Blackout

Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my own Wolf, John.

Chapter One

Dylan Landau faltered, stopped by a sensation so strong he almost cried out. A feeling he’d been dreading. One he hated.

Moonlight.

The touch was like a vague silvery kiss, a brush of soft lips on his forehead, cheeks and mouth. Like a dusting of metallic sparkles, slightly cool, a little moist, adhering to his skin first, then seeping inside, behind his bones and into his emotions. His human emotions.

Even though he wasn’t human anymore.

Not completely.

Run, he told himself…as if he could actually outdistance the thing growing inside of him. As though the beast he kept locked away could somehow ignore the turning of the moon’s glistening key.

His neck prickled. Drops of moisture beaded on his forehead. It wouldn’t be long now until he weakened. He knew it. Hunger swirled up from his stomach with a ravenous roar, not for food, but with the need to be turned inside out, like a reversible coat.

Something else hit him dead-on, with the impact of a fist in the face. Scent. The scent of warm perfumed skin drifted in on a balmy midnight Miami breeze. Gardenia, or possibly some other exotic flower, mixed with a trace of bath soap, dabbed carefully on the sun-kissed skin of a blonde.

He knew a blonde when he smelled one. Miami was full of them, natural and non. Whatever the body type, age or flavor, women with light-colored tresses scrambled a man’s chemistry. The luscious spot behind a blonde’s ear, when pampered with perfume, was sexy enough to drive a guy crazy. All those silky strands of hair surrounding it could be fondled, nuzzled, whispered into. Add a beast into the mix, one with heightened senses and an insatiable desire for a mate, and you got Dylan Landau. Himself. Dade County Deputy D.A.

Time to move.

Hands twitching as he inhaled a last whiff of the gardenias, Dylan forced himself into action. He had to reach his apartment or at least get far enough away from the crowds before the cloud-cover blew free of the moon. He’d blown it by having one beer too many. It wouldn’t do to effect the “change” in public. There would be no pretty young blonde.

“Not tonight,” he whispered soberly, if also in self-deprecation. “Seems I have a prior engagement.”

One corner more. His steps slowed. There it was again—that chill on the back of his neck. Hot on its heels came the shock of the downside of his recently enhanced sense of smell. Bye bye, perfume. He now got a noseful of the odors of a grimy street: dirty sidewalk, humidified pavement, trash, cigarettes, old bricks. He tasted iron on his tongue, coughed, tried not to breathe too deeply and strained to resume his pace. He hadn’t gotten as far as he’d hoped.

Too late

An odd rolling motion moved his shoulder muscles. More than a twitch and not of his own accord. He heard the unmistakable snap of the ligaments aligning his knees and lurched to a stop on a deserted section of sidewalk.

The Landau curse had kicked him firmly in the ass. Later than usual, admittedly, given his family history. Against the odds, he’d at least made it to thirty without experiencing the change. A torturous reprieve. Years of waiting and wondering. Nightmares.

This particular strain of the genetic defect affecting the males of his family all the way back to the flood had been somewhat diluted, it seemed, by his mother’s strong genes. Sylvia Landau had Viking blood in her veins. Apparently, Vikings could do battle with werewolf DNA down deep in the body and hold the fort…for a while.

Until six months ago, he’d actually looked like a Norseman. Sculpted features, ash blond hair falling past his ears, blue eyes in a tanned thirty-year-old face. He’d had the build of a rower on one of those ancient Viking ships, and a fairly decent silhouette for an overworked attorney.

Since the curse had struck six months ago, all hell had broken loose. The bundled-up energy caused by the sharing of his body with something that wasn’t human revved his metabolism and leaned him up. His hair now hung to his shoulders, growing at an astonishing rate. His eyes held a haunted cast.

For twenty-eight days out of each month, he felt feverishly energized. The other three days, like clockwork, this new internal burn, along with all those cells causing riots in his veins, were finally freed. Beneath a full moon, the freak cells, like cancers, knit together at the right time and pushed.

