Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“Come with me.”

I considered it. I’d be good at chasing monsters. I’d save more people helping Ian than I did protecting Lake Bluff from the tourists—although there’d been more than tourists here lately. Still—

“I can’t.”

He kissed the inside of my wrist. “Lake Bluff is where you belong. It’s where I belong now, too. Even if we hadn’t found each other ...” His voice trailed off, and he stared out the window at the distant hills of blue. “I’d come back here just for them.”

I linked my fingers with his. I hadn’t known him long, but the bonds we shared—the mountains, our heritage, what we knew about the world that so few others did—gave us a history that went much deeper than mere days.

“When you say you want a home, does that include a family?”

“Don’t they go together?”

“Not for everyone.”

“For me and for you, too. The way you look at Noah, Grace—” He smiled, and everything I wanted was in his eyes. “I never thought I’d be able to love again. I couldn’t take the chance that I’d get someone else killed. But tonight—you were unbelievable—your power, your strength, your courage. I know you’ll be safe, and our children, too, because of who you are and what you can do.”

Later, much later, when we were all wrapped up together on his bed, I thought to ask, “Who’s missing?”

“The Jäger-Suchers.”

I remembered Elise’s phone ringing and ringing and felt a trickle of dread. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

“So are werewolves, vampires, and witches.”

“Very funny.” Except I didn’t feel at all like laughing. Without the Jäger-Suchers to keep the call of the monsters down to a dull roar, the human race was in big trouble.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Search for them, and take up the slack.”

“You’re going to be gone for a while.”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” I kissed him. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Epilogue

From The National Enquirer

Werewolves Attack Small Town in Northern Maine

Under siege during a terrible blizzard, the residents of Harper’s Landing watched their numbers dwindle as the number of werewolves increased.

They were saved when an old man with a heavy German accent walked out of the storm carrying guns and silver ammunition. Within days, every werewolf was dead, and the old gentleman disappeared as mysteriously as he’d arrived.

“Edward,” I murmured. I knew he was too tough to die.

I read a lot of stories like those over the next few years. The Jäger-Suchers had gone into hiding, popping up here and there, usually in the annals of magazines and newspapers catering to the bizarre. Sometimes I recognized Edward’s signature. Sometimes the stories mentioned a gorgeous blonde or a shaggy white wolf and I knew Elise was still alive, too. Other tales told of people I didn’t know, but I could recognize the handiwork of a Jäger-Sucher anywhere. When there were a lot of ashes left behind, it was kind of obvious.

No one ever got close enough to them to find out just what in hell was going on, why they’d disappeared, how they’d managed to continue their work, but they did.

And because of the Jäger-Suchers, the human race not only survived; we thrived.