The Guardian (5 page)

Fala stood up. “He had a run-in with a wild dog.”

Brower's forehead wrinkled on his bulldog face. “That was no freakin' wild dog, Fala. Good God, if you could see what it did…” His words trailed off as if he were remembering the attack. He glanced down at the dark urine spot on his pants. He grew self-conscious and turned sideways out of Fala's direct view.

“I saw.” Fala heard the sirens surround the building. “The cavalry has arrived. You've got to get yourself together.”

“I'm trying.” He gripped his fists to make them stop shaking.

“The captain is going to be down our throats for letting an animal overtake the station.”

“What could we do?” Brower shrugged his tree-trunk-size shoulders. “It took us by surprise. Bullets didn't stop it.”

“Save that one for Internal Affairs and the tabloids.”

Brower shook his square head like a lost bull. “You're right. No one will ever believe that story. But that thing, that god-awful thing.” His face twisted. “It tore people apart. I just let that thing back me into a corner. If you hadn't lured it away from me…” His voice broke with self-recrimination.

Fala couldn't help but feel pity for him. A full frontal with a demon wolf would give anyone nightmares for years. She knew from experience. She'd faced her first one at twelve and had bite marks on her right thigh to prove it. “You were traumatized,” she said. “No one saw what happened in there but you and me. Let's stick to the story of a rabid animal.”

“I don't know.” He rubbed his wide forehead with indecision.

She could tell him the truth that the werewolf was an evil sorcerer who was trying to kill her before she became the Guardian. Nope, that would blow his mind. And she couldn't trust anyone with the truth about being a shape-shifter. Heck, it would be easier just to erase his memory of Tumseneha's attack. It wouldn't be the first human memory she'd erased.

She reached over and touched his beefy shoulder. Power flowed down her arm and into him. She watched as the look in his eyes turned blank and she spoke in a low hypnotizing tone, “Listen to me, Brower. It was a pack of pit bulls that attacked the station. Strays roam the city all the time. Now what was it?”

“Pit bulls,” he answered in a vacant, parroted tone.

Fala dropped her arm and knew she'd have to wipe away the memories of the SWAT team guys and anyone else still alive. Mortals tended to think along concrete references, a small little world of their own making. If they only knew what powers awaited their discovery in the metaphysical world, it would knock them on their asses. Better they remain in the dark. Brower would still have nightmares about it, like Joe. Nothing she could do about that. But at least they could wake up and realize they were only bad dreams. And Freud thought the libido controlled humans' dreams. A lot he knew.

Joe moaned, finally stirring.

Fala heard frantic voices coming from behind the door. She envisioned the faces of the rescue squad workers and a battalion of cops as they found Processing.

“Look, take care of Joe.” She turned and ran down the stairs.

“Where are you going? Don't leave me here alone.” He sounded like a child who'd just had his nightlight turned off.

Fala almost smiled. “I'll be back.”

She ran down the stairs, wondering at her last statement. If Tumseneha was lying in wait for her, she might not come back. But she couldn't risk anyone else getting hurt because of her. What had happened to the SWAT team? She couldn't hear the gunfire outside.

Her cell phone rang. She continued down the stairs and pulled it from her pocket.
Urgent
flashed on the caller ID. Must be Winter. Great. The last person she wanted to talk to. More than likely he called to grill her on what had happened at the station. Why did she sense
he knew more about her than he had let on? And why had her insides somersaulted around him? Men didn't do that to her—none had made her body tingle like he had. Definitely someone to keep at arm's length. She caught sight of a text message that flashed,
Answer your phone. Urgent.

She slapped the phone closed and slid it into her pocket as she reached the exit door.

She stepped outside and grew aware of the stark emptiness of the alley, the tight air breathing down her neck. The sky was changing, black melting into purple, hints of morning sun burning away the night. The row buildings on all sides blocked her view of the moon, yet she felt the pull of it still there, grasping at its last few moments of power, losing the eternal war with the sun.

