Her happiness was chilled only by the idea of Crawl’s spirit endangering her, her mates, and their baby. How was it possible for the asshole to torment him after his own death?
“Babe, I’ll get the electricity working and bring up a batch of hot chocolate.” Roxie looked up at her husband. The idea of sipping hot chocolate while snuggled in this huge bed tempted her beyond reason. She grinned. “I think the baby wants marshmallows.”
“Then he—or she—shall have them.”
* * *
CRAWL THE DARKER followed Grant through the hall, down the stairs, and outside into the full fury of the storm. When the man reached the shed, the angry spirit entered with him. As the fool bumbled and cursed, the flashlight’s beam bouncing across the interior of the shed, Crawl searched for a way to stop him from returning to the house.
The big metal wrench gleamed like the Holy Grail.
I want it. I want it. I want it!
The wrench flew into the air.
Yes! Hit him! Hit him! Now!
If the darker had a mouth, it would’ve grinned with malice as the heavy tool slammed onto the alpha’s head. If it had a voice, it would’ve have laughed as the man slumped to the cold concrete floor. If it had legs, it would’ve danced on the still form, kicking and smashing and crushing.
Now, only one obstacle stood between him and Roxie. The darker turned to the house and swept toward it.
The darker floated in the third-floor hallway. It felt stronger, more in control, alive. Hurting Grant somehow helped make it that way. In the long mirror that hung in the hallway, it saw how it now formed a shadowy figure. Hands. It needed hands. Legs. Torso. Mouth. It felt lips and tongue and teeth. Every time it thought about what it wanted, what it needed, it got those things.
At the sound of the bedroom door creaking open, the darker ceased its attempts to create a solid shape and hid in the shadows.
It watched as Jack slowly shut the door behind him and walked toward the staircase.
Hovering above, it followed Jack’s progress. At the top of the second-floor, it watched the man take a step down on the top stair. It focused on his big bare feet.
Trip! Fall! Die!
Another step. And another.
Frustration welled in the darker. It focused on the feet again.
Trip! Fall! Die!
This time, it heard the crack of an ankle turned wrong, the surprised yelp of pain, and watched, gleeful, as Jack rolled down the rest of the stairs and thumped to a stop at the bottom, lying pale and still.
Trip. Fall. Die.
* * *
ROXIE FELT CHILLED. Candles had burned low. The storm still raged. Grant had not returned. Jack’s quick trip to the kitchen to get more candles had stretched into a half an hour. As a werewolf, he shouldn’t have any trouble maneuvering in the dark.
What was taking her men so long?
The candles blew out.
She knew, suddenly, that something malicious and evil was in the room with her.
She felt its gaze. She licked her dry lips and tried to calm her erratic heartbeat. Her first impulse was to run and hide, but she knew it was futile. What hunted her from the shadows would find her, no matter how fast she ran or how well she hid. She stared at the darkness, waiting.
It slithered into the rim of light provided by the dying candles. Human-like, but fuzzy, like a smeared pencil sketch, the only discernable feature was the red glow of its eyes.
“Roxie,” it lisped.
“Crawl, leave me alone!” She scooted backward until her back smacked against the huge wood headboard. Her heart pounded fiercely and she felt chilled to the bones. Her hands clenched the comforter and for a moment, she wished she could toss it over her head and make the Boogey Man disappear. Where were her mates?
Oh, my God. Had Crawl done something to the men she loved?
She shivered against the cold, against the nausea threatening. Her stomach churned, her mind wild with fright.
The thing that had once been Crawl swept toward her, a wave of black, a thick blanket of evil that brought with it the smell of sulfur, and the promise of retribution. Throwing the comforter at it, she was surprised to find it tangled in the coverlet.
Roxie wasted no time scrambling out of bed. “Jack! Grant!” She ran to the door and wrenched it open, but before she could step out into the hallway, the knob flew out of her hand, and the door banged shut.
She grabbed the handle and pulled, her palms aching from the effort. With the door shut and her husbands MIA, she had to get away. She had to defeat Crawl. She had a child to protect now.
Then she felt its hands on her, wrenching her away, spiraling her toward the French doors, pushing her onto the balcony, into the cold, slashing rain. She felt her backside hit the railing, and then Crawl’s inhuman fingers closed over her shoulders—and shoved.
* * *
WHEN JACK AWOKE, he found Grant and Lara leaning over him.
“You okay, man?”