Читать книгу Last Wolf Standing - Rhyannon Byrd, Rhyannon Byrd - Страница 7

Chapter 2

Clutching her book to her chest to keep it dry, Torrance Kimberly Watson all but stumbled into the softly lit, subtly incensed interior of Michaela’s Muse. Her heart pumped a chaotic beat, while her mind carried on a fierce debate with her grumbling libido—and despite her common sense, it looked as if her sex-deprived inner wild woman was winning.

“Like that should come as a shock,” she quietly snickered, groaning at her body’s continued reaction to the man she’d left behind in the restaurant. He was certainly a fine specimen of maleness, even if he had been off his rocker. “And not even those last few minutes of rain managed to cool you down, you slut,” she jokingly muttered under her breath, slipping out of her damp jacket and tossing it over her arm.

It was a depressing thought, but there was no denying that she’d been a long time without a boyfriend. Heck, she’d been a long time without a simple date. She was in her mid-twenties, meant to be living life to its fullest…and instead she’d practically become a nun. Not that a few short-lived relationships counted for much in the way of past experience, but then she knew she had high expectations when it came to that sort of thing. Expectations she doubted any man could ever meet.

No, Torrance understood the male species for what they were—and, more important, for what they weren’t. After dating one too many jerks who were as faithless as they were self-centered and shallow, she’d decided that being alone was better than being used—than settling for something she didn’t want—and she still stood by her decision. But, God, it wasn’t easy when dealing with the kind of temptation she’d had to endure today.

The guy at lunch had been like something out of her dreams. The really, really naughty ones, she thought with a small, crooked smile.

“Hey, Torry,” Michaela called out from the front of the store without looking up, absorbed in her current project.

“Oh, uh…hey, Mic,” she called back, suddenly realizing she’d been standing in the doorway, lost in her own little world. With a quick look around the store, Torrance saw that Mic had been busy digging into their latest delivery of new merchandise. A box containing paranormal titles and Tarot decks sat on the floor beside an ornate wooden bookshelf, while another that probably contained scented candles had been placed beside an antique display case.

Torrance had met Michaela Doucet five years ago, at a Tarot demonstration the Cajun was holding at a local bookstore, and they’d become instant, inseparable friends. Two years later, when Mic had opened the specialty shop, Torrance had been right by her side, and together they had made Michaela’s Muse an area favorite, with business growing every year.

She loved her job, and felt at home in the warm, soothing atmosphere, surrounded by friends who had become like family to her.

“Torry!” Michaela suddenly gasped in that slow Southern drawl of hers, making Torrance jump. She looked over to see Mic’s big, dark blue eyes blinking with surprise as she glanced up from the new Tarot decks she was organizing, getting her first good look at Torrance’s ruined shirt. “What happened? You look like you just came from an orgy with one of the undead!”

“Hah!” Torrance laughed out loud, causing Mic to give her a more critical look. “I told them you were going to say something like that when you saw my shirt,” she mumbled, feeling strange, as if her body were hot and cold all at once, her skin suddenly too tight for all the chaos going on inside of it. Man, that gorgeous freak-case at the café had really messed with her mind.

“And it wasn’t a what,” she added with a resigned sigh, suddenly giving a wry grin as she tossed her book and jacket on the beautiful bar that served as the store’s checkout counter, then stepped around its corner, moving to her customary place behind the gleaming antique. Knowing her tenacious best friend would pry the lunchtime fiasco out of her one way or another, the sanest course of action was to give in gracefully and save what little of her sanity she still had left. “It was a who.”

Michaela’s delicately sloped brows arched high on the smooth perfection of her brow as she moved around the display table draped with sapphire velvet. “Now that,” she mused, the black mass of her softly curling hair gleaming a deep, dark, midnight-blue, “sounds like something more than just another boring lunch at that corporate zombiefest you can’t get enough of.”

A steady drizzle of rain began pattering gently upon the roof as the latest storm moved overhead, its pattern soft and fleeting, like the featherlight dance of water fairies. Torrance normally found the sound of early-autumn showers soothing, but today the lilting chorus of raindrops only added to the prickling restlessness shivering beneath the surface of her skin. And it didn’t help that she was still reeling from the gorgeous stranger’s bizarre effect on her.

