Night Hunter by Vonna Harper Page A

right. Let’s assume that every word you’ve spoken is gospel, why did you go back out there this morning? If it was me, there’s no way in hell I’d have anything to do with the joker with the motorcycle. It’s just plain too spooky.”
    “Laird isn’t spooky.”
    “Then what is he?”
    Maybe the sexiest, most compelling man on the face of the earth. He’s teaching me things about what my body’s capable of that I never imagined. “Lost. He can’t get back.”
    Sandy shook her head. “Oh boy. Oh boy. Wait a minute. Look at me.”
    Mala blinked. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
    Ignoring her, Sandy took Mala’s face in her hands and peered intently. “Ah shit.”
    “Ah shit what?”
    “You’ve got that look.”
    “What look?”
    “Of a woman who’s been royally screwed.” Sandy shook her head. “How’d that happen? I thought you said he—that you didn’t really see him. That he was like this ghost.”
    Mala wasn’t sure what words she’d used.
    “Say something,” Sandy insisted. “I know that ‘I just had my brains fucked out’ look. I just wish I’d see it on my own mug more.”
    “He…he didn’t touch me. Not really,” Mala added lamely. Her face felt hot.
    “Well, that explains everything.” Sandy looked around as if assuring herself their conversation was still private. “What do you mean by not really?”
    Mala swallowed. Then, just as she was trying to find a way to back out of what she’d said, she remembered that Sandy was her best friend.
    “Maybe it’s mind control,” she admitted. “Well, not my mind, but I think you get the drift.” Just talking about what Laird had done to her, the feel of his bold and expert fingers inside her cunt, made her squirm. From the look on Sandy’s face, she had no doubt her friend understood.
    “He screwed you with—with whatever?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Shit. And you want a repeat performance, don’t you? Hell, of course you do. A woman would have to be dead not to. Look, I don’t want to hear any more. I envy you so much it isn’t funny. Oh shit! If the two of you actually do the deed, it might kill you, but what a way to go.”
    “If it happens, put on my headstone that I died happy.”
    “What headstone? There won’t be anything left of you except ashes.”
     
    Laird crouched at the edge of a pond filled with greenish water. He could barely make out his reflection, just enough to see his stubble. He felt hot and sweaty and itched from where mosquitoes had sucked at him. His feet seemed to have grown calluses overnight, allowing him to walk barefoot without discomfort. His hearing seemed keener and, even with all the vegetation, he had no trouble seeing the details of his surroundings. Even his muscles felt larger.
    He was becoming whatever Night Hunter wanted him to become. No, he amended, not just Night Hunter. The others.
    Laird stood and adjusted the only piece of clothing he now wore. He supposed the short, loose flap of leather was called a loincloth, not that it did that good a job. Earlier today he’d come across a bush filled with what looked like ripe fruit. Without questioning whether he’d get sick if he ate it, he did just that. Although the overly sweet fruit had briefly satisfied his hunger, his stomach now rumbled. He needed meat.
    Well, he’d discovered a knife on the path…as if it had been left there for him. He could hunt. And once he’d done that, he’d listen to the insistent message in his legs that compelled him to follow the path he’d come across to its source. It might take him to knowledge.
    It might also take him to a place of no return.
    Could he survive that? Granted, he often felt as if he was standing on the outside of his existence and looking in, but that was the life he knew. He had a job, a roof over his head, responsibilities and dreams. A brother.
    “Mala, listen to me. Feel me. Be part of this so I don’t have to go through it alone.”
    Although he wanted to tell her