Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

Julian jerked as if she’d slapped him. He’d known she didn’t care for the blood; she rarely ran beneath the moon unless she had to. And she really hadn’t made many friends beyond Cade and her gran. But he hadn’t realized she felt like this.

“Better dead,” she continued softly, “than an eternity of life without a family.”

“You have a family!” Julian shouted, frightened by her still, white face. “You have me. You have Cade. You have Margaret.” Although after the lie the old woman had told, she might not have her for very long. “You’ve got the whole damn town, Alana.”

Instead of fighting back—something she never did; he wasn’t certain she knew how—Alana had gotten out of their bed, dressed, and left the house.

Julian had let her go, figuring she’d gone to her gran. She’d come back; they’d talk, and everything would be all right.

But nothing was ever all right again.

Alex glanced at Barlow’s house, which remained pitch dark and still; then she crossed the distance between his place and the mysterious white complex.

The door had closed, but she figured she could probably break any lock known to man. Her strength in human form increased daily, along with her senses.

But in keeping with the theme around here, the door wasn’t locked. As she pulled it open, that lack suddenly made sense. What was the point to a dead bolt when everyone in town had the power to tear a door from its hinges? If anyone wandered in who wasn’t a werewolf—and considering the terrain, that was unlikely—they’d be damn sorry, and really surprised, if they tried to steal a single thing.

Inside, the building was like a fortress. Brick walls, cement floors, gray and white everything. Perhaps she’d stumbled into the prison, although she doubted they’d leave that door open.

She also doubted they had one. Knowing Barlow, he treated misbehavior the same way Edward did. Follow the rules or die.

The place felt deserted, yet she’d seen the man enter. Who was he? Why did he resemble Barlow, then again not? Why was he running through the night alone? Did he want to be taken for the rogue?

She opened her mouth to call out, then thought better of it when she smelled the blood.

Alex hurried down the hall, following her nose. Which was the only reason she didn’t see the man swinging the great big sword.

Luckily she heard it. A slight whistling whine coming toward her way too fast. Her instincts kicked in. She wasn’t sure if they were hunter or werewolf and she didn’t care when the sword clashed against the brick wall where her head had just been.

Alex, who had dropped to a crouch, kicked out, connecting with one of the man’s naked knees. All he wore were a pair of boxer shorts and a snarl. Something crunched, and he collapsed. The sword just missed braining her on the way down.

Alex snatched it out of the man’s hand and threw it as far as she could. The weapon slid along the floor, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, then bounced against the door she’d just come through and lay still.

She turned to her attacker just as he reached for her throat with both hands and caught him by the wrists, then yanked his arms wide. This brought his face in close to hers, and she saw that he had Barlow’s eyes.

“Sheesh,” Alex muttered, “who hasn’t he banged?”

With the crumpled knee he had very little leverage, and she was able to topple him onto his back with a simple shove. Then she got to her feet and planted an ugly rubber boot on his chest. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“Who the hell are you?” he returned.

Now that she got a good look, she wasn’t sure why she’d ever mistaken him for Barlow. The eyes aside—which she hadn’t seen until just now—his hair was darker, longer, messier. Besides being shorter, he was also vampire-pale and kind of weak looking. She was surprised he’d been able to lift that huge sword, let alone swing it.

Of course, he was a werewolf. He could bench-press a car if he wanted to.

“I asked you first.” Alex pressed her boot into his chest, and he coughed. She let up a little. These days she wasn’t sure of her own strength.

“You’re in my home. Get out.”

Alex laughed. “I don’t think you’re in any position to order me around. And if this is a home, you need a new architect. Badly.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Why was she here? She’d seen him, followed him, kicked the crap out of him, and now—

She sniffed, and the hair at the back of her neck ruffled as if a chill breeze had just swirled past. She could still smell the blood.

“What is this place?” she asked. “It’s not a home.” She shoved at his chest again with her foot. “Don’t bullshit me. I can smell the blood.”