Hell, maybe she was coming down with something. Or maybe she was just so desperate for something more out of life, that she was becoming delusional. Had it gotten to the point where she was creating imaginary connections with mouthwatering hunks to make her feel less lonely? How…pathetic.

“Yoohoo, earth to Torry…” Michaela laughed, waving one slim palm in front of her face to get her attention.

“Oh, sorry. Um, I didn’t catch that last part.”

Mic gave her a quizzical look. “I just said that it sounds like you had an interesting lunch.”

“Yeah, it was interesting all right,” Torrance softly agreed.

Crossing her slim arms across her bountiful chest, Mic leaned one elbow against the edge of the intricately carved bar. The exquisite piece looked more like it belonged in a high-end antique shop, rather than a mystical haven for lovers of the paranormal. Like several of the store’s unusual antiques, the cherrywood bar had come from Mic’s grandmother’s mysterious Southern estate, buried somewhere deep in the bayou.

It was that bayou upbringing that had given Michaela her comfortable acceptance of the paranormal—an acceptance that Torrance envied. Truth be told, working at the shop had been a test of sorts for her, to see if she could get past her childhood phobias and embrace the paranormal community. And Torrance had done it, kind of like a person with a fear of sharks learning to enjoy the ocean. She loved her job, had a great rapport with their customers, and though it had taken some time, she’d eventually learned not to fear the unknown.

Well, most of the unknown. She still had a few phobias, brought on by her nightmares, but she was working to get over them. And Mic and her younger brother, Max, were helping.

“So what was he like?” the grinning brunette asked in a deliberately low whisper, probably meant to keep Max from overhearing.

A dreamy sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it, and Torrance suddenly heard herself saying, “Sex.”

Mic’s blue eyes went wide, and a throaty chuckle slipped smoothly past the Southerner’s rouged mouth. “That hot, huh?”

Torrance didn’t think her face could get any redder. Sex! Had she really just said that? Plopping down on her padded stool, she shook her head at the memory of the man who had turned her into a blathering idiot. Though she’d read the phrase a thousand times in romance novels, it had never actually happened to her—but he’d literally knocked her off her feet…and apparently knocked her brains out while he was at it. “Let’s just say that there should be a freaking law against men looking that good,” she groaned.

Mic’s mouth twisted into a sly smile. “Oh, honey, they can never look too good.”

“Well, he looked too good to me.” She sighed, remembering that dizzying moment of shock when their eyes had first connected. God, she was still feeling the vibrations from the jolt that had zapped her. Instant lust, something so warm and primitive, she’d barely been able to breathe through it. Heck, she could barely breathe now, just thinking about him. All she’d wanted was to slide up closer to him, then just a little closer, until they were pressed up against each other and she was surrounded by his animal heat—the dangerous, predatory wildness that had pulsed around him like a fiery glow while his deep, chocolate-brown gaze had promised things too tender and intimate to accept from any man, much less from a perfect stranger. Only…he hadn’t felt like a stranger, and that provocative combination of danger and shelter had been too devastating.

So devastating that it’d scared the hell out of her, sending her running faster than all that crazy talk of his could have ever done.

Michaela laughed softly into the charged silence. “That good, eh?”

Torrance nodded her head distractedly, then gave it a quick shake, determined to stop daydreaming about the tall, dark, wickedly handsome stranger. What had his friend called him? Mase? Mason? That was it! A strong, purely male name that fit him to perfection, just like those well-worn jeans that had so easily hugged his powerful thighs and the faded T-shirt deliciously molded to his muscular chest beneath the darker flannel.

Even his hair had been gorgeous. Not black, but a rich, lustrous brown with reddish streaks that turned auburn in the light. It had fallen somewhat shaggy around the strong, rugged angles of his arresting face, as if he didn’t get it cut often enough, but hadn’t decided to just let it grow. There was the slightest hint of a curl to it, the kind that meant you would snag your fingers a bit when you ran them through the silky mass. With a fierce compulsion, Torrance had wanted to bury her face in those windblown strands and breathe the scent of him into her lungs. It was hot and heady…and animallike. Full of mystery and the wild outdoors, natural and addictive.

