Hidden Moon (Nightcreature 7)

The sun slipped below the horizon with a near-audible sigh, spreading the grayish haze of early evening over my world.

A pebble tumbled down an incline to my right. My gaze jerked in that direction, and a shadow flitted between the tree trunks. I hesitated, glancing at town hall, which was now farther away than my front door.

Determined, I faced forward and kept walking.

I'd been traveling this path twice a day for nearly three weeks, and I'd never been nervous about it. Of course I'd never felt the presence of anything out there until tonight.

Something howled, the sound sharp and unfamiliar. I'd heard a thousand coyotes in my lifetime, and none of them had ever sounded like that.

"Has to be a coyote," I murmured. Despite the acres of space and the plethora of trees, there hadn't been a wolf in these mountains for a very long time.

The shrill, mournful sound died away. I waited for an answer, but none came.

Strange. When I was a kid and the coyotes howled, there'd always been more than one.

A scritch against the pavement, and I whirled, a scream rising in my throat at the sight of a man only inches away.

"Balthazar. " My breath rushed out. "What are you doing here?"

He crowded into my space; he always did. I'd never been certain if he was a close talker or just a jerk who used his size to intimidate.

The man had to be six-five and weigh 270. His barrel chest spread in front of my eyes, covered with a black dress shirt. Several equally black chest hairs poked out between the straining buttons. Balthazar was not only big but extremely hairy.

I inched back, peering up into his large, flaring, also hairy nostrils. The streetlights came on with a tinny thunk, and their reflection gave his brown eyes a golden glow.

He smirked, and I knew in that instant he'd meant to scare me, probably been waiting in the trees for hours until I went home. I'd tried to keep my fear of men hidden, but in the way of wild animals Balthazar had sensed a weakness and exploited it.

"I wanted to get some information on the squatters at the lake. "

I scowled. How had he found out so fast?

Just as he'd sensed my weakness, he seemed to sense my question, and answered it in a flat Yankee accent that grated on my nerves more than the mysterious howl had.

"One of my reporters saw you and the chief head thataway. " He pointed toward the lake.

Being an equal-opportunity bigot - a racist and a sexist, as well as plenty of other "ists" I hadn't figured out yet - Balthazar had as much use for Grace as he had for me. He constantly referred to her as the police chief, as if the play on words were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. The guy needed to get out more. Way out. Like out of town.

"You were in such a hurry," Balthazar continued, "he decided to follow. "

Sometimes Balthazar's reporters seemed more like spies.

"Imagine his surprise," Balthazar continued, "to find Gypsies. "

"Imagine mine," I muttered.

His smile deepened, and I wanted to bite my tongue. I could easily see those words as tomorrow's headline.

"The caravan is the entertainment for the festival," I said. "If you want more info, talk to Joyce. "

"I'd rather talk to you. "

My teeth ground together, making an audible crunch in the suddenly silent night. What had happened to the. . . whatever had been howling?

I forced my attention back to the problem at hand. "They do old-time Gypsy entertainment - fortune-telling, that kind of stuff. "

"If they're just the entertainment, then why did you and the redskin rush out there in the middle of a workday?"

I winced at the term but didn't bother to correct him. Grace was going to kick his ass one day, and I was going to watch, maybe help. It had been a long time since we'd done anything fun together.