She glanced past the Dumpsters, toward a security light still humming at the back of Burney's. Many of her coworkers' birthday parties had been thrown at the bar. Fala had lost count of the rounds of beer she and Joe had bought each other there. Its dim swatch of light hardly pierced the alley's darkness, but it afforded enough glow to scan the immediate shadows as she advanced slowly down the alley.

The trail Tumseneha had left stirred every nerve and flashed neon warnings to be careful. Was it a former trail, or a more recent one? Was Tumseneha lurking, waiting? She didn't dare believe he'd given up so easily. She slowed her stride, eyes darting at every shadow.

Suddenly a hand snaked out from beside a Dumpster and clamped over her mouth, another around her waist. Before she could react, her back hit a solid chest. The flash of familiar silver eyes burned in her retinas.

S
tephen heard her muffled protest die behind his palm. The sensation of her struggling against him, overpowering her, bending her to his will, sent a knee-numbing rush through him for one second. Then it changed into something agonizingly awesome as her white magic collided with his own, warred with his essence. He hadn't known full physical contact with the Guardian would be this intense. Was it the spell he was under that caused this reaction? The direct psychic connection? Or the magic protecting her? He had never experienced anything like this with a female, a feeling of spiraling out of control and bursting at any moment.

He wanted to push her away, but the delicious smell of spent magic still crackled along her skin and held him. Her thick braid brushed his cheek. He felt her gun and holster poking his side, and something much worse: her shapely ass twisting against his growing erection.

“Shhh, be still and I'll let you go,” he said, knowing he couldn't let her go even if he wanted to.

Her stiff back bent slightly and she quieted in his arms. He felt her surrender to the same sensations he was experiencing. She bent her neck toward his lips as she said, “You've got two seconds to let me go, Ice Storm, or you're gonna need a new set of family jewels.”

He pressed his mouth close to her earlobe and fought the urge to taste the soft flesh near his lips. He felt her body shaking in his arms as he said, “You'll thank me very soon.”

“Not on your—” A thump at the end of the alley cut off her sentence and commanded their attention.

The lycanthrope had leaped down from Burney's roof, crimson eyes ablaze, fangs bared.

“Stay behind me.” Stephen stepped in front of her.

“Get out of my way.” She grabbed his shoulders and yanked.

When it came to physical strength she didn't have a prayer.

He easily shoved her behind him, then grabbed the Dumpster and hurled it at the werewolf.

Two tons of metal and trash collided with the creature.

The lycanthrope and the Dumpster hit the opposite building with a loud crash.

Stephen reached for the Dumpster again, pulled it back and rammed it into the stunned creature.

The werewolf slammed against the bricks again.

An eerie male groan came from the creature's throat, then it shook its head as if to clear it.

Werewolf and Stephen locked gazes. And it held too
long. A cocky smile showed the werewolf's yellowed fangs, then the creature threw back his head and howled, a spine-chilling cry that sounded more like Tumseneha's devilish laugh. His form suddenly vaporized into a black mist of what looked like bees, only to disappear on the wings of the wind.

“Some exit.” Stephen arched a brow at the sky.

“Why weren't you afraid of that creature?” She turned to face him, arms akimbo, liquid blue eyes blazing.

“Why weren't you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Let's just say I've dealt with things like that creature before.” He shrewdly stayed away from the word
werewolf
or
lycanthrope.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the Dumpster muck off his hands.

“Who do you really work for?” she asked, watching him tuck the handkerchief back in the pocket of his long coat.

“I told you, I represent Senator Kent's welfare.”

“You're not a normal fed.” She glared into his cold eyes. “So who the hell are you?”

“If you let me buy you breakfast, I'll tell you.”

Taken aback by the sudden offer, she eyed him. “I got kind of a mess to clean up at the moment.” She gestured toward a news van that sped past the alley entrance and squealed as it stopped in front of the station.

“My office can help you take care of that if you—”

“No, thanks,” she blurted. “Just keep your people out of my way.”

He cocked a brow at the vehement pout on her lips, one damn sexy sulk. It made him want to control those
lips. “Suit yourself.” He looked at his watch. “I'll call you in an hour. Pick up this time.”

She frowned at him. “Don't give me orders, Winter. I'm not your subordinate.”