Damn it, she was starting to drool just thinking about him, but then, she’d never been affected by a man like that before. In those first moments, she’d thought he was the most beautiful, mesmerizing thing she’d ever seen. Something hot and thick and deliciously wicked had passed between them—something Mic would have called a mystical connection—before his friend rained on the parade. She’d wanted to believe it’d been an accident, but something in his eyes had warned her that he wasn’t being totally honest about tripping her. Then he’d gone over the top, and she’d hightailed it outta there so fast she’d never even looked back.

Well, okay, so that wasn’t totally honest, either. On her way back to work, she’d argued with herself about her decision, uneasy over what felt uncomfortably like an irrevocable loss, as if she’d let something indelibly precious and infinitely significant just slip through her fingers. If things hadn’t gone so weird there at the end, she strongly suspected she would have followed the stud to the ends of the earth just to investigate that thing between them—to find out what it was really all about.

“Yeah, he was that good,” she finally said, “which means he was definitely too good to be true.”

Dropping her gaze to Torrance’s stained polo, Mic grinned. “So what happened?”

A soft laugh fell past her lips, surprising her, but then it had been funny as hell when the blond one had blurted it out. Well, maybe not funny at the time, but looking back on it, Torrance couldn’t help but see the humor in the situation. “He…uh, tripped me.”

Her best friend’s jaw dropped in shock. “He what?”

“He tripped me,” she explained with a shrug, knowing it sounded crazy. “I, uh, guess to get my attention.”

“Well, I’ve never heard that one before,” Mic admitted dryly, “but I’ll give him credit for an original approach.”

Feeling the raindrops beaded on her cheeks, Torrance swiped her cool hands over her face, pushing the wayward strands of damp hair back from her forehead. “I didn’t know he’d tripped me on purpose until his friend ratted him out. I thought I’d just been clumsy.”

“Some friend,” Mic snorted, raising her brows.

“Oh, you’d have liked him.” Torrance sent the other woman a teasing smile. “He was a total smart-ass.”

“Just my kind of guy,” the brunette drawled, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, I swear, Mic, I almost swallowed my tongue when I first set eyes on him. He was…”

Her voice trailed off, and Mic prompted her with an interested, “Yeah?”

She struggled to find the right word, but in the end there was only one that would do. “Beautiful,” she said simply.

“As sweet as that is, I need more info,” Mic complained with a throaty laugh. “Come on, Shakespeare, and describe him for me. I’ve got to have a mental picture.”

Torrance sent the grinning brunette her best “as if” look. “So you can try to make love dolls of us? Don’t think I’m not on to you, Doucet?” she snorted. “I saw you looking through those new voodoo books that came in last week.”

Michaela’s eyes went wide with a feigned look of innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that. I’m shocked you could even think it,” she muttered, just before she busted up giggling, and Torrance couldn’t help but join in with the Cajun’s infectious laughter.

“What’s all the giggling about?” a deep voice called out. “Did I miss something good?”

Both women looked over to see Max sticking his dark head around the corner of the employees’ door, his deep blue eyes dark and hazy, as if they’d disturbed one of his little catnaps. At nineteen, he was determined to pull his weight and help his sister get her fledgling business off the ground. Hurrying back to the shop after morning classes at the nearby community college, he managed the stockroom and updated the accounts in the afternoons, all before working the night shift as a security guard at the local hospital. Torrance got tired just thinking about the poor kid’s schedule.

“Hey, Max,” she called out over her shoulder, careful to keep her body turned to avoid another round of twenty questions about her clothing. Max took his man-of-the-shop duties seriously, treating Torrance with the same brotherly concern that he showed his sister. “Sorry we woke you up.”

“No big.” He smiled, running one hand through the rumpled black silk of his hair, his coloring nearly identical to his older sister. “I can catch up on my sleep later. One of the guards at the hospital needed to switch shifts with me, so I’ve got the night off.” He gave them a knowing look, his smile widening. “Guess I’ll let you two get back to your gossiping. Later.”

“Enjoy your night off,” she called back.

