Shadow on the Moon Page 4

  "Remember." He opened the door slowly. "My music's a bit odd. Pay no attention."

  How odd could a man's music be? Dana wondered as the door closed with an ominous click.

  She got up then, roaming aimlessly around the room. Without Morgan taking up so much space, she saw the cabin was bigger than she'd thought. Still, she felt trapped. She hated storms and the way they kept one boxed up, sometimes for days and days. On the other hand, this was Arizona, where storms usually blew over rapidly. And at least she was warm and dry and under a doctor's care.

  Her wanderings took her into the kitchen nook. The pan that contained the oatmeal was neatly covered on the stove. On the burner next to it, another covered pot simmered over a low flame. Dana lifted the lid, saw chunks of meat bubbling in a thick broth, inhaled the sent of rosemary and sage. Maybe she'd have some later, if she got hungry again.

  She replaced the lid and wandered toward the pegged rack where her parka hung alongside Morgan's winter wear. He certainly lived a simple existence, almost Quaker-like. He could also be surly enough. Although, considering he was burdened with an injured and unwelcome houseguest, she supposed he was treating her pretty decently. For heaven's sake, she couldn't have lasted twenty-four hours unconscious in that Ranger. When was she going to admit he'd saved her life?

  A vague saying floated to the forefront of her thoughts. Something about saving someone from death and thereafter being responsible for them all their life. The way Morgan hovered over her made her think he might believe something of that sort. Well, she'd discourage that line of thinking. Somewhere out there, a highway patrol team was waiting for a break in the storm so they could go out and sharpshoot some wolves.

  If they existed. She couldn't pinpoint what lay behind her unscientific conviction that the wolves were out there, being badly maligned by both government officials and the press. Everything she knew about the wolf told her that no pack could exist for this long without being discovered. Yet her instincts urged her to be there, make sure, protect those animals. And she couldn't do that languishing in a mountain cabin. Action was required, not introspection.

  It was then that she noticed several pairs of snowshoes stacked neatly beneath the rack. There were some traditional webbed shoes, but also two slim, modern metal sets. She picked up one of the sets and grabbed her boots, which were stored alongside Morgan's, then sat on a low stool near the door. After lacing up her boots, she fiddled with the adjustments on the snowshoes, eventually managing a perfect fit. Then she took them off and hid them behind the webbed shoes.

  She then went to her duffel bag, to see what in fact she'd packed in there. More long underwear, a set of nylon leggings, some thick socks. With the snowshoes to aid her, she could make the hike by herself. No matter what Morgan said, the minute the weather broke, she'd hoof it down the mountain.

  The decision made her feel more in control, but she remained restless. She wandered about, threw another log on the fire, stoked it, and continued to roam. Finally she stopped in front of the tall bookcase where Morgan had picked up the book he'd taken into his room with him.

  Fascinating reading, Dana thought. One section was filled from top to bottom with novels of all kinds. A host of survivalist books, on subjects ranging from planting organic gardens to using solar power, were crammed into another group of shelves. There were medical books and magazines and a section devoted to psychiatry.

  Strangely—she was usually more interested in the behavior of animals than that of men—this drew her attention. She saw books by Freud and Jung and other names she didn't recognize. Several had ominous titles: The Divided Self, Sanity, Madness and the Family, The Wolf-Man—Sixty Years Later. Leather slipcases held various publications. She picked up a case labeled American Journal of Psychiatry and took out an issue. It had been addressed to Morgan at a post office in Alpine, Arizona, and was over two years old.

  So he hadn't given up his devotion to psychiatry entirely. She wondered why he had left the field. She was about to pick up another magazine case when a small leather volume caught her eye. The spine was badly chipped and she couldn't make out the title, so she opened it to the flyleaf. The Lycanthropy Reader: The Wer-wolf in Moderne Times. Underneath was a publication date of 1826.

  Certainly a subject off the beaten track. She carried it to her bed and curled up to read.

