Blue Moon Brides: The Complete Series (31 page)

“You’re not Landry,” she said.

No. He wasn’t. Regret washed through him, because there was no reason for her to pick him after all.

Sure enough, she shoved open the door and started to run.

Exploding through the door, Riley aimed for the bank, leaping over the three feet of inky water separating the cabin from solid ground. Hopefully, that water would break her scent trail because, whoever or whatever the wolf inside the shack was, he wasn’t Dre or Landry Breaux and that alone made him dangerous. Landing with a thud, she rolled, aiming for the hidey-hole she’d spotted earlier from the shack. The bayou here had flooded repeatedly, carving a cave-like depression out of the bank. She’d been reduced to roots and raw earth, but she’d take that over the vamps any day.

God.
She forced herself to focus on the moment. Remembering now would be a mistake and she was damned if she’d let those creatures win. Something winged skittered past her face, but as long as the snakes stayed away, she’d survive. She hadn’t thought much beyond disabling her kidnapper and getting out the door. It had taken the vamp the better part of the night to bring her here—wherever
here
was—and she was fairly certain civilization lay at least ten or twenty miles northeast of her current location.

Which meant she had a long fucking walk ahead of her, and that was if nothing hunted her down. So she’d wait twenty minutes to see if the other one had just been hanging around outside, waiting to see what she did. Worst case, she had a two-foot drop into the bayou water and an unpleasant underwater stay in front of her. Maybe this part of the bayou would be the exception and gator-free. Or not. But at least the gators weren’t personal—and they were comparatively quick when they killed.

Like the wolf.

She realized she was holding her breath and forced the air out in a steady stream. Sucked fresh air back in.
In. Out. Easy.
If she panicked now, she was dead. She’d rigged a garrote and then she’d used the shiv on the vamp. The bastard either shouldn’t have fed her—not that three hundred calories of tomato had done much for her—or he should have collected the trash. The vamp’s medieval certainty women did the cooking and cleaning had been the opening she needed. 

Of course, she hadn’t taken the vamp’s head off, not entirely. That honor had gone to her unexpected rescuer. She’d worry later about why the wolf had lent her a hand because she needed to be living in the now. When the memory of Ameline’s broken body popped up inside her head, she pushed the memory aside.
Later
. Ameline was dead, way beyond any help Riley could offer. Reaching down, she silently rinsed the shiv in the water and washed the red off her arms. Thank God mosquitos didn’t care for the taste of her—even if the vamps did—because she’d donated more than enough blood for tonight.

The problem was, there had been two vamps and only one was dead. Which meant she needed to make tracks for town and the Breauxs. The Breauxs had taken down the vamp on the
Bayou Sweetie
, so hopefully they could tell her how to stop this one. Because it was going to be furious.

Half an hour later, she eased from her hiding spot. The insects sang their night song, undisturbed. Even the vamps’ coming and going had interrupted that noise. As long as she heard the crickets, she was A-Okay.

And yet she felt like someone was watching her.
Nerves
, she told herself. Shake it off. She hadn’t spotted the wolf and, if the missing vamp had come back, she’d be dead. Or hurting real, real bad. Her nerve endings prickled with remembered pain. The vampires hadn’t expected her to heal so quickly, the ragged tears now just pink scars on her forearms where it had fed.

She knew what the vamps wanted, but the wolf had been an unknown. A predator and a killer, but one temporarily on her side. It might even be human, a shapeshifter like the two Breauxs she’d met. Maybe. She couldn’t take that chance.

“Run,” she reminded herself. One quick scramble up the bank and she was running through the bayou. Her borrowed sneakers sank into the ground with each step, the heat pressing down on her. Dawn likely wouldn’t come for two hours or more. She couldn’t be sure, but the night was still pitch black, the only light pinpricks from the stars in the sky. She’d always had excellent night vision and her eyes adjusted quickly.

The sense of being watched grew stronger.

She picked up the pace, fighting the urge to look back over her shoulder.

