Shadow on the Moon Read online

  "You already have told me," he interjected quietly.

  "Okay," she continued. "Then let me tell you about hikes into wilderness so thick we had to hack our way through. You know what's back there? Grizzlies and wild boar so vicious they'd sooner slice you to ribbons than let you pass. Don't tell me about danger, mister. I know all about it."

  "This is Ebony Canyon, Dana."

  She stopped, regarding him intently for a second. Surely he didn't . . . "Don't tell me you believe those ridiculous tales?"

  An odd expression crossed his face. Was he hiding something or was he feeling chastened?

  God, she missed her wolves. A person could always tell what was going on with them.

  "Is that it?" she demanded. "You actually give credence to those legends?"

  "Of course not." He shook his head, sending his mane flying. At that instant, he seemed as feral as Blue, the wild wolf given over to her care about a year before.

  "What, then?"

  She placed a hand over a throb at her temple, which Morgan instantly noticed. He shot to his feet and lifted her bandage.

  "You've re-injured yourself. Another good reason not to go out at night."

  "I hate being cooped up," Dana said, by way of explanation. His hands were still cool and felt good against the ache.

  "No fresh blood." He resettled the swathe of cloth. "Let me look at your eyes again."

  "Oh, Lord, not the flashlight."

  He shook his head. "Just checking for dilation."

  Dana exaggerated the widening of her eyes, disappointed when she got no response from Morgan.

  "The pupils look fine. I think we can remove the dressing, make do with a simple Band-Aid." His expression grew vague and he lifted a strand of her hair. "Too bad, though. You look like an Indian princess. All you need are a few beads."

  A surge of self-consciousness swept over Dana. She hadn't combed her hair since she'd left Phoenix, and the unruly curls were as tangled as Aphrodite's coat.

  She touched his hand. "Don't. I'm a mess."

  "It's beautiful," he said softly. "Wild. Untamed. When were you born?"

  Although taken a bit by surprise, Dana answered without questioning why he asked. "December tenth."

  "So you're a Sagittarius," he murmured. "Born midmorning, I'd guess about ten?"

  "Ten twenty-three, actually. How did you know? Are you into astrology? I thought psychiatrists scoffed at that kind of thing."

  He blinked several times, as if he'd been in a fugue, and let her hair drop.

  "I dabble a bit." He picked up a pair of scissors from the bedside table, shuffled through the medical supplies until he came up with a wide adhesive strip, then gently pushed Dana down on the bed.

  "Look up," he directed. When Dana complied, he began clipping off the bandage. A few seconds later it fell in her lap.

  "That's a lot of blood," she said, grimacing. "I'm glad you noticed. Maybe you'll stop thinking you're indestructible."

  He grabbed the bottle of disinfectant, swabbed some on the cut, then peeled the backings off the adhesive strip. Dana rolled her eyes up, trying to watch Morgan as he worked. His touch, so gentle and caring when he tended her wounds, was at such odds with his frequent surliness, she sometimes felt there were two Morgan Wilders.

  When he was done, he stepped back, inspected his work, and scowled again.

  "You could get hurt a lot worse than this, Dana," he said gently. "Trust me when I tell you to stay inside after dark."

  "So the werewolves don't get me?"

  "What did you say?" He jerked his head sharply and stared into her eyes.

  "The werewolves." She pointed to the book lying on the covers.

  "Oh. You've been reading The Book." A weak grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Actually, I'm more concerned about vampires."

  "Me, too," she responded, with a return smile. "I've always hated bats." Wondering if this was the time to bring up her departure, she decided it was as good as any. "You don't need to worry, Morgan. The blizzard is over. When the sun comes up, you can take me back to my truck. I'll be out of your hair for good."

  And into the hair of all those government officials, if she had her way.

  "There's a fresh storm coming."

  She gave him an incredulous stare. "You can't know that."

  "Yes, I smell it. It's coming." A rueful look crossed his face the minute the words were out.

  Dana shook her head, wondering if he was teasing. "Come on, Morgan. Only animals can smell the weather, and there's even some question about that. You saw it out there. The sky is clearing. A great day's coming."

