Even if he didn't come for her, she still faced an objectionable fate. While she wasn't so sure about the whole "one true mate" idea, something inside told her things had changed. She had changed.

  Whether because she was Cray's destiny--as he'd so described it--or simply because they'd been intimate and he'd introduced the werewolf gene into her body, she knew she'd never be the same. However, given a choice, she'd rather be like him--able to control her lycan form--rather than become a bloodthirsty killer like Graham.

  They'd talked a long while about what to expect should her time come, and about them. But until Cray found and killed Graham, nothing else really mattered; her life would remain in jeopardy. Once that threat had been dealt with, they'd worry about the rest.

  As though Mother Nature sought to add a little more excitement to the mood, a flash of lightning split the late afternoon sky, followed by a crack of thunder. Large wet spots dotted the sidewalk below. The ominous clouds parted and a thick sheet of rain blinded her view.

  "Wonderful."

  Cassandra returned to the bed. The full moon was still several hours away, yet she felt the approach of darkness as deep and soul withering as the approach of death. Each minute ticked away the countdown of her precarious fate, inescapable as daylight surrendering its hold to the night.

  She fingered the small revolver nestled on top of the sheets. Cray had left it, just in case. She couldn't help but laugh as she thought about the fact that it was filled with silver bullets. Apparently, Hollywood had gotten a few details right.

  She practiced holding it. The gun's cold metal felt like ice against her skin. With a shaking hand, she lifted her weapon and aimed at the doorway, trying to line the barrel with an area midway up the jamb--where Graham's heart would be.

  A shot to the chest or head is what she needed for a kill. He'd survive a wound anywhere else, and be mad as hell. Of course, the whole idea of having to shoot him at all was repulsive.

  She lowered the gun to her lap and glanced back toward the window. Cray had promised to return before dark. He expected she'd be safe until then.

  She'd given him several addresses where Graham might be--work, home, gym--the ones she knew, anyhow. Heather's, too. If her friend wasn't dead, they were likely together.

  Now all she had to do was wait. A sudden chill swept her spine, making her shiver. She knew nothing about Cray's house--where he kept his weapons, where to hide.

  Then it dawned on her--neither did Graham. Sitting there, waiting for either man to show seemed idiotic. She had to protect herself.

  While she knew there was nowhere to hide that Graham wouldn't eventually find her--his heightened senses were not in her favor--perhaps she could at least buy herself some time until Cray got back. Taking the gun with her, she began looking through each room, familiarizing herself with the house's layout.

  Two hours later, she'd found a nice stash of weapons, as well as several hiding places. Feeling a little more confident in her ability to survive should Graham show up, she placed several knives and revolvers in various positions throughout the house, then returned to Cray's study. She didn't mean to snoop, but she couldn't help her curiosity about his notes, which he'd left scattered across the mahogany desk.

  Tucking the pistol in her waistband, she sank into his lambskin chair, appreciating the soft feel of the fine material against her bare legs.

  He certainly has good taste.

  She paused on that thought, an image of him selecting his prey from an attractive lineup coming to mind. Then she laughed. He'd assured her that he never hunted for food, only other werewolves.

  A thorough investigation of his larger-than-normal kitchen pantry and double door, stainless steel refrigerator confirmed that he certainly like food. Human food, that is. She found no evidence to suggest otherwise, no body parts or organs tucked in Tupperware bowls on the back shelves of his fridge.

  Spying a sizeable cluster of maps on the top right corner of his desk, she picked up the top one. It was a replica of Redwoods Park's campgrounds. He'd circled and dated in red her campsite, as well as a small area an inch or so off the main trail leading to the showers.

  "That's where Graham attacked Heather," she said to herself, feeling the loss of her friend once again.

  Setting the map aside, she picked up another one. Also a campground, though she wasn't sure where. This time, there were four red circles--one campsite, three attacks--but each was X-ed out with black.

  Three night cycle. Three deaths.