She had three older brothers who were cops and weekend hunters. She knew how to survive in the bayou. The minute she turned to look, she’d face-plant. Hard. Instead, she focused on keeping her breathing steady and searched out the stars in the night sky. West meant heading towards town. Towards the damned Breaux brothers who had dragged her into this.

Killing them was pure temptation.

Thirty years she’d kept her head down and her nose clean. Then one bad night on the
Bayou Sweetie
where she’d been working with the boat’s captain, Mary Jane Johnson, and the paranormal had found her with a vengeance. Anger kicked in. There had been nothing
accidental
about that night. The Breauxs had badgered their way onto the crew. They’d wanted on and they’d got it. When the vamps had shown up, the bayou bad boys hadn’t been one bit surprised. They’d known what was lurking in the bayou—and they’d kept that knowledge to themselves. Mary Jane had better be safe, because Riley would kick Dre and Landry’s asses if she got back.
When
she got back.

“Ten miles,” she promised herself. The distance was quite possibly twenty, but she’d lie to herself and pretend the smaller number was the likelier. She’d hit town, no problem, and make time for coffee, a hot shower, and possibly a complete breakdown before she dealt with the vamps.

And Ameline.

Ameline wasn’t a stranger, not entirely, which made her wonder just where the AWOL vamp had gone to pick up his replacement snack. She recognized Ameline’s face from the women’s shelter she ran and that scared her in a way nothing else had.

A low growl jolted her out of her thoughts. Her pulse hammered. Not a gator. Not anything she’d run into before, but the rough noise sounded feral and positively inhuman.

The underbrush crackled behind her and she made her first mistake. She turned.

Yellow eyes stared back at her.

She wasn’t alone. Her wolf was back.

~*~

Dag lunged, deliberately falling short.

And Riley Jones whirled.

Ran like she had hellhounds riding her sweet ass.

Christ. He loved this. On this one thing, the man and the wolf agreed: there was nothing sexier or hotter than the chase. His last hunt had been just weeks ago, when the blue moon had brought Rafer’s Mate to the Pack. Rafer’s female had run, laughing and swearing, daring them to catch her. Catch her they had. That night had been the best sex he’d ever had, sharing Lark with Rafer. This female smelled even better—and she was
all
his. He was the only wolf out here. His paws banged up and down, closing the empty space between them. Blood thundered in his ears, pooled in his groin. He’d run her down, pin her.

Take her.

No
, the man protested.
Protect
. Lark had run as a game. His Riley ran in fear. That wasn’t right either. The wolf whined, slowing reluctantly, tail down. Dropping to the ground, he rolled onto his back, showing her his belly.

She stopped and eyed him suspiciously, clearly feeling more secure now that she had twelve feet of empty ground between them. Which was nowhere near enough space. If she called him, he’d come no matter how great the distance. Nothing would keep him away if she needed him.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not Dag and not Landry. Last I heard, there were six of you. Are you one of the others?”

He yipped and rolled to his feet.

“Uh-huh.” Hands on her hips, she broadcast delicious feminine irritation. “Thank you for the assist back there, but I’ve got this from here.”

She didn’t have “it” and she definitely needed his help.

He growled softly, stretching his senses and testing the bayou air. They were still alone for now.

“You think the missing vamp is coming back?” She sighed. “Yeah. Me too. I was hoping your brothers would give me some pointers there.”

He could. He debated shifting, but he had no clothes handy and he knew women looked at him and saw a mean son-of-a-bitch. She seemed okay with the wolf, so he’d keep that form for now. He didn’t want to scare her anymore than he already had. Instead, he cautiously trotted up to her and nudged her leg with his nose.

“You think it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge?” She laughed, but she started running again. “You make one hell of a rescue party.”

They ran for hours, the wolf loping easily by her side. A different kind of run, the man realized dimly, from that night chasing after Lark, but strangely satisfying nonetheless. Better
in fact, because they ran together, next to each other. Her hand and her leg brushed him occasionally. When she stumbled, slowing, he urged her on, pressing against her legs. She started at each small night noise, her head turning and her eyes quartering the cypress stands. If she’d been a wolf bitch, her ears would have been flat back and her hackles up. She didn’t feel completely safe, not even with him standing between her and the rest of the bayou.

