Nightstruck - Jenna Black Page 0,74

Luke wasn’t shy about showing his appreciation of my cooking skills had nothing to do with it. At least I told myself that, despite the glow of satisfaction in my belly every time he told me how great dinner was. Liking his praise so much sometimes made me feel a little needy, but hell, I’m only human. Being noticed and appreciated by someone you have a crush on can make for a nice little high, especially when you’re living in a time so full of lows.

That night, the lows started as soon as dinner was cleared. Dad was halfway up the stairs to his bedroom when Bob suddenly went stiff and bristly.

“Not again,” Luke groaned, and I silently agreed with him.

It was probably overly optimistic of me to think we might have a night of peace after Piper’s failed attempt to break in, but I’d hoped for it anyway. I’d hoped Dad could fall into bed right after dinner and sleep undisturbed until morning—something I doubted he’d be able to do if the house was under siege, even if he felt sure our defenses would hold.

Bob was snarling but not yet in full mad-dog mode, when there was an ear-piercing scream from outside. That set Bob off full tilt and made my stomach curdle. There was a crashing sound, like a bottle being broken, and then another scream. I could tell the person screaming was female, but that was all. I remembered what had happened to Mrs. Pinter, remembered finding her head propped against the side of the house across the way, and my knees went a little weak.

Luke reached over and took my hand, and I held on gratefully as we both stood there, frozen to the floor in the dining room. Most of me didn’t want to know what was going on outside. But another tiny part couldn’t stand the not knowing, couldn’t stop trying to piece together whatever clues could be found in the sounds that were now obviously approaching our house.

There were multiple voices, many of them laughing and raucous, taking obvious pleasure in the girl’s screaming. And when Bob had to pause in his barking to draw a breath, I was sure I heard the metallic clip-clop of the goat’s hooves.

Moments later, my dad descended the stairs at a brisk pace. His service weapon was tucked into a shoulder holster. He was carrying the SIG in one hand and a pump-action shotgun—something I hadn’t even known he owned—in his other. He handed me the SIG.

“Get upstairs, both of you,” he told Luke and me.

My dad had an unmistakable aura of command, and Luke responded to that command just like any of my dad’s underlings would. He started toward the stairs, tugging on my hand when I didn’t immediately follow.

There was another scream from outside.

“What are you going to do?” I asked my dad, hoping against hope he wouldn’t say what I thought—no, what I knew—he was going to say. The shotgun was not the weapon he’d choose to use inside our house unless absolutely necessary.

“I’m an officer of the law,” he told me. “There’s a crime being committed right outside my door.” He shrugged helplessly.

I shook my head, even as Luke tugged on my hand a little more urgently. My dad was the police commissioner. He was supposed to be way past the point when he actively put his life on the line. He was supposed to be safe.

“Don’t go out there,” I begged him. I knew it was an argument I was never going to win, knew that my dad was incapable of staying safely shut up inside while someone was being hurt practically on his doorstep. But if he was too tired to handle a hammer without hitting himself, then he was in no shape to handle whatever was happening outside.

“I have to, Becks,” he said simply, then looked over my head at Luke. “No matter what happens, you do not let her come after me. Understand?” He was using his command tone again, and once more Luke responded to it.

“Yes, sir,” Luke said. I wondered if he would have saluted if he weren’t holding my hand. “Come on, Becket,” he said quietly into my ear. “You know a losing battle when you see one.”

My heart was pounding, and my chest felt tight with fear. I couldn’t tell how many people were out there, except that Dad would be badly outnumbered. The shotgun might intimidate the Nightstruck—they were still only human, despite whatever