Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (78 page)

-Ann Charles,

Award-Winning Author of the Deadwood Mystery Series

Soul Search

By

Amber Scott

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~~~

“
Every wolf’s and lion's
howl,

Raises from Hell a human soul.”

—
William Blake

Chapter One

Spring 1930

A small, wet nose snuffled Grant Connel's cheek. Awareness seeped into his mind. What in the world was that awful stink? Sour milk and sulfur. Rotting food insulted his nose. He struggled through a thick blackness pulling him back under. Where was he? There it was again. That wet sniff, sniff. He forced one eye open. The blurry outline of a white, furry face filled his vision. He shut his eye against it.

No. This wasn’t right. He pushed away from the welcome darkness. Something urgent propelled him to ignore its solace. Panic tickled through his veins. What had happened to him? He forced both eyes open. The furry muzzle licking his face. Past the fur, brick wall, stacked crates. Trash.

Oh, no.

Not again.

Heat flashed over his neck, at odds with the cold, damp air fingering over his skin, making him realize he was naked. Why? Somewhere in the cloudy depths of his mind, he knew the answer. Grant shifted. Pain streaked up his arms. He swallowed, throat dry. Sore. Hadn’t he secured the window, blocked the door with the bureau? Then what? He’d escaped. How? The blackness beckoned. Sweet, dark oblivion.

No.
He couldn’t. Something in the edges of his mind forced both eyes open, forced him to face whatever mess last night’s blackout brought him. Logic insisted that lying naked in a nest of refuse in broad daylight was plenty to inspire a little worry.

But this went beyond that.

Several blinks helped right his vision, but pain stabbed through his temples. The white face proved to be a little poodle’s. She looked to belong here as much as he did, from her studded pink collar to her smart ball-shaped ear tufts. She sat primly staring at him, tongue lolling happily. Grant moved to a sitting position, peeling slimy lettuce off his forearm. “Vintage 1929” showed stamped on the crates. The smell of it all gagged him—his bed.

How in the world had he escaped? Where in the hell was he?

Boston? London?

Foot traffic passed a few yards down. Situated as he was in the narrow passage between buildings, no attention turned his way, though. Thank God. Cobblestones, carriages. A motorcar. Had to be London. Spotting six feet of naked male would certainly draw attention, no matter how rough a neighborhood he’d stalked into in the wee hours last night.

Rough would be better, actually.

A rough neighborhood might not be all that shocked over a naked man passed out in an alley. This dog was no ruffian stray, though. Not good. The world tipped along with his stomach. He palmed his throbbing forehead and focused on moving as slowly as possible. Blood scabbed over his stiff fingers. He struggled to recall something, anything, that would tell him where he’d gone, what he’d done.

Not again
.

Fast on the heels of the last blackout, too. Only days between, rather than weeks. The poodle wanted to sit on his lap. Its little claws poked his sore skin, but he couldn’t stop her. Not after looking into those watery eyes. Dogs didn’t cry. He knew that, yet the browned edges of her eyes made him think she had been, and his heart tugged in response. It wasn’t her fault. Shedding all that hair—he glanced around his trash nest. Where was all the shed hair? A bit here and there. Not much, though. Not enough to allow him to think he’d become human here.

He’d already run the streets as six feet of naked male? Think. He had to think straight. Each change tempted death. He lost all identity, all memory. He hunted. He stalked. Eventually, he’d end up shot. Grant counted the days. Eleven, since the last?

And how many lost to the dark? Days? Hours?

Bad. Very bad. He didn’t want to know. This had to stop. He had to find a way. The poodle scooted off and nosed the crook of his knee, setting its paw on top of it. Better hurry, she seemed to say. Time to go. Grant breathed out. His chest ached with the effort. New urgency to leave filled him, too, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Not yet.

He reached out and patted the small head. He spread his fingers, wincing. Dried blood stained his arm and palm. Both arms. His own blood? Or someone else’s? A fight or a kill? Not as much blood as Boston, but far more than others, though.

Hurry.

The poodle sidestepped closer, her little stump wagging. She settled next to him, leaning her head onto his thigh. The tag attached to her collar read, “Duchesse.” Maybe the dog knew what had happened last night. “Where’s your master, Duchesse?”

She blinked, stump thumping.

Police, pedestrians. At any moment, someone would see him. How far could he run in this state? “Any ideas on how the hell I can get out of here without an angry mob chasing me down?”

She huffed a breath out her nose.

“
Neither can I.”

A church bell rang in the distance. No time to sit around waiting. He looked up and down the alley, racking his foggy brain for some semblance of a strategy. The seconds ticked by.

Dong. Dong
.

Not a church bell. A clock tower. Gonging. Urging him to get moving, to get out of this alley. Every minute he stayed was a gamble. Duchesse fidgeted, leaning on his leg, staring at him. He patted her side. Her little heart thumped so hard he could feel it. His own pulse slammed, too.

“
Shh. We’ll figure a way out, girl. Don’t worry.” He scanned the alley again. Not a clothesline in sight. The
clop
of hooves on stone mingled with shouts. Morning merchants touted their wares. Grant pushed through the refuse in search of something to cover his crotch. Empty merlot bottles. A potato sack.

Dong
.

Movement to the left caught his breath. He peered up the alley. A foot. Or rather, a shoe. He watched it intently for movement. Duchesse tried to climb back onto his lap, her claws scratching his naked crotch. She pawed his chest. Hurry!

How many
chimes
had there been? Nine? Ten?

