Night Falls on the Wicked

TWO

Niklas pulled up in front of the small B&B, the only lodging available in the small town where he’d tracked his prey.

He grimaced at the two-story, whitewashed house with its picket fence. In bigger cities he had the benefit of anonymity. By the end of the night everyone would know about the lone man in their midst. There would be stares, prying questions—none of which he would answer. Even if he did, no one would believe him.

At least the house sat directly on Main Street, where he could see most everything going on in the town. With this heartening thought, he stepped out of the vehicle and sucked in a bracing breath at the sudden cold, unexpected even though he’d been chasing his quarry through Canada for the last two months now.

The air cut into him and he shivered and burrowed deeper into his coat and wondered why the bastards had to pick the Great White North as their newest area to terrorize. He inhaled deeply, sniffing the air, searching for any lingering scent of them, hoping they were still here. His skin prickled and tightened in that familiar way that told him they were here. Close.

He stared down the two-lane street. A truck approached, driving slowly through the curling white air that seemed to float everywhere. A big, thick-furred dog hopped around the back, jumping madly on his paws. His shiny dark eyes rolled wildly as he barked fiercely at Niklas. The driver yelled back for him to shut up, but the dog couldn’t silence himself.

Niklas stared impassively as the truck drove by, bearing the dog away. The dog knew. Sensed what Niklas was. Or rather what he wasn’t.

Opening the back door, he grabbed his gear from the back—three black duffel bags. Everything he would need to continue his hunt. Infrared goggles, winter camo, guns, knives, vials of silver nitrate, maps of the surrounding area. If it could be of use, he had it.

After checking in and avoiding the nosy clerk’s questions, he grabbed the local newspaper on the counter before tromping up the narrow stairs to his room.

He passed a maid carrying towels on the stairs. She moved to the side for him to pass, her wide eyes devouring him. He was instantly aware of her increased heart rate and the spike in her body temperature.

“Hi,” she said, her voice breathy. Her gaze slid over his tall form, licked him up and down like she’d never seen a tastier treat.

He nodded once in greeting.

As he brushed past her, he felt her body tremor with excitement. She pushed up off the wall. “I’m Holly,” she blurted after him. “If you need anything, just call down to the front and ask for me.”

Her need filled his nostrils, a heady thing that could overtake him if he let it. Fortunately, he’d mastered control, well aware that it wasn’t actually him, not the real him that drew her. Sure, he was better than average, he guessed, but looks alone couldn’t get him laid within five seconds flat of meeting a woman. It was something more. She was responding to that part of him that he loathed. The magnetism that belonged to the beast.

Years of living this way—simply being what he was—had taught him to cope with moments like this. Even though instinct urged him to take her, seize her and what she offered him like a rutting beast, he was able to ignore the hunger as it flared to life, recognizing it for the meaningless desire it was.

The beast within him was all about primal urges. F*cking was a part of that. He didn’t resist it all the time. Sometimes he answered the call, but he wasn’t like the others, his brethren, insatiable beasts that never resisted an urge. Not to f*ck. Not to kill and feed.

He opened the door to his room, not bothering to look back and see if the maid still stood there. He could feel her. He knew she watched him.

Shutting the door behind him, he dropped his gear and moved to the room’s sole window. He’d requested a view of the street. If they were out there, stalking the town’s residents, it increased his odds of spotting them.

He looked down at the newspaper still clutched in his hand. The headline stood out boldly in black, block letters: Wolf Threat Still Unresolved!

He snorted.

And it likely wouldn’t be resolved. Not unless he resolved it. Or they gave him the slip and moved on to new hunting grounds. Again.

He curled the newspaper in his hand until it crumpled. Not again. He wouldn’t lose them again. This was it. He finally had them. Cyprian would be his.

Across the street a figure walked, bent slightly forward as though fighting the wind. Despite the bulky jacket, he marked her as female. His gaze moved away from her, scanning up and down the street, but then his gaze drifted back to her again. Something drew his eye. She wasn’t what he hunted, so he wasn’t sure what it was about her that snared his attention.

He could make nothing of her face set within the dark blue hood of her parka, but his skin tightened as he followed her progress down the sidewalk.

He studied her closely, eyeing the slim length of her legs in her fitted black pants. They were nice. Long and shapely. It was probably just that. He needed a woman. He thought back, trying to recall the last time he’d had sex. Maybe he should call down for Holly after all.

He moved from the window and went back to his bags, organizing his gear with new determination for the night’s hunt. He couldn’t distract himself this close to his goal—this close to capturing the lycan who’d infected him and robbed him of his mother, damning her soul and sentencing him to an empty life, forever trapped between two worlds. Forever alone.