He had to run to satisfy the impulses the pushing produced. The faster, the better. But no matter how fast he moved or how far he went, he couldn’t shake the curse. There was no help. No cure. In essence, like his father before him, he had become the stuff of a Hollywood horror flick, and he had to deal.

“Ah, Hell!”

Another popping sound, this one from his ankles. He kicked off his shoes, felt his shoulders begin to stretch and broaden. Tearing at the buttons on his shirt, yanking his arms free of the cobalt-blue silk, he glanced up at the moon in agitation, awaiting what would come next.

He didn’t wait long.

The change happened quicker than usual. A record at about forty seconds flat, and not in a good way. His face still felt hot and rubbery, as though the new configuration of flesh and muscle hadn’t set completely, and as if it remained the one body part needing more time to get with the program.

At least he’d managed to remove his shirt. He wished he’d gotten to his pants.

With clawed fingers, Dylan fumbled for his zipper. Unable to grasp the tiny bit of metal, he listened for the sound of splitting fabric, thankful he hadn’t worn jeans. The Armani’s tore with a nasty noise that echoed loudly in the closeness of the underpopulated, overbuilt side street he’d chosen as a shortcut.

Anxious, raising his face to the moon in all her cold hard glory, wondering how something in the sky could possibly have mastery over morphable flesh and bone, Dylan opened his mouth, exposed his new set of dagger-sharp teeth and howled.

He howled for newness, for loss. In anger over the necessary acceptance of his fate. His second vocalization was for the unconscionable merging of muscle and nerve, human and wolf, and with regret for a life that would never be the same again. His final cry was for having to miss the blonde, whoever she was.

The sounds of his frustration carried, bouncing off the buildings of the deserted street before echoing back with a faint rise in tone. A strange, tinny sort of tone.

Siren.

The hair at the nape of his neck lifting, Dylan snapped his mouth shut, cocked his head, and dropped onto his haunches. In a low, crouched position he listened, his internal burner on high.

The sound raised to an eardrum splitting decibel. In the darkness of the quiet street, in the distance and coming quickly closer, Dylan saw lights.

Flashing lights.

The flashing lights of the Miami PD.

And him without a social bone left in his body to explain to the fine officers, were they to see him, about disturbing the peace, and why he resembled something big and bad that might have escaped recently from the zoo…without getting shot.

The authorities might know about the wolf strain affecting a tiny percentage of the population, but they were not going to formally acknowledge or condone it. Even if he’d dealt with many of those cops professionally in his job as deputy D.A. Even if his father, the Honorable James Landau, was a superior court judge when he wasn’t prowling the better parts of Miami proper as a silver-pelted lycanthrope.

The wail of the siren exploded in his oversensitive ears, much too close for comfort. Limbs starting to twitch and dance, Dylan stayed crouched, knowing he should take off, get clear of public places. Knowing he should run off the boundless energy of the beast, and that if he didn’t scram and the cop car got any closer…

He took one more look down the block.

The police car was weaving.

Merely a couple buildings away now, the noise stopped abruptly, leaving a phantomlike disturbance in the close atmosphere of the night, and Dylan’s eardrums throbbing. The black and white car straddled the white line drunkenly as it approached, then lurched to the right, jumping the curb with both front wheels, missing a streetlight by inches. It shuddered to a stop. The engine died with the headlights still on.

Dylan slid sideways, still low to the pavement, watching as the driver’s side door opened with a crack of the bolts and an officer jumped out quickly. Leaving the door open, heaving back to lean against the metal with a thump Dylan could easily hear, the officer, clearly agitated, tossed off his hat and shook his head.

Make that her head.

A cascade of dark hair tumbled out from under the hat, dark as the night and long enough to cover the officer’s shoulders.

The bizarre behavior didn’t stop there.

As though her uniform were on fire, the cop grabbed for her belt, undid the buckle, and threw it inside the car—gun, stick and whatever the hell else they kept around their waists. With jerky hands, red in the reflected light from the flashers, she went for her shirt next, scratching at the buttons. Like a madwoman, she tore the fabric from her arms and threw it into the car, then spun in place once, hitting the door hard, bounding back to a splayed-legged stance.