There! The shoe moved again. It belonged to a foot, which meant someone else was sleeping off last night’s debauchery. Oh, how he wished a few too many brandies had not put him here now. He should be an expert at rescuing himself by now. Yet pain and fatigue immobilized him.

Grant shot a glance at the street, wiping at his cold nose. He looked back to the foot. Potato sack it was, then. Though silent, that clock still rang in his brain. Time. Time. Hurry up. Get out of here. He forced his body to stand. The sack hardly covered his pelvis.

A rear door popped open.
“Très bien! Je vais être droit il y a,”
a woman yelled.

Son of a bitch. Grant hunkered back down. The crates only hid so much of his long limbs though. The door banged loudly. Duchesse yipped. He held his breath, readying for a telltale scream, a shout of alarm.

No shout. Only alarm. Not London? His muscles bunched. Paris, maybe? Would he have to run? Face an arrest? Oh, his sister would be just thrilled over that. Another scandal, thanks to Grant’s recklessness. She’d worry he’d changed. He strained to hear footsteps coming his way.

“
Ce que nous faisons ici? Faim, ami?”
the woman cooed.

Duchesse trotted away.

His sister. He had to make sure she never found out. Wait. Was he supposed to be somewhere? Aside from the home, locked in, tied to the bedposts? His temples stabbed. Duchesse yipped in the distance. But no footsteps.
Get up!

He moved to stand. The distinct sound of a match hitting stone stopped him cold.

Silence.

Now or never. He pushed himself upward. His entire body shot with pain. Every muscle cramped. Ones he didn’t know he had, strained. His gaze darted about. Clothes. Shoe meant clothes. Potato sack clutched, he treaded toward that shoe. The scent of cheroot cigarettes met his nose. Grant craned his neck around. A stream of smoke wafted from a doorway up ahead. His panic notched back up again. A delicate bare shoulder came into view.

He looked from the shoe, to the shoulder, to the shoe. Duchesse sat near the doorway, panting. He treaded closer. His mind swam with possible outcomes: The dog barking. The woman dropping her cigarette and screeching in terror. He, running like mad, diving into trash bins in search of more sacks to use as covering. Police. Whistles blowing. Even at a healthy run, he’d never make it far naked.

Grant’s stomach pitched. His skin flashed with heat, a new layer of sweat followed. He forced himself to be calm. He nudged the vagrant with one foot. No time for asking. The vagrant didn’t move. Wriggle by wriggle, he robbed the man of his clothes and, one eye on the smoky doorway, shoved the coarse jacket on.

He couldn’t even guess where he was, let alone his apartment’s location, in relation to here. At least clothed, he’d get to his apartment for a change of clothes. He ran a hand over his head. His scalp ached, the only part of him that didn’t need to shed the pelt he’d worn for hours.

Not days. Please let it not be days.

Days gone. Beatrice finding her brother once again missing, worrying, and fearing the worst. He’d given her plenty of reason to fear the worst, although he long ago vowed he would never return to his old ways. His old ways had cost him—her—far too much.

Beatrice...his mind grew murky trying to circle her name.

He heard a gasp. Grant’s head snapped to the doorway not ten feet away. The woman stood, cigarette frozen in midair, gaping at him.

Now
. His gut screamed at him to move. Fast. The woman shot one eyebrow up and crooked her lips.
“Je crois que je préfère vous nue, beau.”

Prickles raced over Grant’s bare thighs.
Run!
NO. He needed the pants. The poodle leapt at the woman, distracting her. Sparing time enough to ease the man onto his back, Grant yanked the man’s pants off. He averted his gaze from the man’s total lack of underclothes and apparent immunity to cold morning air.

“
Quel est votre pressé?”

He had no idea what she asked. None. Didn’t want to know. Only to leave. He could blame being pranked on by friends, but he doubted she’d understand. Plus, he didn’t speak a lick of French. Grant skipped the shoes and sent her a weak smile before turning for the street. The woman called out something indiscernible, but loud, at a pitch that needed no translation.

Duchesse barked close at his heels. Grant rushed toward the street. So close to escaping. The woman shouted. He rounded the corner and forced his bare feet to move faster. He could blend in. He adjusted the jacket. He had to blend in. A spot of white fluff made his heart stop. “No, darling. Go back now.”

She ignored him, weaving through pedestrians. He turned down a street, hoping to lose her. She’d draw attention. She followed. Was that another shout? Police? What was the word in French?

He risked a glance around. No one was running. His body relaxed a degree. Duchesse barked. “Where is your home, girl? Someone misses you. I appreciate what you did for me back there. A very smart distraction. But, you have to go home now.”

She only blinked and leapt at him. He hated letting her stumble back down like that, but what could he do with her? He couldn’t manage his own life, let alone a pup’s. He felt like he’d crawled out of hell itself, but he’d get to his apartment. He’d bathe and change his clothes, and possibly even discover how he’d escaped at all. Memory filled in details. He had a small apartment in Pigalle. Paris. Definitely Paris. For weeks now. How many he couldn’t recall yet, but it was coming back.

He looked around again. No one followed. Nobody chased after him. What was this urgency nagging him? Remnants of the blackout? His mind tried to sharpen the vague edges. The ache in his gut should be gone.

The poodle ran alongside him. He couldn’t let her follow him home. It wasn’t right. The thought of her getting hurt because of him—he couldn’t stomach it. “Off with you now,” he said, shooing her with his hands. She only barked, clearly loving the game.