Mic waited the five seconds it would take Max to reach the back office, then leaned forward and whispered, “Now back to the gorgeous stud who swept you off your feet.” Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she waggled her brows. “Any plans for a hot date tonight?”

Knowing what was coming, Torrance shifted uneasily atop the stool. “Uh, no.”

The corners of Mic’s mouth turned down. “Why not? I know we have plans to catch that lecture at the museum later, but please tell me you didn’t let that stop you! I’ll wring your little redheaded neck if you told that guy no, Torrance! I swear on my…on my—”

Realizing this was only going to get worse, Torrance blurted out, “He never asked me out.”

Mic’s brows drew together, her gaze piercing. “Well, why not? And why didn’t you ask him out?” Tilting her head to the side, her stare took on that strange, unsettling quality that always gave Torrance the impression her closest friend was reading her mind—even though the Cajun claimed that wasn’t in the realm of her powers. “Exactly what happened, Torry?”

“Hey, I said he was gorgeous, not sane,” she mumbled, already feeling defensive.

Mic shook her head. “You didn’t even give him a chance, did you?” she groaned, her voice rough with frustration and disappointment. Unfortunately, Michaela knew all too well about her penchant for viewing men as fickle creatures; here today…gone tomorrow. It was a natural, knee-jerk reaction, after growing up with a mother who went through lovers like new outfits, always searching for one who would fit—the one who would finally stick around. Torrance had truly liked a few of them, wanting them to stay, though they never did. And some of them…some of them had simply scared the hell out of her. Her mother had died a few years ago in a car accident before ever finding a man who truly loved her, and Torrance had taken the lesson to heart.

“Give me a break, Mic. First his friend starts griping about him hitting on me, warning him about God only knows what, and then the guy starts giving me this crock about how it wasn’t safe there and I needed to leave with him! He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops,” she added roughly, hating that she could all too easily recognize the regret in her voice. He may have been one egg short of a dozen, but something about him had felt so uncomfortably…right.

“Damn it, Torrance,” Mic hissed, clearly upset. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Trying to dispel the burning image of his slow, sinful smile, that wicked look of interest that had all but smoldered in those chocolate-brown eyes, she moaned, “Not now, Mic. Please.”

“I hate to see you drying up and wasting away.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of wasting my time on relationships that are never going to go anywhere. Been there, done that,” she muttered, hopping off the stool to grab her backpack up off the floor. Picking up the book she’d tossed on the bar, she slipped it into the front pouch, ignoring the knowing stare being drilled into her back. She knew Michaela was trying to get a “read” on her emotions. It was a special talent the Cajun possessed but seldom used, since she considered it an invasion of personal privacy. “And you can stop with your mental snooping right now, Mic.”

“You do know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Torry? You’re going to end up missing out on the right one, because you’re like a little ostrich with your head stuck in the sand. Get up off your rump and get out in the world, chère. Because if you don’t, life is going to have passed you by and you won’t have a clue what happened to it.”

“And is that what you’re doing?” she demanded, crossing her arms across her soup-splattered chest as she turned back to Michaela. With one hand, she pushed her glasses up on her nose the way a bull might drag his front hooves through the dirt before a charge. “Not to be rude, Mic, but I don’t think your social calendar has been any more active than mine recently.”

“Our situations are different, Torry, and you know that.” The fire slowly faded from Michaela’s eyes, her expression all but closing in on itself. “I took a chance on love and it didn’t work out,” she said flatly, her voice unusually devoid of emotion. “I made a fool of myself, but at least I took the chance. At least I went for what I wanted…or looking back, what I thought I wanted.”

“I’m sorry.” Torrance sighed, feeling like crap for lashing out at her. “Now I feel like an ass.”

“Hey, you’re not an ass, you’re my best friend.” Despite her light tone, Mic’s small smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know I just want the best for you,” she confessed in a soft voice. “If you can find love, then maybe I’ll be able to find the courage to give a guy another chance.”

“You do know that Ross was an idiot, don’t you?” Torrance muttered, experiencing a familiar surge of rage at the thought of what the narcissistic jerk had put Michaela through. “A blind, stupid, raging idiot.”