  "How about, my lumbago's acting up?"

  "Look." She pointed to the window, where morning rays peeked through. "Let's get my things together, hitch up the dogs, and go now. If you're right about the storm, you'll be back before it starts."

  Morgan got up, went into the cooking area, and started pumping water into a tin coffeepot. "Did you hear what I said, Morgan?"

  His hand paused over the pump and he turned to look at her sadly.

  "Yes, I heard." He pulled a can of coffee from one of the open shelves.

  "Well, you seem to be ignoring me."

  He carefully measured the grounds into the pot's basket.

  "Morgan!"

  With less care, he dumped in a couple more scoops, then turned to look at her.

  "There are skyscraper-high drifts out there, Dana. The trails are blocked. Even dogs can't travel over that kind of snow." He put the pot on the stove and lit a burner under it. "Let's see what tomorrow brings."

  Dana groaned. "But– No, that won't work. By then the highway patrol will be out sharpshooting wolves. They need me, Morgan."

  "Don't you think those cops can take care of themselves?"

  "Not the cops! The wolves!"

  Morgan had been acting as if his future hung on whether the coffee perked, but now he left the stove and walked over to her.

  "When are you going to get it?" He scowled down at her. "There are no wolves."

  "No, yes." God, she wished he wouldn't hang above her that way. "You're probably right. It's a wild-goose chase. But wouldn't it be incredible if there was a pack up here?"

  "Incredible?" He shrugged. "Okay. If it stays clear today, we'll try tomorrow. But I warn you, it may be the day after."

  "That's too late!" Dana stomped her foot, then felt instantly foolish when Morgan raised his thick eyebrows.

  "That's too late," she repeated weakly.

  "It's the best I can do."

  Morgan headed back toward the brewing coffee. The aroma filled the cabin, and he felt an urgent need to drink some. Normally he slept during the morning hours, but he didn't dare leave Dana alone. The minute he closed that bedroom door, she'd hightail it for her vehicle.

  She had huddled back under her blankets, and he felt a pang of sympathy. Like him, she was driven. Yet her motives came from concern for another creature. His, by contrast, came from obedience to sordid forces, and fulfilled nothing but his own dark needs. He stayed by the stove, keeping her in the edge of his vision, and noticed that her hand unconsciously dropped to The Lycanthropy Reader. It hadn't occurred to him that she might find it on his shelves among the mass of other books there, and he wasn't sure how he felt about her reading it.

  Maybe he should remove it sometime when she wasn't paying attention. On the other hand, this woman was a scientist. She probably viewed The Book as an entertaining fantasy. But when the inevitable moment came when he revealed his true self, her unwitting education might make it easier for her to accept the incredible and unbelievable sights of her own eyes.

  By the time the coffee deepened to a full-bodied brew, he had decided no harm could come if she continued reading. He reached for a couple of enamel cups. "Would you like some?" he asked.

  She nodded glumly. "Just black."

  A few minutes later, he carried the coffee to the bed, handed hers over, and sat in the chair. She circled her hands around t
he cup, rubbing them back and forth, apparently for warmth. When she lifted her arms to take a sip, the thin, waffled fabric of her thermal shirt tightened around her high breasts and revealed the nubs of her cold-hardened nipples.

  Lord, she was beautiful. Her green eyes stood out in startling contrast against her tanned face, and her dark hair tumbled everywhere, brushing her cheeks and her slender shoulders. Her legs were folded around her body with the gracefulness only a slim, toned woman could achieve. Morgan felt a surge of intense lust. He hadn't touched a mortal woman in that way since before the night of his transformation, and need was suddenly strong in him.

  He dared not let this happen. To risk this woman, when he'd just found her

  But he leaned forward, regardless, and traced a finger down the curve of her cheekbone. The skin beneath was smooth and firm.

  "I'm sorry it distresses you, but I don't control the weather."

  Her eyes widened in question, whether from his touch or his comment, Morgan couldn't say. She parted her full mouth, wrapped her hand around his finger. He felt an erection push against his zipper, aching to be released.

