Willow
THIS GUY COULD BE LEADING ME STRAIGHT TO SOME SORT OF… LAIR.
For all kinds of nefarious purposes. As much as I might fantasize otherwise, those purposes are unlikely to be giving me multiple orgasms and an engagement ring, so I need to get my head on straight. If we turn off onto any road smaller than this one, I'm turning around and going back the way I came. Hopefully there's enough gas to get me to some outpost of civilization. But he doesn't lead me down a smaller road. He stays on this one, wreathed as it is in fog, bordered on either side by black forest, until it finally begins to widen. Pine trees give way to cypress and low, wind-stunted oaks. Ferns spill onto the shoulder, damp from salt spray. The stranger's truck slows, then turns right onto a well-lit stretch of coastal highway. No lair in sight. Across the road lies the ocean. Waves pummel the shore.
Moonlight glimmers on dark water. The sight of it hits me all at once. There's salt in the air and space to breathe. My grip on the wheel loosens. For the first time in hours, the vise in my chest eases. I've made it.
Thanks to the mysterious stranger. We drive slowly, giving me enough time to scan my surroundings. On the left is the beach. To the right, narrow lots cling to the hillside. Golden lamplight spills through the windows. We pass beach homes, restaurants and wine tasting rooms, one bed and breakfast after another.
So this is Redwood Grove. The edge of civilization, the final frontier of the continent. Fog drenched and chilled, more like the Pacific Northwest than the hot and sunny parts of California most people think of. This is the last location Dad had in his planner. Ironclaw HQ, 1337 Eucalyptus Lane. D.R. Riven. It'll be my first stop tomorrow morning. My rescuer's truck slows in front of one of the bed-and-breakfasts. A weather-beaten wood sign flaps in the wind. Stillwater Pines.
Despite the fact that it's tourist season, the parking lot is mostly empty. Not a great omen. I park and get out of the car, rubbing my arms against the lingering chill.
My accommodations-to-be are… not promising. The paint on the shingles has flaked to bare wood. A patio light buzzes as moths flicker around it. Half-rotted wooden steps sag as I make my way up to the front door.
I steel myself. You're tough, I tell myself. You can do this.
A rat skitters across the side of the building.
Oh hell no.
Maybe I can't do this. As much as I don't want to, I have no choice. Ever since I quit my job at Neuroworks, my savings cushion went from pancake-flat to just about nonexistent. All my money has gone to paying the mortgage for Dad, along with every other bill I can float, while he's been putting all his savings towards his newest invention. Even this crappy motel is more expensive than I can afford for long. I glance back at my rescuer. The stranger, I remind myself. As in, stranger danger. As in, encounters like ours are more likely to end in true crime than true love. But he led me to safety. That has to mean something, right? His truck idles on the side of the road. I get the sense he's watching. Maybe stalking, maybe doing the chivalrous thing and making sure I get inside. I fight the urge to run to him, to ask him to take me away from here. But I don't. Chivalry has its limits. Stalking might be a more promising prospect for me. As I open the door to the reception, my hand shakes with some combination of caffeine and nerves. My legs still ache from so many hours in the car, and I nearly trip across the threshold. A woman in her seventies sits at the check-in counter, her eyes on a TV playing an old Twilight Zone rerun. The show's familiar, eerie theme music sounds tinny in the small room. Beneath the stink of her cigarette smoke, it smells of mildew.
"Hi," I say as I approach the front desk. "I have a reservation.
Willow Hart."
The receptionist's disinterested gaze flicks to me. "You're late.
Check-in ended an hour ago. Come back in the morning."
I didn't exactly expect a rosy reception, but this is… not great. But I can't spend the night in my car. I just can't. It's freezing out, for one thing. Well, not literally, but for a born and bred San Diego girl it might as well be subzero. For another thing, I don't want to get cited for sleeping in my car. Most importantly, I don't want to have my car broken into while I sleep so I can be murdered by a whole other man. One who probably doesn't even have a handsome, scarred face or a sexy voice to compensate for his psychopathy. I don't plead any of these cases to the receptionist. I already know she wouldn't care. "I'm sorry," I say. "I got lost on the way to town."
"Not surprised." She stubs the cigarette out on an ashtray.
"Thought maybe one of the wolves got you. Full moon last night, y'know."
"Wolves?"
"This is a shifter town, girly. Don't you know?" Bloodshot eyes sweep down me. Her lip curls.
"Shifter town. Right."
No, I did not know that. It's not the kind of thing that appears on tourist guides. Wolf packs are as private and cloistered as secret brotherhoods. They don't advertise themselves to outsiders. I don't know much about how they operate, or how integrated they are with the human population, but from what I've heard, life in the wolf packs is savage. Brutal. Only males carry the wolf gene, and it turns them into testosterone-laden cavemen.
At least that's what my ex-boyfriend always told me. Ben also told me wolf packs are made up of filthy hovels. That shifters spend their days fighting each other or assaulting the poor women they've imprisoned with them. Raping them, permanently scarring them with their bite marks. The stories he told were so repugnant, spoken with such hatred.
I'm sure Ben told me those stories to strike fear into my heart, to warn me off any curiosity about them. The same way you would tell a child about the monster in the lake to scare them away from going in the water. I'm not a child, even if I realized too late that Ben treated me like one. And I'm not going to let over-the-top stories about barbaric packs or hungry wolves out to get me scare me away from here. Digging in my pocket for the last of my cash, I find a twenty-dollar bill and put it on the desk. "Maybe a late check-in fee would make up for the inconvenience."
The receptionist snatches the bill with fingers stained yellow from nicotine. After digging around under her desk for a moment, she slides an old-fashioned metal key my way. "Room 14."
When I reach the door, she calls out, "If you see a rat in there, just let him out the door. He's roach control around here."
I repress a shudder as I open the door.
Only to find my rescuer, the mysterious stranger, staring right back at me.