  A note in the top corner caught her eye. John Smith eliminated, March 13, 2007.

  She grabbed the next map, then the one after that, continuing until she'd reached the end of the pile. Most of them had a similar notation in the top corner, either a John Smith or a Jane Doe, as well as an elimination date. She assumed the few without meant those targets hadn't been found.

  "I wonder why he uses the same name over and over again," she mused aloud.

  Then it dawned on her--it was much easier for him to stay detached, unfeeling, if he didn't recognize them as once being human. Calling them John Smith or Jane Doe simply denoted their sex, nothing more. What a terrible job.

  Cassandra realized something else. She quickly scrolled through the maps again, rechecking their elimination dates. When she'd finished, she leaned back heavily in her chair.

  "Oh, my God," she gasped. They were all from this year.

  She looked at the numerous filing cabinets along the left-hand wall. Unable to resist, she went to the first one and opened the top drawer. It was packed with folders, all tabbed with dates from 2006.

  She opened the next drawer down, 2005. The one after that, 2004. And the bottom drawer held 2003.

  "There are so many."

  The enormity of his job hit her full force as she stared at the remaining five cabinets. Taking a few steps back, she added the number of drawers and counted the amount of years. He'd been keeping humanity safe for at least three decades.

  "That's a long time," she whispered.

  Two small rectangular buttons housed within a brass switch plate on the wall behind the last filing cabinet caught her eye. She circled the drawers to get a better look. Then she noticed the crevice within the wood paneling, as though the entire section slid aside to reveal a...

  Secret room.

  Her finger itched to press the top button, see what happened. She reached forward, drew her arm back to contemplate, then reached for it again. She had to know what was in there.

  "Let's see what's behind door number two," she whispered to the vacant room, then pressed the button.

  Despite a lot of groaning and squeaking, the panel pulled back a few inches, then slowly slid to the right, disappearing behind the remaining wall to reveal an adjoining room containing what looked to be a massive filing system. Cassandra gasped; she'd never seen anything like this. Her mouth agape, she cautiously stepped inside.

  Seven rotating filing machines stretching from the front of the room to the back wall comprised about one-third of the space, leaving plenty of room for more. Each contained five rows of suspended files arranged on a circular system--similar to a Ferris wheel. With the push of a button, the rows would rotate forward and down, providing access to the one above.

  At first glance, she thought each row one was one machine. But as she studied the system a little closer, she realized there were three in each, lined side by side. All in all, there were twenty-one motorized cabinets, each containing hundreds of files.

  Staggered by her find, Cassandra leaned heavily against the row behind her, inadvertently hitting the power button. She jumped forward with a startled yelp when the dangling files began to rotate. The next row stopped at eye level. Biting her bottom lip, she pulled out one of the folders and opened it.

  The top page inside displayed an elimination date, just like the maps on Cray's desk. Only this time, rather than John Smith, a man's real name was listed instead. The file contained photocopied maps with the familiar red circles X-ed in black, as well as articles about the kills. It was dated 1969.

  After a few moments confusion as to how he had things filed, she figured out it wasn't alphabetically, rather by elimination date, and carefully replaced the folder where it belonged. Wanting to know the initial elimination he'd recorded, she walked to first line of machines along the far left hand wall.

  Hitting the power button, she rotated the files forward until she'd reached row number one. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the first folder in line and slowly opened it--1472.

  A crash from somewhere upstairs gave her a start. She yelped and dropped the folder. Her heart leapt in response.

  "Oh, God. He's here."

  Disregarding the fallen file, she crept from between the rows of cabinets and started for the door. Cautiously peeking her head into the study, she found it was empty. A blast of rain pelted the window and she yelped once more.

  "It's just the weather," she assured.

  Instinct suggested otherwise.

  Her apprehensive gaze swept the room. Nothing. She crossed the floor, her bare feet silent on the burgundy carpet.