  "I really must leave today, Morgan."

  "I know you think so." He pulled back his hand, took a swallow of coffee, and wondered if she knew he exaggerated the difficulties of getting back to her vehicle. She was, after all, familiar with rugged country. But only four more days remained. If he could keep her here win her love

  "Does that mean you won't let me leave?" she asked accusingly, narrowing her eyes.

  The question pricked a tender spot Morgan thought had callused over long ago. His lust vanished instantly. For a moment there, feeling the human male's affection, the human male's need for a woman, he'd also felt his humanity return. Now all she'd left him was a wolf's instinctive need to hide its wound.

  "Let you leave?" He rose from the chair and glared down at her, gratified when she flinched subtly. "I have nothing to do with the weather. But if you want to blame me, feel free. What do I care?"

  He stomped to the stove and refilled his cup. As he watched the steaming brew spill out of the pot, he realized with a start that this was no way to win a woman's love.

  Chapter Eight

  "Oh, sweet Jesus!"

  Several of Schumacher's officers were emptying their guts on the ground. Others swore or cried out in shock. The captain's own stomach jumped wildly and he struggled to keep his breakfast down.

  He nearly lost the battle when he saw the hand with the gold ring still encircling one finger. Tearing his eyes away, he retched when he saw another object, tasted bile.

  Dear God, that was a man's thigh!

  "Deek," moaned a man doubled up near the edge of the clearing.

  It was the Fishman. Schumacher walked woodenly toward him, carefully keeping his eyes level, avoiding the carnage around him. When he reached the wildlife officer, he glanced down scathingly.

  "Can't even hold on to your guts long enough to do your job, can you?" Then he caught sight of a large roundish object and his stomach lurched again. He whirled away in horror.

  "It's Deek," choked out the wildlife man. "Deek."

  "Shut up!" commanded Schumacher. Bad enough to see a dismembered hand or leg. But a man's head — all frozen like that — with his terrorized eyes wide open in a blood-drained face. God almighty, what had done this?

  "Did you hear something?" asked the helicopter pilot, who'd remained unnervingly composed.

  Probably a Vietnam vet who'd seen worse, thought the captain. He shook his head. He heard nothing but the revolting heaves and gasps of his crew.

  "Over there," the man insisted, pointing to a cleft in a cliff.

  Fishman sat up and wiped his face with his sleeve. "Charlie. Maybe Charlie made it."

  "Check it out," Schumacher ordered, feeling an intense desire to regain control. "Get up and go with him, Fishman. If the other guy bought it, too, you can identify the remains."

  "Not sure my stomach can handle that." Fishman got up anyway, but before he followed the pilot, he said, "By the way, my name's Rutherford."

  Schumacher felt a moment of grudging respect. Not many men would chance finding a second friend in that condition. He knew he should turn to his other men, provide leadership, but instead he continued watching the two men. As they neared the opening, he finally heard something.

  "He-el-lp ."

  Weak, very weak, but someone was alive inside that crevasse.

  "Stretcher," Schumacher called out loudly. The entire team headed for the copter, leaving him alone among the rock fingers, which he almost feared would suddenly come alive. A fire pit in the center of the clearing gaped at him like an open hungry mouth. He smelled death in the air, heard the shrill whine of the wind and the whir of the distant helicopter, hated how they dulled a man's hearing.

  Something evil had done this. And it was still out there. Waiting. Watching. Was it even now—

  "Captain," shouted the pilot. "Over here."

  Schumacher broke into a lope and came across the men a few yards into the cleft, which he saw was actually a path to the top.

  "He's down there." Rutherford pointed to a narrow drop-off in the path, where a man was wedged into a crack far below.

  "His ankle's trapped."

  Schumacher turned to the pilot to do what he did best, give orders. "Go hurry up the others."

  "Yes, sir." The pilot pointed at the sky. "Good advice. If that storm hits, we'll be trapped here."

  The look of sheer terror on the man's previously implacable face was unmistakable and mirrored Schumacher's own.