  As she flipped to the first page, she heard a horrible moan. She bounced up like she'd been shot from a cannon, cringing from the ache her sudden motion caused. Several more moans and cries followed. She rushed to the window, sure the sounds had come from outside, and stared through the streaked pane. It was black out there, a dark swirling morass. Nothing could be seen, and with all that wailing wind, she was sure nothing could be heard.

  But still the moans and groans continued.

  Heart pounding, Dana raced to Morgan's door and lifted her fist. Just as she was about to knock, she realized the grotesque noises came from there.

  Morgan's music.

  How odd could a man's music be? She grinned wryly, thinking she'd never heard anything odder—or more unsettling.

  Feeling a sudden need for protection, she returned to the bed and cocooned herself in its layer of blankets. After a moment, she picked up the book.

  The wer-wolf, it opened, is the bane of all mankind. Caught in a blood frenzy akin to that of the loathsome shark, this vile mixture of man and wolf is driven to kill and maim by forces beyond its control. The urge is most irresistible on the eve of the full of the moon.

  With a raging storm outside, a fire blazing in the hearth, and the theme of the Marquis de Sade playing in the next room, Dana certainly couldn't have picked more fitting reading material.

  A short while later, still clutching the book, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Morgan stood outside the window and watched the firelight kiss the curves of the female's sleeping face. The flesh-splitting agony of alchemization had passed, as it always did upon assuming beast form. He felt strong now, relaxed yet alert, able to shift from werewolf to wolf, wolf to werewolf, in the blink of an eye. He was presently in the werewolf man-shape. Although it was less agile, it was much more powerful and felt more familiar

  His thick winter undercoat protected him from the swirling wind and snow, and his eyes, ears, and nose were keen. Night sounds, storm sounds, surrounded him, and he noted each and every sound distinctly, like a musician hears each instrument in an orchestra. Now he heard the female stir and he pricked up his ears, absorbing the slow, regular thump of her heart as it propelled rich blood deep into her body, then brought it up, close to the skin. He saw the tiny pulse in her exposed neck. Fragile, so fragile. How easily his sharp canines could—

  The wind began to ebb; the snowfall lightened. The smells inside drifted to his nose. He sniffed, caught the familiar aromas of smoke and venison. Beneath them were newer scents, feminine scents—thick and musky, laced with the sweetness of soap and lotion. His pulse quickened.

  How would it feel to hold her in his powerful arms, bend back her slender body, slice that smooth throat and feel her hot blood?

  The impulse brought back every agonized moment of the last five years. Before Dana's arrival he'd almost forgot his loneliness. Time had ceased to exist the moment he arrived in remote Ebony Canyon. Often it seemed Lily had bestowed this curse on him just yestereve. At other times, it seemed a cruel eternity ago.

  After Lily had worked her magic on that barren mountain, he'd ignored her directions to stay by her side and fled, covering ground with a speed that amazed him. Immune to cold, assailed by sights and sounds and scents he'd never known existed, he'd streaked through the icy night, between twisted trees and angry brambles, over rock and boulder, leaping, nearly flying, driven by dire and irresistible impulses he little understood, both savoring and despising his new form. He wanted blood, living flesh. He yearned to use his new and terrible teeth and claws.

  The next morning he'd shivered awake near
the base of the mountain, naked, his hands and face covered with blood, unable to remember where he'd gone, what he'd done. Lily was there, in human form, staring down at him with those huge dark eyes. She covered him with a thick fur robe, then took his hands and lifted him up.

  "Come," she said. "I'll teach you control."

  She led him to the little rental car, drove him back to Paris. He stayed with her nearly half a year. During that time, he learned to shape-shift at will, rather than allowing it to come unbidden upon him. But searing pain continued to accompany his alchemization.

  "It's because you resist your new nature," Lily told him.

  Morgan knew she was right and also knew he wouldn’t change. He never wanted to surrender his last remnants of humanity.

  Never, he vowed. Never.

  Finally he left her. She'd tried to stop him, invoking Lupine Law.

  "I am an alpha female, Morgan. I've claimed you as my mate and you cannot refuse."

  "Oh, but I can, Lily. I can."