Next she went at her bullet-proof vest.

The unmistakable rip of Velcro fastenings being torn apart was the only sound remaining on an otherwise now extremely quiet crook of road.

This cop was a real cop. Dylan wasn’t imagining it. Not only was it the strangest thing he’d ever seen, the event seemed out of time… Removed from reality.

The cop flung her vest aside, revealing a fitted white short-sleeved T-shirt tucked in at the waist of her pants. Dylan glanced down at his arms, covered in light brown fur. He moved his hair-covered fingers. He was a wolf-man hybrid, yes, but he was all male just the same.

He looked up at the cop.

If she goes for the T-shirt…

In a flash, the T-shirt was over her head. Hair spilled across tanned shoulders like liquid darkness being poured from the sky above. Moonlight streaked the darkness with a pearlescent sheen.

Dylan rose to half his full six-foot-two height, ignoring the sound of his ligaments extending, withholding a growl.

She wore a black bra. Not only was this a surprise, but an unexpected turn-on. Never would he have imagined sexy lingerie beneath a crisp, pressed, unisex uniform. Sure, maybe he’d fantasized about such a thing when he had an attractive female officer in the witness box, but…

When she reached for her zipper, Dylan straightened completely—and everywhere a male body could. Vying for his attention though, came a wayward premonition that pummeled him square in the gut.

No. Couldn’t be.

He shifted his weight, feeling a bit of a voyeur, unable to move. The sudden premonition had brought with it a chill.

She’d dropped the pants down around her ankles, then leaned over to rip at the laces of her regulation shoes. Shoes off. Socks off. Pants off. She wore nothing now but the sheer black bra and a matching pair of tiny underwear.

Dylan made an appreciative grunt. The woman had a spectacular body. Lean muscles and elegant curves. Long neck. Long legs. Delicate ankles. She filled the black bra nicely.

Her hips were rounded, feminine, vastly alluring. Her thighs were those of a runner. She was, against all odds—and every human male prayer for this very sort of occurrence—standing in the street, beside her car, for all intents and purposes…naked. And all that dark hair of hers, straight and shiny and nearly as black as her underclothes, settled velvet-like around her face as she stood up, half covering her features.

Dylan’s premonition kicked maniacally at his mind.

How long had this odd striptease taken? Three minutes? Five?

What other explanation could there be?

The officer had shed her clothes—perhaps just as she was about to shed her skin and much of what made her human. The woman was about to become what he was. Maybe for the first time.

Or, Jesus, maybe she’d become something altogether different?

His beast was very interested in this. Seemed the sight of the woman’s exquisite body had diluted his own sense of survival.

Leaping from the curb, Dylan saw the woman’s body begin to twitch. Her head flew back. He heard the crack of her spine and responded as if the sound were a supernatural plea for help.

His beast’s howl preceded him as he raced toward her. The woman stood there, unseeing. As Dylan, in his man-wolf form, reached her, her expression became visible. Dark, wide, frightened eyes in a face strained white. Long nose. High, arched brows. Mouth open in a silent cry.

Her hands were raised before her, the smooth skin starting to bubble as though something boiled underneath. Something waiting to get out. It was the “push.” Had to be. Her legs would go first, then her shoulders. She shook her head, fighting whatever was taking her over.

None of her training would help her here.

Her flimsy underthings tore with a very small sound that would have been erotic to any male on the planet, and certainly was to a wolf. The tearing of the scrap of lace hit him like the call of the wild. Although his libido had no place here and Dylan wanted desperately to help this woman, his beast’s hard-on would have been envied by a stallion.

The woman doubled over the second Dylan reached her. Her muscles were shifting all right, hence the generic name for what she had to be. Shapeshifter.

Dylan didn’t touch her, though he allowed a growl of warning to emerge. The sound brought her gaze to his. She staggered backwards, shocked by what she saw. Hell, he would have been shocked by his appearance, too.