  Slipping the gun from her waistband, she held it against her chest. This time, she welcomed the cold metal within her hand. Until Cray returned, it was the only security she had, if she could aim and take a shot before being ripped to shreds.

  On legs that felt more like spindly stilts, she exited the study and tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs. Her heart pounded in her chest; her pulse roared in her ears. She'd be lucky to hear anything at all...if she didn't have a heart attack first.

  She took the steps two at a time, keeping her back pressed firmly against the wall so she could watch both above and below as she climbed. Despite the roaring wind outside, the darkened house seemed disturbingly quiet. Reaching to top level, she began a methodical search of each room.

  Gun held out before her, she stopped at the first door. Mimicking the cops on TV, she poked her head in first, then retreated. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the doorway and stepped into the room.

  Nothing. No indication of forced entry. No broken glass. Satisfied the room was secure, she backed out, closing the door behind her.

  While the time seemed to stretch into hours, it really only took her about five minutes to complete her sweep. Closing the last door, she started once again for the stairs, descending in silence. Part of her debated on hiding in Cray's bedroom until he returned, but she refused to simply wait until Graham came for her.

  After what Cray had said about a male wolf's desire to mate before changing, the last place she wanted to be if Graham showed up was in a bed; no need giving him any ideas he didn't already have. If he was in the house, she wanted to find him first, get the upper hand. She just hoped she had the nerve to shoot him when she did.

  Cray, please come back.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  It wasn't quite dark. The moon had yet to rise. He'd still be in human form, making her odds of survival slightly better.

  Dammit, Cray! Where are you?

  As she neared the bottom step, a flash of lightning illuminated the entire foyer in an eerie blue glow. A movement down the hall near the kitchen caught her eye. She froze, her gaze riveted in that direction.

  Nothing. She blinked, her eyes straining to see into the stygian walkway. She wasn't sure if she'd seen something or not. Perhaps it'd been a trick of light.

  Shivers raced up her spine as her bare feet stepped onto the foyer's cold marble floor. She padded toward the kitchen, stealthy and silent, like a cat stalking its prey. Reaching the doorway, she paused, listening for any telltale signs of movement within.

  When several seconds passed without sound, she chanced to peek around the doorframe. With the raging storm outside and the fast approach of night, the day's light had faded more than she'd realized. Dark shadows met her sight.

  She bordered on the verge of panic. This was crazy. Who was she kidding? She wasn't some great hunter, closing in on her prey. She didn't know how to use a gun.

  "I'm gonna die," she whispered, sliding her hand around the doorjamb to reach for the light switch inside.

  Finding the scrolled edge of the metal plate, she stretched a little farther to reach the dual switches. Heart pounding, pulse racing, she held her breath and flipped them both up. The kitchen was bathed in stark, man-made light.

  Cassandra blinked and shielded her eyes, not anticipating her momentary blindness. Fighting against her blurred vision, she searched the kitchen's interior. While she saw no evidence of an intruder, she did notice the pantry door stood ajar.

  Her heart leapt to her throat. She knew she'd closed that before. Trying to calm herself, she reasoned that perhaps she hadn't shut the door completely, and it had simply swung open on its own.

  Silently treading the white tile floor, she crossed the kitchen, gun in hand. The end of the barrel shook as she tried to hold it up in preparation, should she need to take a shot. Her nerves at wit's end, she doubted she'd hit anything but air.

  Reaching the pantry, she cautiously peered inside. Nothing but shelves of canned goods and boxes of food. Sighing with relief, she started to close the door.

  "Hello, Cassie," Graham's voice sounded from behind.

  Cassandra let out a startled scream. Some instinctual will to survive kicked in and she swung around so quickly she surprised even herself. Her finger responsively pulled the revolver's trigger and the gun fired a stray shot, its discharged bullet hitting the cabinet door mere inches from his head.

  Graham leapt aside, cursing as wood splinters pierced his face. He wiped his cheek, then pulled his hand back to assess the damage. Blood stained his palms.