  "Then tell them to move their asses," he barked, nearly jumping when his command echoed off the rocks around him.

  The pilot took off.

  Schumacher looked around, hunting for one more thing to control and saw nothing but bloodstained earth and body parts. He shuddered violently, then called after the retreating pilot. "Have someone stuff those remains into a carcass bag."

  "Not remains," corrected the trapped man in a voice low with pain and anger. "That's Deek. Deek Kowalski. He was my buddy. And some goddam monster tore him to shreds."

  Schumacher swallowed his anger. It would not look good to berate an injured man. Puffing up to his full five feet and almost seven inches of height, he forced a sympathetic tone he was sure would soothe. "Don't worry, son, we'll find those killer wolves and wipe them off the face of this earth. Count on it."

  "Yeah," Charlie replied scornfully. Then, to Schumacher's shock, he let out a maniacal laugh. He was still laughing when the men loaded him into the helicopter.

  * * *

  "Would you like to help feed the dogs?"

  Dana turned from the sink and smiled hesitantly, clutching an enamel bowl she'd been drying. While brooding about Morgan's stubborn refusal to take her back to her car, she'd decided he was one of those dour, depressed types. But ever since their disagreement he'd acted almost cheerful, whistling occasionally as he dished up some of the ever-present porridge and fried some bacon he'd pulled out of his propane-powered refrigerator.

  She'd been hungrier than she'd thought, and she ate quite a bit, then offered to clean up afterward, all the while wondering what had brought about this change in Morgan. Here he was, surprising her again.

  "You mean it?"

  "You aren't a prisoner here, Dana." He glanced at the window, which showed a bright morning already fading. "But if you want to go, hurry. The storm I warned you about is coming."

  Dana put away the bowl and hurried to the fireplace for the clothes she'd left there to dry.

  As she headed to the bathroom, Morgan said, "Those are still damp "

  "I'll live. They're all I have."

  He studiously eyed her long frame, which made her suddenly aware of her thin thermal shirt. She folded her arms over her breasts. A grin tugged at Morgan's mouth but failed to break through.

  "Maybe I can help you out." He went into his bedroom and came out a few minutes later with a down jumpsuit.
<
br />   "Try this."

  Dana pulled the suit on and zipped up.

  "Hardly a fashion statement," Morgan said. "But it should do."

  "No biggie. I’ve never been much for fashion."

  Then she glanced down and did a double take. The suit puffed out around her ankles and wrists and hung in loose folds down her body. She looked like a walking sleeping bag.

  "Wow! If I wore this in public, I'd get arrested for sure."

  "Sorry. There's no assortment of sizes."

  Morgan grinned as Dana waddled to her boots. When she shoved aside the excess fabric in order to sit on the stool, he gave out a chuckle. Dana instantly felt foolish, and a flush came to her cheeks.

  "For what it's worth," he said, "I think you look kind of cute."

  Although Dana questioned his judgment, his remark made her feel better. She picked up a boot and began tugging it on. "At least I won't get cold, which I'm sure will keep Dr. Wilder happy."

  "Glad you're thinking of me." His grin widened, and he bent to pick up a set of the metal snowshoes. "These will make the going easier than it was last night. Hmm, I could swear there was another pair in here."

  Dana looked up warily as he searched, knowing he was seeking the pair she'd hidden. Now that she'd overcome the shock of his mood change, she rather liked his smiles, liked hearing him laugh. If he noticed the adjustments she'd made to the snowshoe settings, he would realize what she had in mind, and his dour side would undoubtedly return.

  "Why do you have so many?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

  "Oh, trying this, trying that . . . Here they are."

  Dana's heart skipped a beat as he examined them.

  "How about that? These might fit you just like they are." He bent and slid them across the wood floor. "Try them."

  Dana latched them on, giving out a surprised exclamation when they turned out to be a perfect fit. He looked quite pleased, obviously fooled by her reaction.

  "That's a nice set. With those straight edges you won't be tripping over your feet." He grinned again. "Too bad I can't say the same for the snowsuit."