Moon Dragon (Page 12)

Both of which, I knew, pissed off the demoness within me, which was exactly why I had done it. Well, one of the reasons. What can I say? I happen to be a romantic at heart.

Ranger Ted sat behind a dented, metallic desk. A coffee mug was warming in an electric coaster that might have been the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Ranger Ted was graying and thin and didn’t look very intimidating. Then again, I didn’t think his job required him to look very intimidating. I think I could have taken him, vampire or not. The aggressive, competitive side of me was relatively new. I suspected it was her bleeding into my personality.

Oh, joy.

At the moment, Ranger Ted was looking through a thick blue folder, which was sub-divided further with little plastic tabs. When he was done flipping through the folder, he looked up at me.

“Nineteen missing,” he said, “since 2010. And twelve missing from 2000 to 2010.”

“So, nineteen in the last four years,” I said. “And twelve in the ten prior to that.”

He frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Yup.”

“It went from just over one a year to almost five a year.”

He nodded and looked pained. “Troubling as hell, I know.”

“Any theories?”

He blew some air out, then shrugged. “The mountains are as popular as ever. More hikers means more disappearances.”

“Quadruple the hikers?”

“I thought you said five times,” he said.

“Caught me,” I said. “I couldn’t think of the word for increasing fivefold.”

“Quintuple,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “That word.”

The ranger almost grinned. In fact, he might have if the missing hiker stats weren’t still depressing him. “I’m not sure how I know it, myself. I guess there are benefits to getting old. You come across enough shit over the years, and some of it even manages to stick.”

I nodded and felt a sudden surge of relief. Relief knowing that I would never age, never wrinkle, never grow old. Ideally, my memory stayed as sharp as ever, even while I accumulated more and more knowledge. Not a bad deal.

I said, “Are the disappearances centralized anywhere on the mountain?”

“Well, the San Bernardinos are a chain of a dozen mountains. But I would say the bulk of the disappearances are along the popular hiking trails near Arrowhead.”

“Who oversees the searches?”

“The San Bernardino County Sheriff. We provide support and aid.”

I nodded. “Have any of these hikers ever been found?”

“‘Bout fifteen years ago, we found a college professor who’d gone missing for about three days. Found him in a cave, half dehydrated.”

“But none in the last fifteen years?”

He shook his head sadly. “I guess we don’t have a good track record up here.”

I said nothing, and looked again at the topographical map hanging on the wall behind him. It was looking more and more like the missing hikers would never be found.

Especially with a hungry werewolf prowling the woods.

Chapter Thirteen

It was nearly dusk.

I hiked alone along a sometimes winding trail, although mostly it meandered through ponderosa pine, cedar, black oak, white oak and dogwoods. I knew this because I had read the posters that lined the park ranger’s office. I was a little sketchy on which were the black and white oaks, but other than that, I was fairly proud of myself for picking out the different trees. Granted, none were as big as the pines in the Pacific Northwest, but that was to be expected. This was—according to the chart—a transiticonifer forest, which meant little to me, although it probably got botanists all hot and bothered.

I picked up my pace, although the forest was getting darker by the minute. Luckily for me, light particles danced and swarmed before my eyes, lighting my way, enough through the darkest of nights…or along a darkening forest trail.

Not quite light particles, I thought, as I picked up my pace even more. God particles, maybe. Spirit energy, definitely.

Tree trunks flowed past me. Ferns and smaller bushes swept by. I picked up speed, hitting the trail hard and fast. I could have been on a rollercoaster. Up and down and around tight corners and through mud puddles, up steep slopes and down sharply angled trails that led down into ravines.

Faster, I ran. And faster.

I adjusted my footwork on the fly, supernaturally fast. I should have broken my ankle a hundred times over. Instead, I sidestepped small holes, rocks and tree roots. I pumped my arms and laughed and could have sworn that there were times that my feet didn’t even touch the ground. I could have been flying through the forest.

I knew I was grinning from ear to ear as I ran, but I didn’t care. No one could see me. I was in the deep, dark woods, which was only getting darker by the minute, although it was becoming more alive to me, alive with flashing light.

Critters scattered in my wake. I surprised two deer on the trail. I moved between them, smelling their musky coats, and hearing them dash off after I was dozens of yards past them. I could have grabbed one. I could have broken its neck. I could have feasted on it. And then what? I would have been covered in deer blood. But it would have been…exciting, invigorating, thrilling.

I pushed past the feeling and continued running. As much as I enjoyed fresh blood, I was enjoying this night run even more.

I found a trail that seemed to lead up, and up I went, higher and higher into the mountains, hurdling logs and boulders and running up a trail I was certain few humans had ever used. A game trail, surely. High above, the quarter moon appeared within a thick stand of Douglas firs.

How far had I run? Two or three miles? Five? Ten? I didn’t know, but I knew I was lost as hell…and I didn’t care.

Up I went, higher and higher, and, if possible, my speed seemed to only increase.

At one point, I finally did hit a hidden tree root, and I tumbled head over ass, skidding on my face. I got up, spitting out dirt and twigs and laughing. Nothing broken. I wasn’t even scratched. I dusted myself off, then started running again, zigzagging up the trail, knowing I was nothing more than blur to anything watching me, and feeling like I was on the ride of my life.

No wonder I was grinning like a fool, all the way up past the treeline, and over loose rocks and boulders until finally, finally I stood at the top of Old Greyback, the highest peak in the San Bernardinos. At 12,000 feet I finally stopped and looked down upon Southern California far, far below.

I wasn’t even out of breath.