it.

Smiling, the werewolf cocked his head to the side as he studied her, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in her scent. “So timid, little one. That just isn’t going to do. I enjoy it so much more when my meals have a little life in them.”

He laughed at his own joke…and Torrance squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears tracking across her skin.

Oh yes, they were real. The monsters from the dark recesses of her mind truly did exist. Not just in her head, but in the flesh. She had often wondered—no, worried—after the things she’d seen and heard around Michaela’s Muse, but had never really believed. Movies…tabloid headlines…books. The legends were everywhere, for anyone paying attention. And her mother had been one of the biggest believers of all, dragging her daughter off to every horror movie that hit the theaters…always rambling on about mankind’s inability to accept the existence of something more powerful than themselves.

As she became older, Torrance began to realize that her mother had looked to the paranormal as a means of escaping the disappointing realities of life. And in the process, she’d raised her daughter on an unusual diet for a child—one that consisted of vampires and werewolves and witches. But instead of Michaela’s healthy understanding of the paranormal culture, Torrance had only known the horror, the Hollywood sensationalism. She had learned to fear early on, and though she’d come to understand so much with Mic’s help…there were still some issues she just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.

Her nightmares were one of them.

You should have listened to your dreams. They were telling you the truth, Torrance…warning you…just like Mom told you they were.

All those years spent thinking the poor woman was insane…and she’d been right all along. But Torrance had never allowed herself to believe…and now, on the verge of death, she didn’t have any other choice.

Mason cast another hard look at the slip of paper, reading the printed name for the hundredth time.

Torrance Watson.

He ran his thumb over the letters, once…twice, then slipped the wrinkled pay stub back into the pocket of his flannel shirt, sounding out the individual syllables beneath his breath. Torrance. An unusual name, but then, she was clearly an unusual woman. The kind of woman who could turn a guy’s world upside down. Who could destroy him.

If you were smart, you’d get your ass out of here and forget you ever saw her.

True, and considering he wasn’t moving, Mason could only assume he wasn’t nearly as clever as he’d thought. Either that or he was thinking with the wrong head.

He slumped in the driver’s seat of his Tahoe, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger of the hand hanging out his open window, and turned his attention back to the quaint Victorian that had been renovated into apartments. After Torrance had run out on him at the restaurant, he’d sent Jeremy to get the SUV and followed her on foot to her work, using that mouthwatering scent to track her, then again as she headed home. Once there, he’d called Jeremy on his cell and told him where to find him. Now they sat in the cab of the Tahoe, parked on her street, watching for any sign of Simmons, while Mason struggled to figure out what the hell to do next.

He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, acting the way he had when he found her. But he’d been blindsided by too much…everything. Emotion. Hunger. Possessiveness. The gut-twisting need to keep her safe—and the knowledge that Simmons would come after her if he could. All of which had led to him acting like a cross between a mad stalker and a complete asshole. No wonder she’d run from him. That he could understand.

What he couldn’t get his head around was why he was here.

If it were simply a matter of safety, Mason knew he could have called in Pallaton and Reyes, another Bloodrunning team, and put them on her for protection. But he hadn’t done that. Instead, here he was, playing watchdog for a woman who should have had him running scared for the simple fact that he didn’t want her.

Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, jackass…and maybe you’ll start believing it.

Muttering a foul, four-letter word, Mason slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, hating it. All of it. What kind of sick joke was nature playing on his ass? Anyone who knew him knew the last thing he wanted was a mate. Especially a small, fragile human one. Jesus.

He’d been reminding himself of that fact for the past five minutes…and yet he couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t make himself turn the bloody key and drive away, while he still had the chance. The past didn’t seem to matter. Not the lessons he’d learned or the vows he’d made to never end up in Dean’s shoes. Within moments of finding her, the past eight years were obliterated, wiped clean, and Mason found himself as pathetically hooked as the rest of them.

Shit. He scrubbed one hand down his face, then took another long drag on the cigarette while a sharp crack of lightning lit the sky, dark waves of clouds rolling in, smothering out the pale streams of sunlight that had briefly broken through the damp, depressing grayness of the day.

Beside him, Jeremy crossed his arms and let out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. “What about lunch?” the blond asked. “We still haven’t eaten and I’m starving, man.”

Mason stared at the apartment building, quietly cursing the thunder that made it impossible to hear—even with his heightened abilities. And if the rain got heavier, it would ruin his ability to track her scent when she left. “You can take off and grab some fast food,” he murmured. “There’s got to be something around here within walking distance.”

“Great,” Jeremy grunted. “Do you know how much fat that stuff contains?”

“We burn more calories than we can ever worry about, so what the hell do you care?”

“It’s my arteries I’m thinking about,” his partner grumbled. “And what about Simmons? We are still on the hunt, man, which means we’re supposed to be tracking his sadistic ass down.”

Like he needed reminding. They’d been hunting the bastard ever since they found the mutilated body of a young prostitute a few weeks ago, dumped on pack land. Anthony Simmons’s foul scent had been all over the victim, and he and Jeremy had been assigned the Bloodrun to kill the Silvercrest werewolf.

Now it was a race against the clock to catch him and eliminate the threat, before Simmons chose yet another victim. The thought twisted his insides. Mason had no doubt the rogue would exploit any vulnerability he could find and use it to strike back at the ones hunting him. His kind always did. And if he’d been watching them today, and witnessed his reaction to Torrance, he now had the perfect opportunity.

Mason couldn’t let that happen. To make sure Simmons didn’t get near her, he and Jeremy would keep an eye on things here, while Pallaton and Reyes watched the shop where she worked.

“We’ll find Simmons,” Mason rasped, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray. “But this takes precedence right now. We have to make sure she stays safe.”