Frostbitten (4 page)

The authorities were blaming a single man-eating wolf. At the site of both killings, they’d found the tracks of a huge canine. Werewolves change into very large wolves, retaining their body mass. And outside the Pack, most are loners.

Still, that didn’t mean it
was
a werewolf. It just bore looking into, as long as we were going to Alaska for other reasons.

By the time I finished my explanation, dinner was served. Given the hour, most passengers stuck to drinks and peanuts, but no werewolf turned down food, however strange the time. While we ate, Clay talked about the symposium. Then I gave him another update—this one on Reese Williams.

Again, our conversation might sound odd to anyone listening, but as long as we didn’t mention the W word, they’d fluff off my talk of fights and chases as a movie plot discussion. Most people were asleep anyway, as was I after dinner and a glass of wine.

While I napped, Clay read the Alaskan tourism information I’d downloaded earlier. Surrounded by strangers, he couldn’t relax his guard enough to shut his eyes.

When I woke, I looked down to see city lights below.

“Still night?” I said, yawning. “What time—?” I checked my watch. “It’s past six. Where’s the sun?”

“It’s past
five
local time, and it’s Alaska, darling.”

“Shit. That’s right. Duh. So when can we expect to see the sun?”

“It’ll start rising around eight-thirty, but won’t get over those mountains for a while. An earlier daylight saving time doesn’t do them any favors here.”

“No kidding.”

I could make out the city below, nestled in a valley, surrounded on three sides by snowy mountains and the fourth by the ocean. Beyond those lights of civilization? Miles of wilderness.

I smiled. “Uncharted territory.”

“The best kind.” Clay shifted closer, hand resting on my thigh as he looked out the window. “Still too dark to get to work, checking out those kills or looking for Dennis. We’ll have to find other things to do.”

“We could go to the hotel and get some sleep…”

He snorted.

“Sex or a run?” I asked.

“Do I have to pick one?”

I grinned. “Never.”

Once in the terminal, naturally we had to check for Reese, in case his flight had been delayed or he’d decided to hang out here rather than pay for an extra night’s hotel room. We went in search of all the secluded, tucked-away places he could hide. Unfortunately, post-9/11 these places are increasingly hard to come by in airports.

“Goddamn it,” Clay muttered after our third possibility proved to be staffed by a security camera. “Where the hell is a mutt supposed to hole up around here?”

Before he stormed down the car-rental hall, I caught his arm and I pointed to a sign warning of construction ahead.

“About time,” he grumbled.

He hurdled over the barrier, pushed back the tarp and disappeared. I waited for any indication that the coast wasn’t clear—screams, shouts, foul language—then followed. When I caught up, Clay stood beside a pile of drywall, his head tilted, nose lifted, trying to catch the sound or smell of workers.

I turned down a side passage. It was short, ending at a—a locked door. I was considering the wisdom of snapping the lock when Clay strode up behind. He caught me around the hips, flipping me around, mouth going to mine.

He kissed me hard. Lips crushing. Hands grabbing. Fingers digging in. The smell of him filling my nostrils, thick and heady as hashish smoke. Brain spinning. Body screaming. Hands pulling his shirt up. Fingers gripping his sides. Skin to skin, touching, stroking, making that connection I’d missed so much.

A growl vibrated up from his chest, coming out in a long, low moan. Fingers in my hair. Winding. Pulling. Kissing harder. Teeth scraping. Tongue tasting.

His hands dropped to my waist. Button flicking. Zipper whirring. The chill blast of air against hot skin. The rough rasp of jeans shoved down. Warm fingers moving under my panties. Tugging. Fabric catching, pulling, stretching. A growl. A rip. A laugh.

Hands on my thighs, pushing them apart, as if I needed the encouragement. Back against wall. Wriggling. Straddling. Legs over hips. Come on, come on! Then…

Oh, God, yes. God, I missed you. God, I love you. Yes, please, yes…

Clay pressed me against the wall, nuzzling my neck as I shuddered and gasped.