  * * *

  He’d boarded a plane to New York, ran from her as if his life depended on it.

  Morgan's muzzle contracted into a wolfish grin. As if his life depended on it.

  The last thing he needed worry about. He'd acquired what most humans only dreamed of. A lifetime of several hundred years. Heaven on earth, some would say.

  If only they knew it was actually hell.

  The female sleeping inside his cabin made his hell even worse. He'd relished touching her as he tended her wounds, listening to her breathe, feeling the smooth texture of her skin. A warm, living human woman from the race that once was his. A woman to redeem him.

  Dana Gibbs?

  Such a common name for such an uncommon woman. Although she appeared vulnerable and helpless, huddled on the narrow bed, he knew differently. If ever an alpha female existed, she was Dana. Passionate, opinionated, independent, fighting for her own. Her head surely ached like hell when she first came out of her coma, but all she thought about was protecting her wolves.

  Wasn't that ironic?

  Morgan looked up in despair, wanting to pray to a God he no longer believed existed. The clouds had broken, leaving fuzzy holes through which peeked a pale ghost moon. To unschooled eyes, it would seem full. Yet it was not. Madness was still five days away. Time enough? Perhaps. But then again .

  Morgan howled in helpless protest.

  The woman inside tossed beneath the blankets.

  For a little while longer, Morgan watched her sleep, then changed to wolf form, whirled, and ran across the deep snow into the forest.

  * * *

  It wasn't long before Charlie wished he had that Playboy himself. How much time did a man need to take a dump? God, he wished they'd never sent him to this freaking mountain. He'd seen one of those bodies, and whatever did that was—something else, that's what. Maybe something the grandfathers spoke of.

  An unpleasant vibration swept through his body and Charlie picked up the speaker, trying to hail the base camp again. He got no response.

  The humming generator and buzzing radio masked any outside sound. Charlie glanced out the windshield. Although the moon was again tucked behind clouds, he could see that it still wasn't snowing, and he desperately wanted to try to leave.

  But where the hell was Deek?

  Charlie waited another ten minutes or so, afraid the snow would start again at any minute. Finally, and reluctantly, he pulled on his parka and boots, grabbed another flashlight, and opened the door on a night as cold as death. Animals scurried away in the wake of his beam. His breath vaporized, then vanished into the black night. Wind rushed in his ears.

  He found a path framed by snow-laden trees and moved forward, feeling as if he were stepping into some dark mouth.

  "Deek?" He searched for his friend's telltale beam, saw no light except his own, so he kept on walking. The night seemed eerily quiet. No sounds except the crunch of his feet on the underbrush. When his flashlight on a sudden drop-off that ended the trail stopped short.

  Oh, Great Spirit!

  What if Deek had fallen? Between the wind and the noisy equipment in the van, Charlie wouldn't have heard him scream. He moved forward cautiously and swept his beam beyond the rim. It fell on a cluster of blackened stalagmite-like formations.

  He leaned over the ledge and saw a clearing about a hundred feet down. To his left was a narrow footpath. Surely Deek wouldn't have climbed down there just to take a dump. He cupped his hands over his mouth and called Deek's name. He was about to turn away when he saw a narrow beam of light streaking along the rocky path below.

  Deek's flashlight? Why hadn't that damn fool just found himself a tree like normal folks? Sighing, and heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit, Charlie headed toward the footpath. Just as he'd taken his first step down, a scream cut through the silent night.

  Charlie scuttled back, smacked into a tangle of brush and fell. Ignoring the prickly thorns, he doused his flashlight and scrambled deeper into the underbrush.

  A sickening gurgle, much like that of a clogged drain, followed the scream. Charlie folded against the earth, clapped his hands against the sides of his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead and formed into icy crystals that stung his skin. Fighting a wave of nausea and the nearly overwhelming need to urinate, he forced himself to sit up.

  Where was Deek?

  Berating himself for cowardice, he urged his quaking body on and crawled from his hiding place. When he rose, he drew his sidearm.

  Just a hawk killing a rabbit, he told, himself over the blood drumming in his ears.

  But rabbits were nocturnal.

