Marked by the Moon (Nightcreature 9)

When each has discovered all he or she needs to know, they meet at the local ball field, where they play catch and share info. It’s what they do, what they’ve always done, the single connection they’ve kept to the life that died with Janet.

By the time Alex and Charlie head into the hills that night, they believe they are on the trail of a standard werewolf. Stronger, faster, better than the average wolf, with human-level intelligence, but nothing unexpected. Nothing that will prevent them from killing it with the silver bullets they keep in their guns.

In her sleep, Alex stirred, hoping to wake up before the bad thing happened. She even heard herself whimpering, the way she’d whimpered when the night had gone still, and she’d realized she was alone and would be for the rest of her life.

It happens so fast. One minute they are moving through the trees, confident, sure, their rifles ready, their pistols, too, the next a figure steps out of the trees. That it steps, as in on two feet, causes her father, causes Alex, to hesitate, and that is their fatal mistake.

The werewolf takes Charlie down with one swipe of its massive paw. The claws, razorsharp, slice through his jugular with the ease of a sword through whipped cream. The spray of blood arches like a glistening black fountain across the silver moonlight, plopping against last year’s leaves like rain.

The monster shoves Charlie Trevalyn aside as if he is nothing more than a gnat in the way of a windshield wiper, before falling onto all fours and moving toward Alex with the flash of speed common to the breed.

Chapter 14

Julian had plenty of work to catch up on, but the moon called, and he was helpless to resist.

Not that he wanted to. The instant he stepped beneath the cool, silvery glow, he felt calmer. Since Alex had left, he’d felt anything but.

Hell. Since Alex had become like him, he’d been feeling a lot of things and calm wasn’t one of them. He was starting to believe that his plan for her might not have been one of his brighter ideas.

Gee, ya think?

Considering he continued to hear her mocking commentary in his head even when she wasn’t around…yeah, he thought.

Julian drew off his shirt, shucked his pants and everything beneath. Shadows flitted through the streets—woman-shaped, manshaped, wolf-shaped; his people had been marked by the moon just like him.

He jogged toward the tundra, the change rippling along his skin, warming him, soothing him. Often, when he had a seemingly unsolvable problem, clearing his mind and giving in to the wolf helped. By the time he came back from an all-night romp across this icy land with nothing in his head but the concerns of an animal, the answers to his all-too-human problems would be clear.

He raced through town; the buildings on either side of him became a blur as he gained superhuman speed. He would leap from the streets of Barlowsville as a man and land in the wilderness as a wolf.

Julian gathered his power, pushing off with his feet, reaching for his beast, and he heard a soft, heart-wrenching whimper.

He came dow

n hard but not on his paws; he ignored the burn of ice across his bare skin as he turned toward the sound. His gaze zeroed in on Ella’s house—dark, seemingly deserted, yet he knew it had been her.

The thought of what might make Alexandra Trevalyn whimper had Julian heading with equal speed back in the direction he’d come. Dozens of figures, in various stages of shape-shifting, brushed past him—a bizarre Wild Hunt beneath the Arctic night.

He was halfway up the front steps when he paused, tilted his head, and listened. Alex had come out the rear door, and from the sound of things, she was running for her life.

Julian leaped off the porch and sprinted for the back of the house, everything around him blurring in a pulse of panicked speed. They came around the corner at the exact same time and slammed into each other. Julian snatched Alex before she could fly backward and smash into the ground.

She fought, cursing and kicking, and he shook her. “It’s me, Alex.”

“I know,” she said, and slugged him.

He should have dropped her right then—on her head—but he couldn’t. Something was wrong.

She’d left the house unclothed, and it wasn’t because she wanted to join the village wolves for a nice, long lope. Her skin beneath his hands was like ice, not the usual fiery temperature that preceded the change. Instead she’d dashed out in a panic, forgetting her bra and pan ties, let alone a pair of shoes.

She continued to fight him, even though she couldn’t win. But naked, sweating despite the chill of the air and her skin, she was slippery. He lost his grip, and she tried to dart around him. He snatched her back and pressed her body between his and the house.

“What happened?” he asked. When one of her arms slithered free, and she raked her nails down his side, he took both wrists and yanked them above her head, pinning them to the wall along with the rest of her.

She stilled then, thank God. All that wriggling and squirming and struggling was exhausting.

“What happened?” he repeated, more gently than before.

Her chest heaved; her breasts rubbed against him in a manner that would have been provocative if she hadn’t been so obviously distressed.