Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

I’d also ended up tough, able to take care of myself and compartmentalize pain, which were exactly the skills I needed right now.

“Thanks George, Gerry, Greg, and Gene,” I muttered.

I’d often wondered if my mother had chosen names that began with G for sentimental reasons or because she hadn’t cared enough to be original. Unless she showed up one day, and I wasn’t holding my breath, I’d never know. My brothers had refused to speak of her, as had my father.

Had her desertion screwed me up? Sure. Whenever I cared about someone, I knew it was only a matter of time until they left. So far, no one had disappointed me.

I moved closer to the edge of the trees. Even though I was dizzy, my head ached, and I wasn’t sure just how “with it” I was, those trees were bugging me. They weren’t swaying with the wind, as I’d first thought, but shaking as if something was coming.

I drew my gun. Would I even be able to hit anything in my condition? Would a lead bullet do me any good tonight? Why hadn’t I given in to my own unease and started loading all my weapons with the specially made silver bullets I’d ordered last summer? I was the boss here. No one would say anything.

To my face.

I spread my feet, clasped the weapon with two hands, trying to steady it. Whatever was coming was big.

I heard again that weird rumble—not thunder, not drums, maybe the wind, I wasn’t sure. Then a shadowy figure appeared between the pines. Too tall to be a wolf, too thin to be a bear—my mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders or I’d have recognized a man even before he popped out of the forest and stopped dead, staring at my gun.

“Usually takes people a day or two before they want to shoot me,” he said.

His accent was odd—not Southern, not Northern, but something in between. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he was several inches taller than me, with wide shoulders tapering to a lanky build. His hair was long, dark, and as soaked as mine.

I tightened my fingers on the grip as the world wavered. “What... what are you—?”

I’d meant to ask what he was doing out in the rain, but suddenly everything shimmered, whirled, and my entire body jarred as my knees hit the pavement.

“Hey,” the guy said, hurrying forward. “You’re hurt.”

“What was your first clue?” I asked, and then I passed out again.

I wasn’t unconscious long, or at least I didn’t think so. The storm still raged; the stranger rested on his heels next to me. His fingers flitted over my face, my neck, then pressed just below my ear.

I slapped him. “Watch it.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He hesitated, as if he wasn’t quite sure I was kidding, or maybe he just didn’t find me funny. So few people did.

I still couldn’t see his face. The moon remained hidden by the clouds, and we were hell and gone from any streetlights. I lay on grass instead of pavement. The guy had had the good sense to drag me out of the road. If he’d wanted me dead, he could have left me there.

And why would he want me dead? As he’d said, it usually took people a few days to wish for that.

His hand fell away from my neck, and chilled from the deluge, I missed its warmth. Rain dripped from his head onto my own.

“You’ll live,” he said.

“Goody.”

He sat back on his heels. “What happened?”

“Idiot driving too fast. Came over the hill, skidded into me; then I hit that tree and kabam—air-bag face.”

He laughed, or maybe he coughed, I wasn’t sure which. “I don’t think you broke your nose, though you should probably have X-rays just to be sure.”

“Why? Can anything be done about a broken nose?”

“Depends how broken it is. You probably don’t want a permanent bump or a crook in the middle.”