“Very well, Rainwater,
please
answer your phone.”

“I'll think about it.”

She hurried toward the exit door, and he watched the sexy sway of her hips. He had to stop this fascination with her, and now. When she opened the door, he vanished before it closed.

 

Two hours later, Fala watched a waiter fluttering behind the counter, shifting between two middle-aged men sitting at the bar, pouring coffee, handing over the morning special of two eggs, ham, bacon and three pancakes. He looked barely old enough to shave and not particularly delighted with his job at the moment.

She and Winter were the only other customers in Happy Jack's, and for that she was thankful. She could ask questions without prying ears. She hadn't needed to convince Joe to go home and rest after his ordeal; he had seemed disoriented and confused after she'd wiped his memory. He said he was going back on leave. She agreed that would be a good idea, especially when the nightmares began. She'd dropped him at home, then had driven straight to the restaurant.

Across from her, Winter had his nose buried in the menu. His black hair gleamed blue in the harsh fluorescent lights. His dark eyes were hidden by long, thick lashes. Heavy dark stubble covered his chin and face, and she could almost imagine how it would feel against her skin.
Yikes, he's too handsome for his own good.

He's not. Look at something else.

She shifted uneasily in the booth and could smell Winter's spicy cologne, the starch on his white shirt. She listened for his heartbeat, but it was blocked by something. All she could hear was her own heart hammering in her ears. Every nerve in her body seemed tuned into his proximity. Why was she having this reaction to him? Her physical senses were off the charts. He awakened places in her that she believed were protected by her powers.

She thought of Akando. Why the heck didn't he make her feel light-headed and a little faint? If only she'd felt half as much attraction to her fiancé as she felt for the man sitting across from her. The sinking sensation that always plagued her when she thought of her duties as Guardian pulled at her heart. Or was that just desire for a man she couldn't have? Nothing like experiencing perverse lust.

To make matters worse, she hadn't been able to forget the way their bodies had touched in the alley. It was as if she had fallen from a cliff and the particles in her body would reach the ground before she did. She could still feel the hard curve of his chest pressed against her back, the solid wall of unexpected male warmth, his growing erection. And what was up with that earlobe nuzzle? It had sent her mind reeling and she had stood there like an idiot, throwing empty threats at him. She hadn't liked being at his mercy, or anywhere near him for that matter. Luckily, Tumseneha had chosen that moment to attack. She never thought she would be glad to face the devil again.

But another devil of sorts faced her at the moment, and he still studied the menu. She recalled that little eye
dance between Winter and Tumseneha in the alley. Had they met before? And why had Tumseneha left as if he were afraid of Winter? It definitely raised more questions about Winter's real identity. She was glad she hadn't had to use her powers in front of him. She didn't trust him one bit.

She didn't trust anyone outside of her tribe, not at this critical time in her life. Too many uncertainties surrounded Special Agent Stephen Winter. But she would discover the truth soon enough—if he ever decided what he wanted to eat.

She tapped her foot on the floor and forced her gaze to the steaming coffeepot behind the counter. Other than a curt greeting, Winter hadn't said anything for a full ten minutes. She wasn't going to break the silence, but she was reacting to the jittery bounce of his right knee, the leg going up and down like a jackhammer. She felt the vibration of it hitting the center table leg. That leg had remained in perpetual motion since they sat down. What did he have to be uneasy about?

That nervous energy was catchy, too. She drummed her fingers faster on the table. And there was no escaping the heat emanating from his left knee, almost touching her own. The warmth of it seeped through her jeans, causing her skin to tingle.

He shifted, and the side of his right foot brushed one of her boots. She jerked her foot back and felt the button on his trench coat pressing intimately into her thigh. He'd laid his coat over her leather jacket on her side of the booth. One probing button down. With an irritated shove, she pushed both coats toward the wall. Jeez, was she losing her mind or was the booth shrinking? He was
such a big guy. His nearness dwarfed everything, touched her everywhere. She'd rather be sitting on the floor than across from him in this shrinking booth.

She straightened and forced her long legs back against the plastic seat. Thankfully, he didn't shift his legs. She listened to the sound of a fork scraping a plate as the minutes stretched between them.

