Blue Moon (37 page)

I
DIDN
'
T EVEN
ask Richard if we were leaving town for real. I knew the answer, and frankly, I was with him. On the off chance that Niley was right and the spear was here, we couldn't let him have it. But it was more than that. Richard had drawn a line in the sand; good versus evil. Good can't tuck tail and run. It's against the rules.

It took about three hours for us to pack and pretend to leave town. We put Jamil in the back of the van with a coffin on either side of him to keep the stretcher from sliding around. Nathaniel had managed to get his lower back sliced up defending my honor. Though he admitted that he hadn't been fighting so much as getting in the way of an eager werewolf. However it happened, he got to ride in the back with the injured, probably stretching on top of a coffin, for all I knew. Cherry rode in back with them—I think to act as a peace officer. Jamil didn't seem to like Nathaniel much. I drove the van. Richard followed in his four-by-four with Shang-Da, and all the equipment he'd brought for an entire summer of camping and studying large primates. Everybody else rode with me.

Sheriff Wilkes sent Maiden and Thompson to escort us out of town in a black and white, or in this case, a blue and white, but the effect was the same. Thompson waved merrily as we drove past them out of the city limits. It would have been childish to give him the finger, so I didn't do it. Zane did it for me. Jason blew them a kiss.

We drove for over an hour to a prearranged rendezvous with Verne. We couldn't all stay at one house. Too many new people might raise suspicions, so we divided up. I didn't like it, but I had to agree that all together we made too good a show.

I ended up driving to Marianne's house. I rode in the back
of her truck with Zane, Cherry, and the coffins. Nathaniel got to ride in the truck cab because of his claw wound. Zane's gunshot wound seemed to be healing a lot faster than the claw marks. I wasn't sure if it was because Nathaniel was a slow healer or if bullet wounds just healed faster than claws.

The open bed of the truck was a very rough ride. I wedged myself in the corner near the cab, with Damian's coffin pressed against my ribs. If I pressed my head back against the truck to brace my neck, my teeth rattled. If I sat up more, my neck snapped with every pothole. It was like an endless beating, until my bones thrummed with it and I had a headache the size of Idaho in the middle of my forehead. The sun was like a smear of yellow fire in the sky. It beat down unblinking, unrelenting, until sweat ran down my face and arms.

Zane was in the corner opposite me, shoved against Asher's coffin. His black T-shirt had molded to him like a sweaty second skin. Cherry had chosen a white T-shirt today. The reddish dust of the road clung to the white material and mingled with the sweat until it was like dried blood.

My hair had turned into a mass of sweaty ringlets. Not those cute Shirley Temple ringlets. Nothing that neat, just a curled mess. Zane and Cherry's hair just lay slick and flat against their heads.

The three of us made no effort to talk. We settled into the heat and bone-jarring ride like it was a kind of coma, something to be endured rather than shared.

The road spilled onto a paved road, and the sudden smoothness was almost startling. I could hear again.

“Thank God,” Cherry said.

Marianne yelled back to us, “Car coming, hide.”

We all wiggled under the top layer of the tarp covering the coffins. There was a second tarp and ropes underneath me. The tarp smelled musty and dry. It was a toss-up whether it was cooler because of the shade or hotter because of the lack of air. I thought I heard a car go by in a spill of gravel, but Marianne didn't tell us to get up, so I didn't. I could see Zane through the hot dimness. We looked at each other with dull eyes; then I smiled. He smiled. It all started to be funny. You just reach a level of discomfort where you either scream or laugh.

The truck lurched to a rattling stop. In the sudden silence I
could hear Zane laughing. Cherry's voice came clearly, “What in hell is so funny?”

“We're home, boys and girls,” Marianne said. “You can come out now.”

Zane and I crawled out into the open air, still giggling. Cherry frowned at both of us. “What is so funny?”

We both shook our heads. You either got the joke, or you didn't. It could not be explained, not even to ourselves.

Marianne came to stand near me. “I'm glad to see you're in a better mood.”

I ran my hands through my hair and could almost squeeze the sweat out of it. “Might as well be in a good mood. The day's not going to improve.”

Marianne frowned. “Pessimism is unbecoming in one so young.”

She stood there, looking cool and collected, wearing a sleeveless white shirt tied off at the waist. It wasn't a midriff but gave the illusion of one. A pair of pale blue shorts and flat, white tennis shoes completed the outfit. Her pale hair was in a bun. The hair was all streaks: silvery grey, pale blond, and white. Fine lines showed at her eyes and mouth that hadn't been visible last night. Over fifty, but like Verne, her body was still thin and firm. She looked cool, comfortable, and far too clean.

“I need a shower,” I said.

“I second the motion,” Cherry said.

Zane just nodded.

“Welcome to my home,” Marianne said.

