Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

“I don’t need no stinkin’ airport,” the pilot answered in a very bad Speedy Gonzales accent.

Alex almost panicked—until she remembered she couldn’t die. Unless the vehicle was pure silver, and if so neither Barlow nor she would be flying in it. This damn-hard-to-kill thing was kind of liberating.

The pilot set the plane down on a gravel road that wound among towering pines. They climbed out; he waved and was gone.

“Now what?” Alex asked.

“Now we run.”

“Run?” She turned in a circle. All she saw was trees. “Where?”

“Two hundred miles.” Barlow pointed. “That way.”

Alex followed his finger, which pointed north and a little west.

What was it about this place that was so familiar? She closed her eyes for a second. Trees. Earth. Sunshine and shadow. Ice on distant mountaintops. The very air smelled like him.

“This is home,” she murmured.

When Alex opened her eyes, Barlow stared at her as if she’d just sprouted another head.

“What?” she asked.

He looked away. “The sun’s nearly down.”

“Great catch, Sherlock,” she muttered.

The way he watched her, so intent one minute, then dismissive the next, grated on Alex’s already taut nerves.

“I can’t run two hundred miles.”

“Yes.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “You can.”

“You mean—”

“Wolves can run forty miles per hour, cover a hundred and twenty-five miles in a day.” He tossed his shirt into the trees. “Werewolves are wolves, only better.”

Or worse, depending on your point of view.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, and soon the moon would appear. Round, seemingly full to the human eye, Alex still sensed the slight difference. She didn’t have to change, but oh, how she wanted to.

The howl startled her so badly she jumped. Barlow had already shifted and paced back and forth at the edge of the wood. The urge to join him was impossible to ignore.

Alex threw off the shirts, the shoes, the jeans, and let the cool silver hum of the moon surrounded her. The power poured into her. She reached for the wolf; her body contorted. She writhed and wriggled, struggled and strained. It took her a lot longer than it had taken him, but eventually she succeeded.

Then together they ran into the night.

Chapter 5

Julian ran until the stench of the city no longer filled his nostrils. Then he lay on the pine-needle-strewn ground and rolled until his fur smelled again like Alaska.

God, he hated leaving home. Which was damn funny considering he’d once done nothing but.

Julian had been born in Norway so long ago, his memories should have been hazy. Yet some were so clear they could have occurred yesterday. Burning and pillaging appeared to stay with a man for centuries.

Once his name had been Jorund the Blund. Julian shook his golden fur. Pine needles flew every which way. His hair, nearly white in his youth, and his height, tall even among Vikings, had marked him as different.

In battle, his men could see his pale head far above those of their enemies. Because of that, and his prowess with a sword, they’d followed him to the ends of the earth.