Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

Instead of answering, he threw back his head and howled.

The scent of her fear called to his beast. He’d dreamed of this, of her, planned it, lived for it. He wanted Alexandra Trevalyn to understand what she had done, suffer for it a very long time, and there was only one way that could happen.

Julian’s body bowed as his spine altered. Bones crackled, joints popped; his nose and mouth lengthened into a snout. Hands and feet became paws, claws sprouted where finger and toenails had been. When he fell to the ground on all fours, golden hair shot from every pore. Last but not least a tail and ears appeared as he became a wolf in every way but two—human eyes in an inhuman face, human int

elligence in the guise of an animal.

“No one can shift that fast.” He swung his head toward the woman, who stared at him wide eyed.

Having once been a Jäger-Sucher, she had to know the basics. To paraphrase Shakespeare: There were more things in heaven and earth than could ever be dreamt of.

And Julian was one of them.

He had been born centuries ago, and with age comes not only wisdom but talent, at least to a werewolf. The older Julian got, the faster he changed.

He stalked toward her on stiff legs, ruff standing on end, upper lip pulled back. Her jaw tightened as she tried not to cringe, but her body wouldn’t obey her mind’s command. His hot breath cascaded over her arm, her neck, her face. She was helpless. He could do anything that he wanted. She knew it, and her fear whirled around him like a midsummer fog.

Had this been what Alana felt in the moments before she died? Or hadn’t she had a chance to feel anything before this child had shot her with silver, then watched her burn. A growl rumbled in Julian’s throat.

The girl tensed and shouted, “Do it!”

So Julian sank his teeth into her shoulder.

Alex refused to scream even though the pain was worse than anything she’d ever known. Multicolored dots danced before her eyes; then the world wavered, shimmered, and disappeared.

Hours, moments, seconds later, she came awake sputtering. Someone had thrown water into her face.

The werewolf, now in human form—he’d even gotten dressed—leaned over her, empty plastic bottle crunched in his huge hand. “Soon,” he murmured, “you’ll understand.”

Her shoulder on fire, she was weak, dizzy, feverish, but she remembered everything, and the horror of it almost made her retch.

“You bastard!” Alex shouted, pulling at her bonds. “You bit me.”

“You told me to,” he said.

“I didn’t. I’d never—”

“Did you or did you not shout, ‘Do it!’”

“I meant tear out my throat. Kill me.”

If a werewolf bit a human, the human become a werewolf. If the ravenous beast ate from its victim, blessed death was the result.

Her tormentor tilted his head, and his long hair slid across his neck, spreading outward like a golden fan. “You’d rather be dead,” he murmured, “than a werewolf.”

“Damn straight.”

“And my wife would rather have been a werewolf than dead.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “I guess you’re even.”

Frustration and fury welled within her. She yanked on her bonds again, and the cot rattled as she lifted first one side, then the other from the floor. She was already getting stronger.

“Let me go.” He did nothing but laugh. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want you to understand what you’ve done.”

“I killed monsters. Evil, demonic creatures that belonged in hell.”

“You killed wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, someone’s children. You think we don’t love? You think we don’t mourn?”