“Speed record?” he asked.

“For us? Probably not.”

He chuckled and kept kissing my neck, inhaling deeply, telling me how good I smelled, how much he’d missed me, how much he loved me, until the distant clang of a door had us jumping apart.

“No sign of Reese here,” I said as I pulled my jeans back on.

“You can tell Jeremy we checked every nook and cranny. Now time for that run.”

* * * *

First we had to get the luggage and rental car. As much as Clay disliked dealing with people, I sent him for the car, since Clay and crowded baggage claims really don’t mix. If someone picks up one of our bags by accident, his territorial instinct kicks in. Usually one glower makes the offender drop it and scuttle away, but on our last trip, a guy tried to take off with my bag even after I politely suggested it might not be his, and Clay… well, it was really best for all if I got the luggage alone.

Having also seen a young woman at the car-rental booth made the task-splitting decision that much easier. Jeremy would have reserved us a decent vehicle, but we can always use a free upgrade… and Clay gets a lot of free upgrades—double butter on his popcorn, an extra large coffee when he orders medium, high-test fuel for the price of regular. I think it has something to do with being drop-dead gorgeous. Muscular body, chiseled face, bright blue eyes, golden curls. At forty-seven he looks midthirties, which is no longer a “hot young thing,” but apparently a “hot mature thing” is still serious catnip.

Clay hates attracting attention of any kind, and to him when he has a wedding band on his finger, attention of
that
kind is an insult. He makes no secret of his feelings, which only seems to earn him more freebies and upgrades, as women try harder to coax a smile.

“They were out of Explorers,” Clay said as he met me pulling the luggage. “We got an Expedition.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And this.” He held up a navigation system. “It was some kind of monthly deal.”

“Did they have any free T-shirts? Ball caps? Travel mugs?”

“Nah. Got some maps, though.” He held up a handful. “Good ones.”

“Monthly deal?”

“Guess so.”

We found our vehicle—a massive SUV with tinted windows.

“We didn’t need to find a quiet corner inside,” I said. “We could have just crawled in the back of this.”

“Huh.” He opened the hatch and looked in. “Could try it out…”

“I’m sure, we will. Later. Right now, I want my run, followed by my postrun romp. Once took the edge off. Twice would spoil my appetite.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” he said, and heaved our bags in.

* * * *

The presumed wolf kills had both occurred about twenty miles south of Anchorage, so with my laptop open to a newspaper article’s rough map, we headed out, planning to run in the same general area in hopes of picking up a wolf or werewolf scent.

Clay and I can play at being irresponsible—stopping for sex at outrageously inappropriate times is one of our specialties—but it’s just a game. Neither of us would be able to really relax and enjoy our run unless we felt, in some small way, we were still doing our job and fulfilling our Alpha’s expectations.

The map in the article was very rough. It showed the highway, one side road and two X’s to mark the kill sites, with no concept of scale. So until we talked to locals, we were guessing at the location. But neither of us realized how
much
we were guessing until the highway left Anchorage.

In daylight, I’m sure the scenery was spectacular. The highway weaved along between an inlet on one side and mountains and valleys on the other. In the predawn darkness, it was awe-inspiring—the endlessness of it all, the choppy water and the looming hills and the snowy fields and forests.

The road wasn’t empty. Steady headlights streamed toward us, people making their way into Anchorage for work. As for where these commuters came from, I had no idea. There were certainly no suburbs I could see—just the occasional sign suggesting an unseen town down a long, dark road.

Finally we turned off onto one of those long, dark roads. Clay drove a mile, found what looked like a service road and parked along it.

I hopped out… and sunk knee-deep in the white stuff. The air, though, wasn’t as bitterly cold as I’d feared. I’d been in Winnipeg earlier this winter, when the temperature hit minus twenty Fahrenheit, but this didn’t feel any colder than Pittsburgh.