Frantically, the woman looked toward the flashing lights, then back to him—or what was left of him in the beast’s presence. Her eyes were green, flecked with gold, half-covered with dark lashes, unblinking. She couldn’t fathom this. She couldn’t even run.

Shock tipped her over the edge. Her lovely face began to transition. The full-lipped mouth flattened into a pained expression. Her eyes started to glaze over.

Dylan watched, reliving the horror. In the past six months he had barely come to terms with his own dilemma. The first change had been so terrible, he’d banned it from memory. He’d been in denial, with no elder to lead the way, no kind hand of support.

The thought made him sicker inside. Where were her people? Her family? Her police partners? He’d never heard of a female strain of the curse. Had she been bitten? Was she something else, other than wolf?

He had to do something to help her. Her bones were beginning to snap. A whine of pain escaped from her throat.

In a swift move, and without thinking, Dylan picked her up. He held her close as her body convulsed, rocking along with her. With his own beast’s strength, he tightened his grip, unwilling to see her face morph. Such a beautiful face.

Turning, he sprinted for shelter. Sometimes, hiding from the moonlight was enough to stop or slow the change. Maybe it would work for the woman who felt so very light and fragile his arms, though she rode the streets of Miami with a badge and a gun.

And maybe it wouldn’t help.

Still, fifty-fifty was worth a shot.

Chapter Two

“Hang on,” he urged, riding out his own body tremors, pressing his back to the brick wall of an ancient apartment building and hearing the words as his human self would have said them. Seems the shelter theory had worked again, for him.

He held tightly to the woman in his arms as he finished rearranging back to a more acceptable shape. The hair covering his body sucked inward with a pinch and a sting. His jaw unhinged, then jammed back into his face. The woman in his arms was jolted as he tripped. He nearly went down when his knees bucked, but he didn’t let her fall.

The cop doubled over in his arms as each pain hit her, riding it out as best she could, no doubt drawing upon the superior pain threshold of a Florida law enforcement officer. Though her face was ashen and her breathing harsh, her skin still appeared smooth in the shadows hiding them both from the moon. Her bareness felt soft against the bareness of his chest, and very feminine.

He hoped to God she couldn’t feel anything below his waist.

“It hurts, I know,” Dylan soothed, setting his shoulders, itchy all over, and fearing the beast would win in another minute or two, no matter the reprieve. She felt so very good in his arms.

The beast wanted her. The pressure inside his chest had grown incredibly intense. His blood backflowed in an audible rush. It was either speak or scream.

“Out of the moonlight, the process will be stalled temporarily,” he said, cresting the wave of distress causing his voice to emerge sharper than he had anticipated. “If you take in too much moonlit air, even in the shadows, if you breathe too deeply, the process will accelerate again.”

He rocked her gently. “Do you understand?”

The woman in his arms shook her head, unable to understand anything, hurting. Dylan didn’t want to remember the details which might help her further; refused to delve mentally into his own experience, though watching her brought some small portion of it back. The unparalleled pain of a body coming unglued. The darkness that had seized his mind, and now would be doing the same to hers.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. “The roof over our heads will slow the damn thing down, at least until you can breathe.”

The woman stopped twisting, as if she had heard what he’d said, though her teeth continued to chatter behind her full pink lips. Lips he could have kissed to stillness in some other time and place.

“Calm down,” he urged. “Relax if you can.”

Of course there was no way in hell she could relax. Some beastlike entity was inside of her, fighting to gain control, angry over the difficulty it was having. Worse yet, his own beast was fighting against restraint. His beast liked what he held in his arms. A naked female was catnip, no matter her choice of careers. Up close and personal, she could have been anyone.

For sure, she was a knockout. A prize. Her breasts were firm, full and surrounded by tan lines. Very small patches of white barely outlined her drawn, rounded pink nipples. The white parts gleamed in contrast to her caramel-colored abdomen and arms. Below the woman’s hips, between her thighs, lay a thatch of dark fur with its own white triangular outline.

Thong bikini.

