* * *
It was nearly ten thirty when he unlocked his hotel room and stepped inside. He dropped his shoes and stripped naked and climbed into bed without even bothering to turn on the lights.
He’d cracked one of the windows before leaving for dinner, and he could feel a thin, cool draft breezing across his chest, driving out the day’s stuffy accumulation of heat.
Within a minute, he was cold.
He sat up, turned back the covers and the sheet, and crawled under.
* * *
Fighting for his life, losing, the creature on top of him frenzied as it tried to tear his throat out, the only thing keeping Ethan alive the crushing grip he had around the monster’s neck—squeezing, squeezing—but the thing had pure, brute strength. He could feel the hard ripples of muscle as his fingers dug into the milky, translucent skin. But he wasn’t stopping it, his triceps beginning to cramp and his arms bending back as the face, the teeth, inched closer...
* * *
Ethan bolted up in bed, dripping with sweat, gasping for breath, his heart racing so fast it was less like beating than a steady shuddering in his chest.
He had no concept of where he was until he saw the painting of the cowboys and the campfire.
The alarm clock on the bedside table changed to 3:17.
He turned on the light, stared at the phone.
Two...zero...six...
Two...zero...six...
How could he not remember his home landline? Or even Theresa’s cell? How was that possible?
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and walked over to the window.
Split the blinds, looked down at the quiet street below.
Dark buildings.
Empty sidewalks.
Thinking, Tomorrow will be better.
He’d get his phone back, his wallet, his gun, his briefcase. Call his wife, his son. Call Seattle and talk with SAC Hassler. Get back to the investigation that had brought him here in the first place.