Of course, the key refused to turn, while the cold both numbed and hurt her glove less fingers. She tried the passenger door lock without success, then walked gingerly around to the rear cargo door. No luck there either. She’d have to call a tow—
Except that her cell phone was on the front seat of her truck.
Certain that things couldn’t get any worse, she tested each door again. Maybe one of the locks would loosen if she kept trying. If not, she’d probably have to walk all the way home, and wasn’t that a cheery prospect?
Suddenly a furtive movement teased at her peripheral vision. Zoey straightened slowly and studied her surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. The streetlights were very far apart, just glowing pools of pale gold that punctuated the darkness rather than alleviating it. Few downtown businesses bothered to leave lights on overnight. The whispery hiss of the freezing rain was all she could hear.
A normal person would simply chalk it up to imagination, but she’d been forced to toss normal out the window at an early age. Her mother, aunts, and grandmother were all powerful psychics—and the gene had been passed down to Zoey. Or at least a watered-down version of it. The talent was reliable enough when it worked, but it seemed to come and go as it pleased. Like right now. Zoey tried hard to focus yet sensed absolutely nothing. It was her own fault perhaps for trying to rid herself of the inconvenient ability.
No extrasensory power was needed, however, to see something large and black glide silently from one shadow to another near the building she’d just left. What the hell was that? There was nowhere to go for help. The only two bars in town would still be open, but they were several blocks away, as was the detachment headquarters for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. There was a run-down trailer park a block and a half from the far side of the arena, but Zoey knew there were no streetlights anywhere along that route.
A dog? Maybe it’s just a big dog, she thought. A really big dog or a runaway cow. After all, this was a rural community. And a northern rural community at that, so maybe it’s just a local moose, ha, ha. . . . She struggled to keep her fear at bay and redoubled her efforts on the dr locks, all the while straining to listen over the sound of her own harsh breathing.
The rear door lock was just beginning to show promise when a low, rumbling growl caused her to drop her keys. She spun to see a monstrous shape emerge from the shadows, stiff-legged and head lowered.
A wolf? It was bigger than any damn wolf had a right to be. Jesus. Some primal instinct warned her not to run and not to scream, that the animal would be on her instantly if she did so.
She backed away slowly, trying not to slip, trying to put the truck between herself and the creature. Its eyes glowed green like something out of a horror flick, but this was no movie. Snarling black lips pulled back to expose gleaming ivory teeth. The grizzled gray fur around its neck was bristling. Zoey was minutely aware that the hair on the back of her own neck was standing on end. Her breath came in short shuddering gasps as she blindly felt for the truck behind her with her hands, sliding her feet carefully without lifting them from the pavement.
She made it around the corner of the Bronco. As soon as she was out of the wolf’s line of sight, she turned and half skated, half ran for the front of the truck as fast as the glassy pavement would allow. Don’t fall, don’t fall! It was a litany in her brain as she scrambled up the slippery front bumper onto the icy hood. With no hope of outrunning the creature and no safe place in sight, the roof of the truck seemed like her best bet—if she could make it. Don’t fall, don’t fall! Flailing for a handhold, she seized an ice-crusted windshield wiper, only to have the metal frame snap off in her hand. She screamed as she slid back a few inches.
The wolf sprang at once. It scrabbled and clawed, unable to find a purchase on the ice-coated metal. Foam from its snapping jaws sprayed over her as the beast roared its frustration. Finally it slipped back to the ground and began to pace around the truck.
Zoey managed to shimmy up the hood until she was able to put her back against the windshield, and pulled her knees up to her chin. She risked a glance at the roof behind her—she had to get higher. Before she could move, however, the wolf attacked again, scrambling its way up the front bumper. Vicious jaws slashed at her. Without thought, Zoey kicked out at the wolf, knocking one leg out from under it. It slid backward but not before it clamped its teeth on her calf. The enormous weight of the creature dragged at her and she felt herself starting to slide. . . .
One hand still clutched the broken windshield wiper and she used it, whipping the creature’s face and muzzle with the frozen blade until she landed a slice across one ungodly glowing eye. The rage-filled snarl became a strangled yelp; the wolf released her leg and slipped from the hood. This time Zoey didn’t look, just turned and launched herself upward for the roof rack. She came down hard, adrenaline keeping her from feeling the impact of the bruising metal rails. She was conscious only of the desperate need to claw and grasp and cling and pull until she was safely on the very top of the vehicle.
Except she wasn’t safe. Not by a long shot. Crap. She could plainly see that she wasn’t high enough. Crap, crap, crap. The enraged wolf leapt upward in spite of the fact that its feet could find little traction on the ice-coated pavement. What it couldn’t gain in momentum, the wolf made up for in effort, hurling itself repeatedly against the Bronco. Its snapping jaws came so close that Zoey could see the bleeding welts across its face, see that one of its hellish eyes was now clouded and half-closed. She slashed at it again, catching its tender nose so it howled n frustration and pain as it dropped to the ground. Snarling, it paced back and forth like a caged lion, watching her. Waiting.
The wind picked up and the freezing rain intensified. Huddled on her knees in the exact center of the icy roof, Zoey’s adrenaline began to ebb. She was cold and exhausted, and parts of her were numb. But she wasn’t helpless ; she wouldn’t allow herself to think that way. The thin windshield wiper was badly bent with pieces of it missing, but she’d damn well punch the wolf in the nose with her bare fist if she had to. If she still could. . . .
The wolf sprang again.
Try THE DARKEST SIN by Caroline Richards,
out this month from Brava!
Rowena Woolcott was cold, so very cold.
She dreamed that she was on her horse, flying through the countryside at Montfort, a heavy rain drenching them both to the skin, hooves and mud sailing through the sodden air. Then a sudden stop, Dragon rearing in fright, before a darkness so complete that Rowena knew she had died.
When she awakened, it was to the sound of an anvil echoing in her head and the feeling of bitter fluid sliding down her throat. She kept her eyes closed, shutting out the daggered words in the background.
“Faron will not rest—”
“The Woolcott women—”
“One of his many peculiar fixations . . . they are to suffer . . . and then they are to die.”
“Meredith Woolcott believed she could hide forever.”
Phrases, lightly accented in French, drifted in and out of Rowena’s head, at one moment near and the next far away. Time merged and coalesced, a series of bright lights followed by darkness, then the sharp retort of a pistol shot. And her sister’s voice, calling out to her.
The cold permeated her limbs, pulling down her heavy skirts into watery depths. She tried to swim but her arms and legs would not obey, despite the fact that she had learned as a child in the frigid lake at Montfort. She did not sink like a stone, weighted by her corset and shift and riding boots, because it seemed as though strong hands found her and held her aloft, easing her head above the current tried to force water down her throat and into her lungs.
She dreamed of those hands, sliding her into dry, crisp sheets, enveloping her in a seductive combination of softness and strength. She tossed and turned, a fever chafing her blood, her thoughts a jumble of puzzle pieces vying for attention.
Drifting into the fog, she imagined that she heard steps, the door to a room opening, then the warmth of a body shifting beneath the sheets. She felt the heat, his heat, like a cauldron, a furnace toward which she turned her cold flesh. Her womb was heavy and her breasts ached as he slid into her slowly, infinitely slowly, the hugeness of him filling the void that was her center.