why I loved him,
I can say no more than because he was he,
and I was I.
—Michel de Montaigne,
French philosopher, 1533–1592
Chapter 1
Seawater soaked Bree up to the waist. When the rocky shore slammed into her knees, she wasn’t sure if she’d fallen or if the choppy waves had thrown her. Her arms automatically folded around the child sheltered against her chest. Jonathan whimpered, his voice achingly small in the darkness. She scrabbled forward, hauling him with her in a one-armed crawl until she reached a scruff of grass and ferns. It was hard going, half stumbling, half climbing as the shore rose sharply from the beach.
Bree tried to look behind her but from where she knelt, she couldn’t see the man below. For a fat, old, whiskery fishing guide, Bob was strong. And a coward. And cruel.
Curse him! She clung there for a long moment, palms smarting from clambering over the sharp rocks. Vertigo seized her, the tug of the surf still haunting her blood and bones. It’s okay. We made it, at least for now. She cradled Jonathan, trying to give the four-year-old a comfort she didn’t feel.
They’d left the ocean below, but not water. Rain pounded against her back and shoulders, dripping through her hair and down her face to mix with tears and sweat. The only light came from the boat below, where Bob was turning the craft around. She was still panting, still needed to rest, but she couldn’t let the moment pass. Bree stood and wheeled around, instinctively pulling her coat closer around Jonathan.
“You promised to take me to town!” she screamed toward the bright light of the boat. It was a useless protest, but Brianna Meadows had never been the demure, silent type.
“Count yourself lucky!” Bob bellowed back. “I saw you to dry land.”
“They’ll kill us!”
“Better you than me. I’m sorry for your boy, but you’re nothing but trouble.”
“But—”
He said something else, but the words shredded in the rain and wind. The motor roared as the boat picked up speed. It was a small, agile craft a shade too light for the brewing storm. She’d paid him well to get her to the mainland, where she could have found a bus going south. Instead, he’d dumped her ashore at the first hint of danger. Bob was used to tourists in pursuit of salmon. He wasn’t cut out for dodging villains with live ammunition.
Maybe she should have warned him. Maybe she should have gone to the police back at the beginning. But then again, some of them were on the wrong side, weren’t they?
You’re nothing but trouble. The old fishing guide wasn’t the first to say it.
Bree watched the light from the boat shrink to a blurry splotch on the rainy sea. Wind shushed through the massive cedar trees overhead, making her feel tiny. All of her efforts had been spent keeping Jonathan out of the freezing waves. She’d been hot with exertion when she’d crawled ashore, but now the knife-edged wind on her wet clothes made her shudder with cold.
At least Bob had waited for shallow water before he’d forced them out of the boat, but then he’d done it so fast she had no time to fight back. The thought triggered Bree’s fury all over again. How could you leave me here? How could you do this to my baby? She was literally at the end of the earth. The west end, with the Pacific Ocean gnawing at the rocks below.
She licked her lips, tasting salt and rain. She was a city girl. Her survival skills involved flashing a gold card at a five-star hotel. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”
Jonathan looked up at her from the shelter of her coat, his eyes dark shadows framed by curls of damp hair. He didn’t speak. He’d stopped talking months ago. It had been a call to a clinic that had given her away and started the chase all over again. Seeking help had clearly been a mistake, but what else could she have done?
Scraping wet hair from her cheeks, she tried to blink the scene into better focus. Bree took Jonathan’s hand and moved under the shelter of the trees, their thick, astringent scent enfolding her. The ground was soft with rotting needles, her feet silent. All she could hear was the drumming of the rain, weirdly amplified by an utter absence of light. Scalp prickling with nerves, Bree made a slow turn, barely able to see her hand in front of her face. She snuggled Jonathan closer, afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep him warm enough. Oh, please, I need a miracle!
No doubt she’d used up her stock of those long ago. Like when she’d escaped her pursuers in the Chicago airport. Or that incident in the Twin Cities. She was probably in miracle overdraft by now.
Except...as her eyes grew used to the gloom, she caught a faint glimmer of yellow light if she shifted a smidgen to her left.
Someone lived in this forsaken wilderness! But her enemies were clever, and she’d been fooled before into thinking she’d found safety. A walk through the woods could save her life, or lead her straight into the monster’s cave. As if sensing her indecision, Jonathan squirmed against her, letting out a weak whimper.
That was the problem with being a mother. Risk didn’t mean the same things when your baby was at stake. Bree would dare anything if it meant Jonathan lived through the night.
* * *
Mark Winspear listened to the sounds outside his cabin, hearing each rustle of branch and bird. The cabin was sparsely furnished, the only light an orange glow spilling from the cast-iron stove. The dark wood walls disappeared into the shadows, giving the impression of a cave. Mark tossed another log into the stove’s maw, watching as crimson sparks swirled. In a moment, fresh yellow flames licked at the wood. He settled back into his threadbare easy chair, letting the worn fabric embrace him.
The scene was domestic, even dull, but it was overdue. Out here, in the back of beyond, he could be what he was: a wild beast and solitary hunter. A vampire. Most of all, he could be alone. After five hundred years plus, he’d become less of a people person.
He willed his shoulders to relax, but his instincts forbade it. Tonight, something was different. His vampire hearing was on alert, the night birds and small furred creatures whispering of something new. An invader. Mark’s fingers gripped the ragged arms of the chair. Who dares to come here?
He rose, gliding to the cupboard beside the stove. He unlocked it using a key he hung around his neck. Inside, he kept a rifle and a pistol—a Browning Hi-Power—and a curved kukri knife. Logic said to take one of the guns, but it would be infinitely more satisfying to hunt as a vampire with fang and hunger, and not with human weapons. Still, there were other hunters who knew exactly how to kill his kind. As a compromise, he picked up the knife and relocked the cupboard.
He did not leave by the front door. Instead, he climbed the narrow staircase to the loft and raised the sash window. Clean, cold air rushed in on a gust of wind. Mark crouched by the sill, listening. He zeroed in on the disturbance within seconds. Footsteps. Human. Coming this way, no doubt drawn by the firelight in the cabin window.
Mark searched the darkness for any sign of movement. Feathery cedars, tall pine and thick fir trees blended their heady scents in the pounding rain. Enemies aplenty hunted him, many of them professionals. Trapping him here at the cabin, when he was alone, was a logical choice.
Whoever