  A mouse, then.

  Must be a helluva mouse to scream that loud. Charlie's blood raced faster, pounding his eardrums.

  A giant killer mouse, waiting to have him for dinner.

  A maniacal laugh bubbled in his throat and he cut it off sharply, terrified of being heard by who-knew-what. He couldn't see the hands in front of his face, it was so dark. Maybe he'd just hightail it back to the van. It was just a dying mouse; Deek was fine, would return any second. No question about it. But this was all his fault. If he hadn't insisted on Deek going outdoors . . .

  Christ, he never knew a man's breath could be so loud! He forced himself to calm down. Soon he became aware of other sounds around him, sounds not his own. The trees moved overhead, humming like living entities. The Winged Ones and Four-leggeds hooted, scurried, whistled, and crept among the Stone People. Damn the grandfathers for filling his mind with supernatural nonsense.

  He forced one rigid foot forward, then another, and marched like a wooden soldier back to the footpath. Unwilling to risk using his flashlight, he followed the narrow beam of light on the path and prayed the moon would reappear. When he reached the clearing, he hesitated, swinging his pistol in front of him.

  "Deek?" His call came out as a squeak.

  A single step would take him out in the open, unprotected. Coiled with tension, he squeezed the handle of his pistol hard, ready to pull the trigger, shoot at anything that moved.

  Then the thunderhead slid off the moon. Large and close, it flooded the clearing with silvery light. But soon it would hide again, and that knowledge impelled Charlie to action.

  He entered the clearing and scanned it quickly. Large and circular, it was dotted with black Stone People and bordered on two sides by high granite walls. Clusters of frost-deadened weeds shimmered silver in the wind, and stands of whispering trees surrounded the remaining sides.

  At the center of a wide, barren ring that appeared man-made was a stone fire pit with logs and kindling scattered haphazardly around it. A place for picnics, thought Charlie. For playing baseball and romping with children and dogs.

  At ten thousand feet? Few would hike this far for a family outing.

  Maybe Deek had stumbled on the clearing and decided to check it out. That was just like the bastard, to explore a new campsite during a break in the worst storm in a decade. The thought comforted Charlie a
nd he found the courage to call his friend's name again.

  The flashlight didn't move.

  "Stop horsing around, Deek."

  A sudden wind gust swept the clearing, sparking a flickering tongue of white-orange inside the pit. The fire burst to life, filling the shadows with light.

  Charlie's stomach lurched. A low moan escaped his throat.

  "Deek?" he whimpered, trying to tear his eyes away from what he saw.

  What he'd thought to be logs were

  Body parts. An arm, a leg, another leg. Dark stains, colorless in the weak light, smeared the earth.

  Charlie's weapon slipped away. His legs collapsed. He fell forward with arms outstretched, flattening his palms against the earth like a pagan paying homage to the moon. Spasms tore his body and he dumped out the remains of his supper, idiotically grateful he hadn't eaten any Cheetos. Wave after retching wave swept through him, and he clutched the brittle grass, vainly attempting to control himself.

  Eventually, the spasms passed. Charlie lay very quiet. The acrid, dying smell of winter filled his lungs. He felt the dry texture of lifeless grass against his wind-chilled cheek.

  Finally he became acutely aware of his own danger. He lifted his head, seeking his fallen weapon, saw it at the edge of the fire ring. Feeling safer and suddenly angry, he sat up, swiped a fist across his mouth before planting it on the ground to lever himself up.

  What was he hanging on to? He slowly uncurled his fist, saw a fabric scrap crushed in his hand. Dully, he turned the scrap over, unsurprised when he saw an Arizona state seal with the words Fish and Game Department embroidered in the center.

  Deek's uniform patch. Ripped away, neat and clean.

  Charlie welcomed the numbness that fell upon him as he stared. Now he felt only a basic instinct to survive. His senses heightened, he became keenly alert.

  Something was coming

  The fire sputtered, flared, sputtered again, sending up spirals of smoke as it died. The moon slithered quietly into a bank of clouds. A low, steady rustle came from the woods.