He scented the air again, checking, but the second vamp hadn’t returned, hadn’t come for her yet.

It would.

For the next twelve hours or so, however, Riley had herself a safety pass. Already, the air around them lightened and warmed, the sun coming up fast. Vamp number one would be smoking in just a few minutes and full daylight would buy more time because the vamps couldn’t take sunlight.

The wolf was hard, ready to take its mate. He could protect her, even if taking her back to the Pack now wasn’t an option—it was too dangerous. His Pack had two new mates—the too tasty Lark and the shyer, sweet Mary Jane who’d begged him to come out here and track down Riley— and he’d cut his own throat before he endangered them.

So he’d steer Riley back to one of his bolt holes and cover her trail. Riley Jones had better be ready, because he was the big bad wolf riding her ass and it was time to make her his.

~*~

Run
.  Air tore in and out of Riley’s lungs. There was no time to stop, only time to move, her feet pounding over the bank, her eyes picking out the roots and sinkholes, telegraphing desperate messages to her legs.
Left. Right. Avoid.

She didn’t want to know if the vamp had picked up her trail and she definitely didn’t want to question the wolf’s determination to stick by her side. The animal was strangely companionable, a warm, solid presence in the dark.

Twist. Feint. She doubled-back, crossing the bayou to erase her scent. Whenever she slowed, another growl and a gentle nudge got her moving again.

Plus, the goddamn fucking moon lit up the sky, the rays blue in a way that made no sense at all. A blue moon was simply the second full moon in a calendar month and looked like every other moon—because it was the same moon.  This moon, however, looked like Mother Nature had taken a paintbrush and daubed on the blue but good. Whenever Riley paused, however, her wolf companion growled and pressed her onward. Out of better choices, she went on, pausing only to snag a heavy stick from the ground before making for the bank. Wherever the wolf was leading her, she’d feel better with some kind of weapon.

“I’m calling a pit stop,” she snapped finally. There was lighter air up ahead and she made for it. Tearing through the brush, she slid down, down, down. Pinwheeled her arms and jammed the stick into muddy water in front of her. Gravity still put her on her knees, watching for telltale vee of crocodiles. No way she ended up a gator Happy Meal now. She’d come too far.

Salvation appeared in front of her in the form of an abandoned houseboat, the wood sides silvered by weather. Spanish moss draped the roof in an otherworldly curtain. A long-ago owner had scrawled a name on the side, but the paint had peeled away in long strips, leaving only the faintest ghosts of letters.
Bingo.
Abandoned boats and cabins littered the bayou and Port Leon’s residents made good money hauling them out for scrap. This wreck was unexpectedly pretty, like a ghost ship.

The houseboat was currently beached, though, like an ancient Goliath. Too bad, because otherwise she might have got the motor up and running. The boat could have been her ticket out of the bayou. Instead, she’d make a stand here.

She splashed through the three feet of water separating the boat from the bank and climbed on board.

The bushes exploded as the grey wolf caught up with her.

Ears back, the animal snarled, all two hundred pounds of powerful muscle on high alert. She’d seen grey wolves. This one was impossibly large and completely unnatural. He shifted back in a brutally quick process. The wolf shook itself, bones snapping and cracking as fur slipped away to reveal skin. Sun-bronzed, male skin stretched over an impressive set of muscles. Even as her own bones ached in sympathy, she clenched her teeth.
Definitely a werewolf
.

The man standing there so magnificently naked and unconcerned on the bayou bank clocked in at well over six feet. He was big, all hard muscles and chiseled abs. A beautiful package—she’d admit that much—but his face was pure warning. From the dark hair buzzed brutally short against his scalp to the cold eyes, everything about him reminded her of coming face to face with a deadly predator at the zoo—and discovering the walls and cage bars were gone. The handful of yards between her and the bank were nowhere near enough space.