Dylan inhaled a heady whiff of brunette: suntan oil, cotton and a shampoo smelling a little like tea. Somehow, alongside the pert peachy nipples, the perfect mouth and the buff abs, having a woman in his arms who looked and smelled like food made his transition less fluid, trapping him in a hellish sort of limbo, neither here nor there.

His sternum bulged in an expansion that hurt like a son of a bitch. Then came a piercing stab to his solar plexus. His hands, still wrapped around the woman, elongated, thickened, then furred up with sharp claws extended. Seconds later, they returned to normal—whatever the hell normal for a werewolf was. The beast’s protests were wearing him down. Dylan wasn’t sure if his body could stand much more, for much longer. The deal with the beast was to share, and he’d broken the contract.

Exhaling a long breath, fearing his beast’s intentions where this woman was concerned, Dylan bent his knees. He set the writhing woman down on her butt on the sidewalk, glanced at her with regret that he couldn’t be of further assistance, and stuttered a quick “I’m sorry.”

And he really was sorry.

As a matter of fact, he’d never been sorrier.

He had to go. His future depended on it. Maybe even hers.

About to turn, loath to leave the woman alone, Dylan hesitated seconds more. The cop’s change had slowed, as he’d predicted. She had stopped shaking. Her chin was lifting.

Run.

It would be social suicide if she saw his face. Big trouble if the officer ID’d him. There was a slight possibility she could. He was in court on a daily basis. Cops came and went.

But damn, how could he leave her here? Like this?

Taking her home with him would be out of the question. Nor could he stuff her back into her car where another prowling unit might find her in some gelatinous state. He could hear the radio in her car crackling now. Dispatch could be trying to reach her. Would they consider her AWOL if she didn’t respond, and send back-up?

“Look,” he said to her as her dark hair parted to reveal her extremely wan face.

His words failed, as her eyes began to open.

Run.

He tried again to speak, muscles gathering for flight. “I’ll get you back to your car. It’s the best I can do. You can’t stay here on the street. It isn’t safe.”

He would have laughed at the absurdity of the comment if the situation weren’t so serious. Other people would be running from her if she set one foot into the moonlight. Most of them would be frightened to death. And this luscious little cop’s job in law enforcement would be history.

But her beautiful face was contorted with pain. Her teeth had sunk into her succulent lower lip, drawing blood.

“Ah, shit.”

The beast didn’t give a fig for careers. The beast wanted this woman. Did he, Dylan, with his mind intact, even want to know what the beast might do to a female?

Anxious, wary, Dylan yanked the woman upright, slid his continually morphing arms around her, and lifted her up again. Wondering if this waxing and waning of the beastly shift would eventually stop or if he’d wind up in a straightjacket in some dank jail cell, he moved to step off the curb. Out there with the moonlight, at least he’d be as unrecognizable as any human could be. He could, with luck and a short leash on the beast, get the cop back to the relative safety of her car.

Foot suspended, he chanced to look down at her, nestled in his arms.

When her green eyes met his, Dylan stumbled, blinked. His insides went liquid. Wind seemed to rush at his ears. The awkward impression came that he’d just looked into the eyes of the Moon herself. Large luminous green eyes, suddenly clear for all their former shock and surprise.

Beneath those eyes, her trembling lips parted.

Dylan wanted to duck as she said in a throaty voice, deep, smoky, and as erotic as if she had just placed a hand on his groin, “Landau. Right? D.A.?”

Every cuss word Dylan had ever used or heard flowed through his mind as his foot hit the pavement. Plus some new ones. The hell with her job, he’d just destroyed his own.

The kiss came. Not from this woman’s mouth, as he would have liked, but from somewhere high up above them. The moon’s metaphysical voodoo. Like spilt silver honey, sweet for a second or two but deceptively cruel soon after, Dylan felt the initial coolness turn volcanic as his face begin to shift. His vocal chords twanged and began to seize.

Rushing to get a last word in, he uttered a retort he sincerely hoped she’d heed. “Nope,” he said, parroting the excuse he heard every single damned day in his gig as an attorney, only this time in his own defense. “You must have me confused with some other guy.”