It made her more anxious, and she finally asked, “Are you going to be here all morning reading the menu?”

He glanced up at her. “I know what I want.” His gaze slipped down to her neck, breasts, then shot up again. “Do you?”

He'd just checked her out. Fala met his gaze, even though her breathing grew shallow and her stomach felt like a fish flopped around inside it. A major complication she didn't want or need. She assumed a mask of indifference.

His guarded eyes probed her as if she were a package he was about to open.

Not if she could help it.

“I knew what I wanted the moment I sat down.” She stared back at him.

“You're very decisive.” His lips moved in the direction of a smile. Or was that irritation?

When she saw the tension leave his mouth, she was certain it was annoyance. He probably didn't know how to smile.

“Waiter.” He raised a long-fingered hand and motioned to their server.

Fala didn't know if he meant that as a compliment or an insult. His smooth tones gave nothing away.

He ordered eggs, bacon and coffee. She opted for a
wheat waffle with strawberries and cream, and coffee. When the waiter walked back behind the counter and slapped the ticket on a hook at the cook's station, Fala leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You got me here, so let's talk.”

“All right, what would you like…” His eyes shifted to the waiter as he set a carafe of coffee and two cups on the table. After the waiter left, Winter finished with, “…to ask me?”

“First of all, why did you bring me into this case?” Fala reached for the coffee and filled both cups.

“I didn't. I was following orders.”

Duh. Why was he toying with her? “Who are your superiors?” she asked, tightening her tone.

“I've never actually met them.” His dark brows arched slightly. “I receive my orders through email.”

“What agency do you work for?” Fala tasted the coffee, grimaced, and reached for the cream and sugar.

He stretched a hand toward the sugar at the same time. Their hands touched. Stung by his touch, she jerked back.

His lips hardened for a second as if he'd felt something, too. He recovered quickly and grabbed a sugar packet. “A branch of the State Department.”

“What branch?”

His brows knitted. “You ask a lot of questions. My turn.” Before she could protest, he asked, “Why weren't you afraid of the lycanthrope?”

Fala chose her words carefully. “You'll find, Winter, that I'm not afraid of much. In my line of work, I've seen a lot.”

“So you encounter werewolves on a daily basis?”

Yeah, and they take the form of tall, nosy and too-damn-handsome special agents. “Some,” she said.

“But they don't scare you.” He leaned in toward her.

“No.” She realized she had gravitated halfway across the table toward him, their noses almost touching. She backed off and noticed him looking at her chest. Yet it wasn't her breasts that had drawn his interest, but the impression the sacred charm made beneath her sweater.

She casually covered the spot with her palm and nonchalantly pushed an empty sugar wrapper around on the table. Her reaction registered in a long blink of his eyes, but his expression remained arctic.

His gaze shifted to the hand that covered the metal for a blink, then shot back up to her eyes. “But I scare you.”

Was she afraid of him? Damn straight, but he'd never know that. “I'm not frightened of anyone. My turn,” she said, shifting the conversation as adroitly as he had. “What division of the SD do you work for?”

“BOSP.”

“Never heard of it. What does that stand for?”

He lowered his voice and stared directly into her eyes as if he knew everything about her, even her bra size and how many pairs of thong underwear she possessed. “Bureau of Supernatural Phenomena,” he said.

“What? Supernatural Phenomena? If that's a joke, it's not funny.”

“I never joke about my work.” He looked lethally serious.

The government had a secret branch that dealt with supernatural occurrences? Never in a million years
would she have believed that Uncle Sam knew about the supernatural realm. But what about Area 51? And they funded studies on ESP. Why not have an agency that investigated supernatural incidents? What floored her was they'd actually kept it a secret.
So the X-files
do
exist.

“How many branches of the bureau are there?” she asked.

“I don't know. I run the one in Washington.”

He knew; he just wasn't saying. It occurred to her that he probably knew she was a shape-shifter, too. She swallowed past a growing lump in her throat. Suddenly the coffee in her empty stomach tasted sour.

She kept her voice level. “So why was BOSP interested in the park murder?”