At least I was dressed for the season, having boots, a down-filled jacket, hat and mitts in my luggage. Clay—returning from Atlanta—wasn’t so lucky. I’d grabbed him a toque in the airport, but he was only wearing it to humor me. Cold weather never bothered Clay. I always joked that he was like one of those werewolves from medieval legends, with his fur hidden under his skin.

We left our valuables—watches, wallets, wedding bands—in the locked glove compartment, then set out, tramping through the deep snow. If I’d
h
ad
to walk through this I’d have been cursing with every step. But because I chose to, in pursuit of an activity I was giddily anticipating, I didn’t mind at all—laughing and lurching, grabbing onto Clay and dragging him down as I fell, getting tossed face-first into a drift, returning the favor…

We didn’t go far from the road to Change, but it took us awhile to get there.

The area was wooded enough for us to find separate thickets. I was finally past the stage of insisting on that, though I do make Clay turn his back if we share. I don’t consider myself particularly vain, but I’m not keen to have anyone see me mid-Change, even Clay.

I undressed and put my clothes in a plastic bag I’d grabbed at the airport. And then it got cold—”Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” cold. When I got down on all four, and sunk in snow up to my breasts, I was gasping for breath.

It took a few moments for me to relax enough to begin the Change, but once it started, the cold was the last thing on my mind. My body is shifting from human to wolf; it’s not going to tickle. As I learned when I had the twins, a Change is a lot like giving birth, except you skip the labor pains and jump straight to the “what the hell was I thinking?” screams of agony. Once you accept that it’s a natural process and nature will see you though, you grit your teeth and bear it because you know it’ll be over soon, and when it is, the reward will be worthwhile.

So I suffered the body-ripping, bone-cracking agony of the Change with only a few grunts and whimpers, as I’d done at least once a week for the last twenty years. And when it was over, I collapsed onto my side, panting, muzzle buried in the snow to cool off.

Once I’d caught my breath, I rose slowly. The pain was only a memory now, but I still took my time, finding my footing on four legs, paws crunching through the snow crust, icy shards prickling between my footpads. I blinked hard, adjusting to a gray world, giving my brain time to convert the shades to colors.

My ears and nose were already in action, ears swiveling to pick up every distant crackle of falling ice, nose wiggling to catch every molecule of prey scent, both senses urging me to hurry up, get on with it, get out there and start exploring. I ignored them and stretched. My eyes slitted in bliss as my muscles ached, endorphins shooting to my brain, sweet as champagne.

I swished my tail against the snow, then stepped forward and back, reestablishing my center of gravity. After twenty years, all this was completely unnecessary, but it was like foreplay—delicious on its own, even better as a way to whet the appetite, anticipation and frustration growing.

Speaking of frustration…

As I stretched, footfalls padded around my thicket. Gold fur flashed, glistening under the moonlight. Then Clay’s smell wafted in—that glorious rich scent, starting a whimper deep in my throat. I swallowed it and braced my legs against the urge to bound out and greet him.

Clay circled again, faster now, impatience growing. I lowered my self to my belly and slunk forward, slow and silent, until my nose was at the thicket’s edge. Then I bunched my muscles, hindquarters rising, wiggling, waiting, waiting…

Clay loped past and I shot out behind him. By the time I heard the crunch of his sharp turn, I was running full out, tearing across the open stretch, eyes half closed, wind sluicing through my fur, moving so fast my paws didn’t break the crust.

Clay’s heavier mass meant he
did
break that crust, and he fell farther behind with each stride, the huff of his labored breaths interspersed with growls as I pulled away. I crossed the clearing and dove into the forest, but as soon as I did, I realized my mistake—protected by the thick canopy, the ground had only a thin layer of snow, and I lost my advantage.

Soon Clay’s huffing was right on my heels. Then a grunt and a whoosh, and I knew he’d leapt. I tried diving to the side, but as my hind paws flew up, he caught one and wrenched. My front feet skidded out and I belly flopped.