Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

Her ruff went up, her wary gaze flicked around the open space, and she caught the scent of something “other.”

Scents in this form were so precise, yet she had nothing to connect them to. She knew that once she could put an image with that scent, she would never again forget it. But right now all she felt was an intense urge to run. So she did.

Alex loped alone for miles, and that was fine by her. The less she saw of Barlow, the better. He wasn’t going to be able to ditch her. She could smell him on the breeze, the grass. Hell, even the snow—which had begun to swirl heavier and faster, obscuring the tops of the trees—smelled like him.

Then she caught a whiff of something else. Something that made her ruff go back up, along with her lip, and her snarl rumbled into the chill.

Blood.

It had a scent all its own.

Alex hunkered down, crept forward, belly to the ground. She tried to be quiet. But no matter what she did, one of her paws always landed on a stick or a stone—crack, clatter, come and get me.

She took another sniff. Not just blood but death. Dammit! She’d wanted to kill Barlow herself.

Strangely, the idea of him dead did not make her want to roll across the snow and yip with delight. Instead, panic caused her to pant. She turned a slow circle and saw nothing but trees.

A whimper escaped, and she swiped a paw at her snout in annoyance. Whining would get her nowhere.

She used her human mind, made herself see reason. Barlow couldn’t be dead. She hadn’t heard a shot. Not that a silver bullet was the only way to go.

Lighten up! she told herself. If Barlow were ashes she could go back to civilization, find Edward—yeah, right—and make him cure her.

Except no one made Edward do anything.

Alex was starting to catch a clue to something she hadn’t considered before. Even if she succeeded at this mission, would Edward cure her?

Why, when she made such a perfect spy?

She discovered she was gnawing on her own foot, as if caught in a trap.

Because she was. Damn Edward Mandenauer to hell.

Ferocity boiled inside. Consumed with the need to run and growl and fight, Alex shot out of the undergrowth.

All she found was a freshly killed rabbit, its blood a scarlet splotch against the pristine snow.

She finished dinner in less time than it had taken to “make” it. Though the “Alex” inside of her was squirming, the wolf enjoyed the meal. Nothing like fresh meat on an empty stomach.

When she was done she looked around for another, but she wasn’t the only one that had smelled blood and death on the breeze. It appeared every small, furry creature in the vicinity had turned tail and run. She didn’t blame them.

Alex trotted after Barlow. Miles upon miles she traveled, and the moon began to fall. She didn’t get tired, but she did get thirsty. Luckily there was plenty of snow, and in the distance she smelled water. A lot of it.

She increased her pace; the water was close, but she could already tell it wasn’t meant for drinking. Her nose was an amazing tool.

The trees became less dense, and she stood at their edge, gazing across the flat land that led to the sea. The glow of the moon banking across the ice floes dazzled her. A soft breeze bristled off the water, frozen and salty, making her think of margaritas. All she needed was a really big lime and an oil tanker of tequila.

The ice lifted and lowered, crashed against other floes and made a strange rumble, the only sound in the desolate land. She skittered beneath the trees. Everything was so different here.

The sky began to lighten, but that only served to send dancing gray shadows everywhere. She turned, planning to scurry into the densest part of the forest, and caught a flash of something huge and white. She barely managed to duck the claws that swiped for her head, then she was running.

Being chased by a polar bear has that effect.

How long had the thing been stalking her? She remembered the scent of “other” that she hadn’t been able to put a name to, the slight scritch of claws on snow that she’d written off as her own.

Hell, he’d been hunting her for hours.

Thank God in this form she was faster. He’d never catch her. Never.