“Of course I do.” Mic sent her a playful wink, but Torrance could tell that her friend was still suffering from the humiliating way things had worked out between her and the pretty-faced social climber.

“He’s not still calling you, is he?”

She curled her lip. “I keep telling him to leave me alone, only pretty boy can’t understand why I’m no longer interested. But enough about him.

“Since the storms will keep things slow in here this afternoon, why don’t you go on and head home so that you have time to shower and change,” Michaela said, changing the topic. “You are going to that lecture with me tonight, and while we’re there you’re going to tell me everything…everything…that happened today. There just might have been more there than you realize, Torry.”

Walking to the Tarot table, Michaela went back to work arranging the packs of cards along with a sparkling array of raw crystals, the shallow, rain-dappled light glinting softly against their uncut surfaces in a vivid display of color. “Jennifer is coming in at four for her shift, so I’ll be able to get out of here a little early,” she explained while Torrance rounded the bar, pulling her jacket on, then slinging her backpack over her right shoulder. “I’ll be by to pick you up at five.”

“Thanks, Mic,” she called back, heading out the front door, the tinkling of the door chimes following her out into the misty gray of the day. The rain had let up enough that it now resembled more of a refreshing mist, and Torrance set off down the street enjoying the cool, damp breeze against her face, the clean smell of the outdoors lingering beneath the more acrid scents of the city. She walked at a steady, energetic pace, her eyes taking in the beauty of the historical architecture in that part of town, the weathered, yet well-kept facades framed by towering willows and oaks, their ancient roots bulging beneath the sidewalk, as if seeking sunshine through the heavy, cracked concrete.

She used the time to clear her mind—or at least tried to— but two blocks into her four-block walk, it hit her. A strange, unsettling sense of not being alone, which was odd, seeing as how she wasn’t. In the garden ahead, an elderly woman in a sun hat knelt among an assortment of perennials, while on the other side of the street a young boy walked his beagle alongside his dad, both of them holding hands and smiling. The sun was beginning to peek briefly through the rain clouds, and up ahead a rainbow formed across the distant silver-blue of the sky, perfect and pristine in its beauty. And yet, something felt…not right. The feeling grew, oddly disturbing, and she nearly tripped on an uneven bit of sidewalk, even though she knew this path well enough to walk it in her sleep.

Clutching her backpack, Torrance sent a furtive look over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away, reminding her of the nightmares that she’d suffered from since childhood. Vivid, terrifying dreams in which monsters stalked her, their warm breath on the back of her neck…before they caught her. The familiar feelings of helplessness, of vulnerability, coated her skin, sinking in through her pores until she felt steeped in them. By the time she reached her apartment building, her lungs hurt from holding her breath and her pulse beat out a hammering tempo that nearly jarred her brain. Moving quickly, she used her key to open her front door. Once inside her apartment, she immediately slid the chain into place.

Leaning her forehead against the cool wood, Torrance let her backpack slip off her shoulder, all the while struggling to get her lungs working properly again. Straightening up, she turned and looked carefully at her living room, seeking comfort in its soothing atmosphere. Mic had helped her to create the perfect ambience, a relaxing blend of bold wood and soft, inviting fabrics, with an old Persian rug covering the dark hardwood floors and scented candles on nearly every surface. Bookshelves lined the walls, while jewel-colored throw pillows covered the oversize love seat and matching chair. Hidden in an oriental-looking cabinet was a small TV set, which she used to indulge her weakness for all the CSI shows as well as Letterman, while a low table under the window held her speaker system for her iPod and her new laptop.

This was her space, her little getaway, her private corner of the world, and Torrance took a deep breath through her nose…waiting for the panic to ease. She counted the seconds off slowly, willing that feeling of safety that she always found here to come. But there was nothing. Nothing but that bitter lump of fear sitting in the back of her throat, churning her stomach into a knot.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, straightening her spine. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let her overactive imagination spook her out of her own apartment! Marching like a zealous militant, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, and then crossed back through the living room to the single bedroom. Her slightly slanted blinds allowed a narrow glance at the now swollen sky, a sharp crack of resonating thunder heralding the arrival of another storm. Ah, she’d made it just in time, she thought, forcing a small smile.

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.”