  As though disregarding the fact that she still held a gun, his livid gaze swung back to her. "You fuckin' bitch!" Then he lunged forward, a murderous glint in his red eyes.

  Cassandra fired again, this time hitting him in the right shoulder. The blow stunned him, knocking him back a few feet, but it wasn't enough. Before she knew it, he was coming again, his forward motion fueled by nothing less than hell's fury.

  Accepting that she was a poor shot, she gave up the hope of hitting him in the chest or head, and opted to run. She'd scarcely reached the door before he yanked her back by the hair. In the next instant, she and her weapon went sailing through the air, her gun unfortunately in one direction and she in the other.

  Her terrified cry was harshly cut short when she landed on the kitchen table and the air was ripped from her lungs in one big whoosh. The structure, while more than sturdy, wasn't used to such a burden and collapsed under her weight. She landed on the floor in a heap of broken granite and busted wood.

  Cassandra gulped in a breath. Pain tore through her body as she struggled to roll onto her side. Ignoring her misery, she crawled on her hands and knees, trying to separate herself from the wreckage before Graham came again.

  Using a bar stool for support, she pulled herself to her feet. Her frantic gaze swept the kitchen in search of her attacker, but it was as though he'd disappeared. Then the sounds of stretching and suctioning, like pulling a wet rubber glove that's two sizes too small from one's hand, drifted from behind the bar, just beyond her sight.

  Cassandra trembled with a whole new dread. Even without seeing it, she knew Graham was changing into his werewolf form. Fueled by a motivation that outweighed her pain, she fled the kitchen.

  Where do I go? her mind screamed as she raced down the hall.

  Without her gun, she was pretty much helpless. Then she thought about the study with its secret room on the side. Maybe she could trap him in there.

  The sounds of crashing furniture echoed from the kitchen, followed by a furious howl as he realized she'd escaped. Cassandra darted into the study, not bothering to glance behind her. She knew he'd be coming.

  She backed into the attached chamber, trying to devise how she could get him in and herself out without crossing his path. Bloody tracks followed her. She glanced down, noticing the large gash on her right leg.

  An idea came to her. He'd likely follow the trail. Praying she didn't get trapped, she turned around and raced to the last line of filing cabinets, then down the row to the back wall.

  Oh, thank God, she breathed silently, seeing there was just enough room for her to squeeze through. Graham would never fit.

  Cassandra stopped and listened intently to determine his whereabouts. The clicking sounds of nails on marble told her he was coming down the hall. She dropped her bloodied shirt in the back corner, then made her way along the wall, squeezing past the ends of the filing cabinets until she reached the first row.

  Hiding between the back wall and the cabinet's wide end, she watched the door. From her position, she could just see its opening. Now all she had to do was wait; it wouldn't be long.

  The clicking noise had stopped. He'd entered the study where the carpet masked his steps. Cassandra concentrated on breathing through her nose, lest he hear her terrified pants.

  The rancid smell of his foul breath drifted to her nostrils and she almost gagged. Clamping one hand to her mouth, she forced herself to keep her eyes on the door. Within seconds, his hulking frame shadowed the opening.

  Her heart nearly pounded through her chest as she watched him enter the room. Just as she'd hoped, his attention instantly went to the bloody footprints. Dropping to all fours, he followed the trail, his hideous snout to the floor like a bloodhound with a lead.

  As quietly as she could, Cassandra slipped from her hiding place and crept along the line of cabinets, silently making her way to the door. When she reached the end, she cautiously peered around it, just catching a glimpse of his mangy tail as he rounded the last row of files. Wasting no more time, she darted for the door.

  Without waiting to see if he'd noticed her exit, she punched the button on the wall and the panel slowly began to move. Too slowly. It'd never close in time.

  As though confirming her fear, she heard Graham's enraged yowl when he realized he'd been duped. His lumbering frame slammed against the metal cabinets as he scrambled for the door, now half closed. Cassandra held her ground.

 

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