Lisa Childs - Taming The Shifter

She gripped her gun tighter in one hand while she used her other to press the call button on her cell. Before anyone answered, she heard the sirens. Help had arrived.

But was it too late? Was he already dead? There was so much blood, pooling like tar beneath his body. She dropped down next to him. His face was to the side, his strange topaz eyes staring up at her. She couldn’t help him. Her only medical training was CPR, and he was breathing. His heart was beating. She couldn’t help him.

“You let a killer get away,” he said.

She glanced around the alley. Even in daylight it was dark between these buildings. Now, close to midnight, the blackness was thick and impenetrable. The other man could have been standing beside her and she might not have seen him. But she knew he was gone. While she’d been distracted, he’d slipped away.

“A killer?” Had she shot the wrong man and let the real perp escape?

“Yes,” he murmured, and blood gurgled from his mouth now. It was amazing he was still alive—given where she’d hit him. But he wouldn’t last much longer.

“Hang in there,” she implored him. “Help’s coming...” Would they be able to find the narrow entrance to the alley? “I’ll get them...”

She moved to stand up, but he caught her wrist in his hand. His incredibly large, strong hand. He could have easily snapped her wrist—if he’d wanted, if he wasn’t near death.

“I’ll get you medical help,” she promised.

“You made a mistake,” he said, his voice a low growl. “A fatal mistake...” He seemed less concerned about his wounds than the fact that the other man had slipped away.

His words—his last words—chilled her. His eyes had closed, and he was no longer breathing. She could administer CPR now, but it wouldn’t be enough to save him. He needed the paramedics and a fast trip to an operating room. She pulled her wrist from his weak grasp and ran from the alley.

It wasn’t until she returned with the EMTs and patrol officers that she realized her mistake.

He was gone.

“No!” As frustration and anger and shock rioted within her, she screamed the word. “No!”

The scream burned her throat and jerked her awake. Her heart pounded furiously, hammering at her ribs. She gasped for breath and clawed at the sheets that had tangled around her thrashing body.

No matter how many times in the past couple of months that she dreamed about that night, the intensity of that encounter never lessened. She relived every emotion as well as every action. But still, she could not figure out exactly what had happened to his dead body.

She had seen the blood gurgling from his mouth to join the dark pool of it lying beneath him on the asphalt. He had stopped breathing and closed his eyes.

He had died.

He hadn’t walked out of that alley. But somehow in the short time that she’d gone to the sidewalk and led the uniforms back to the alley, his body had disappeared. Maybe the other man, the one he’d been beating, hadn’t left the alley when she’d thought. Maybe he’d waited until she’d left.

And done what? Killed a man who was already dead? Dragged off his body? He hadn’t been in any shape to do that.

But how had the body disappeared? The alley dead-ended into a third building; none of the doors opening onto it had been unlocked. There was nowhere he could have gone even had he been alive. But dead...

She had even tracked down the homeless man who’d admitted to living in the alley. Bernie had claimed to not have been there that night. In fact, he’d said that he didn’t often stay in the alley anymore because he was scared that the humans—that weren’t really human—would kill him. Like he’d warned her that they might kill her, too.

Hell, maybe Bernie’s warning hadn’t been so outlandish. Maybe there were humans—that weren’t really human—that could fly. And that man had been one of them. That was about the only explanation for how he’d disappeared.

She shook her head, disgusted with herself for wanting to believe Bernie’s wild, alcoholic dementia-influenced story. But what was the alternative? Angels? If she was spiritual enough to believe in them, they flew. But she doubted the man she’d shot—who had been so intent on killing his victim—was an angel.

“So where did you go?” she mused, pushing her sweat-dampened hair from her forehead. She had gone back to that alley nearly every night since it had happened, but she had yet to figure out how he could have just disappeared. “I looked for you everywhere...”

“Not everywhere,” a deep voice murmured.

Kate jerked upright in bed, one hand clutching the tangled sheets to her chest—the other sliding under the pillow next to hers for her gun. She pulled out the Glock and directed the barrel toward the shadows in the corner of her bedroom.

He stepped away from the wall and moved into the glow of the moonlight streaking through the partially open blinds. His mouth curved into a mocking grin. “What are you going to do, Kate? Shoot me again?”

She shivered and tightened her grasp on her gun. She was too shocked over his appearance to ask any of the questions she should have. Who the hell are you? How the hell did you get in? All she could do was murmur, “I did shoot you.”

Sometimes she had wondered if she’d missed. But that wouldn’t have explained the blood. The crime techs hadn’t been able to explain it, either—except to say that some animal must have been killed in the alley.

The man lifted a hand to his chest and patted it. “Did you?”

“I know I did. I saw you bleeding.” Blood had gushed from the bullet wound in his heart. She swallowed the lump that had risen up the back of her throat.

She hadn’t just shot him; she’d killed him.

“I saw you die.”

So how was he in her room, stepping closer to her bed?

“Then I must be a ghost,” he said. As totally unconcerned about the gun as he had been the night she’d shot him, he settled onto the mattress next to her, his muscular thigh rubbing against her hip.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” But she couldn’t deny that he was haunting her. With the glimpses of him she had been catching in crowds. With these strangely erotic dreams...

But she was awake. Wasn’t she? So she couldn’t be dreaming.

“Maybe I’m your conscience,” he suggested.

“My conscience isn’t bothering me,” she said. But he was. He had been ever since she’d bumped into him on the street and looked up into those eerie topaz eyes. She had lost herself in that intense gaze of his, and she had yet to find her way back.

She should have already placed him under arrest for his older crimes—assault and leaving the scene of that crime—and his latest crime: breaking and entering. He must have come through her window; she felt the breeze blowing through it and she hadn’t left it open—not this late in autumn.

But if she tried arresting him, he would undoubtedly resist. And she’d have to shoot him. For some reason she didn’t want to shoot him again—because then he might disappear again, like he had that night.

Even now she wasn’t certain that he was real, that she wasn’t dreaming. Thoughts of him and that night had kept her awake for so many nights that she was beyond exhausted. She was probably just dreaming...

* * *

Heat flashed through Warrick James, radiating from where his thigh rubbed against her hip. Only denim and a thin satin sheet separated his skin from hers. The sheet was so thin that it was obvious she wore nothing beneath it. The dark areolae of her full breasts were visible beneath the champagne-colored satin, her nipples peaked on the shapely mounds—probably from the cool breeze blowing through her open window. She couldn’t want him...as much as he wanted her.