The truck was parked in a gravel driveway of a two story white house. The house had yellow shutters and a pink climbing rose up one side of the front porch. There were two tubs of white and pink geraniums at the bottom of the wide porch steps. The flowers were lush and well watered. The yard was brown and dying in the summer heat. Actually, I approved. I didn't believe in watering grass. A small flock of speckled hens pecked in the dry dirt of the yard.

“Nice,” I said.

She smiled. “Thank you. The barn is over that way, hidden by the trees. I've got some dairy cows and horses. The garden's behind the house. You'll be able to see it from your bedroom.”

“Great, thanks.”

She smiled. “Why do I think you don't care about my tomato crop?”

“Let me take a shower, and I'll care,” I said.

“We can unload the coffins, then your two wereleopards can take a bath. I hope there's enough hot water for three baths. If two of you could double up, it would conserve water.”

“I'm not sharing,” I said. I looked at Cherry.

She shrugged. “Zane and I can share.”

It must have shown on my face, because she added, “We aren't lovers, Anita. Though we have been. It will be . . . a comfort to touch each other. It's not sexual. It's . . .” She looked at Marianne, as if for help.

Marianne smiled. “One of the things that binds a pack or a pard into a unit is touch. They touch each other constantly. They groom each other. They care for each other.”

I shook my head. “I'm not sharing a bathtub.”

“No one is asking you to,” Marianne said. “There are many ways to forge a pack bond, Anita.”

“I'm not part of the pack,” I said.

“There are many ways to be part of the pack, Anita. I have found my place among them, and I am not lukoi.” She left Zane, Cherry, and me to unload the coffins while she took Nathaniel off to lie down. Cherry and Zane helped stow the coffins in the basement, then went off to take their communal bath.

The entrance to the basement was outside, like an old-fashioned storm cellar. The back door was all screen and wood. It clanged loudly as the wereleopards went inside. Marianne met me at that door, stepped through that door, and blocked my way.

She was smiling and calm and seemed at peace in the center of her universe. Just seeing that content look on her face made me itchy and uncomfortable. Made me want to scream and lash out until her universe was as messy as my own. How dare she be content when I was so confused?

“What is so very wrong, child? I can hear your confusion like bees buzzing in the walls.”

There was a stand of pine trees near the back of the house like a line of soldiers. The air smelled like a perpetual Christmas. I usually like the smell of pine, but not today. I just wasn't in a Christmas mood. I leaned against the weathered boards of the house, while she stayed on the small back porch looking down at me.

The Firestar dug into my back. I pulled it out and shoved it down the front of my jeans. Fuck it if somebody saw.

“You saw Verne,” I said.

She looked at me, grey eyes calm, unreadable. “I saw what you did to his neck, if that is what you mean.”

“Yeah, that's what I mean.”

“Your mark on his neck proves two things to all of us. That you consider yourself his equal—no small boast—and that you are not happy with his hospitality to date. Are either of these untrue?”

I thought about that for a moment, then said, “I don't acknowledge anyone as dominant to me. Maybe they can beat the shit out of me or kill me, but they're not better than I am. Stronger doesn't mean better or more dominant.”

“There are those who would argue with you, Anita, but I am not one of them.”

“And no, I'm not happy with the hospitality to date. I destroyed most of Colin's vampires for you guys. Verne was pleased as punch, but he still didn't let me have my guns last night. If I'd had my guns last night, then the bad guys wouldn't have nearly killed Jamil and Jason and Zane—hell—and me.”

“Verne regretted last night or he would not have offered himself to you.”

“Great, fine, but I didn't mean to mark him. I didn't mean to do it. Do you understand, Marianne? I didn't do it on purpose. Just like last night with the munin, this morning I wasn't in control. I was seduced by the scent of blood and warm flesh. It was . . . creepy.”

She laughed. “Creepy? Is that the best word you can come up with, Anita? Creepy. You are the Executioner and a force to be feared, but you are still so . . . young.”

I looked up at her. “You mean naive.”

“You are not naive in the sense that it is usually meant. I am sure you have seen more blood and death than I have. It stains your power, this violence. You both attract it and pursue it. But there is something about you that stays fresh and somehow perpetually childlike. No matter how jaded you grow, there will always be a part of you that would be more comfortable saying ‘golly' than ‘goddamn.'”

I wanted to wiggle under the intensity of her gaze, or run. “I
am losing control of my life, Marianne, and control is very important to me.”

“I would say that control is one of
the
most important things to you.”

I nodded, my hair catching on the peeling paint of the house. I pushed away from the boards to stand in front of her in the dusty yard. “How can I get back control, Marianne? You seem to have all the answers.”

She laughed again, that wholesome-bedroom sound. “Not all the answers, but the answers you seek, perhaps. I know that the munin will come for you again. It may be when you least expect it or when you need your precious control the most. It may overwhelm you and cost the lives of people you hold dear as it could have last night. All that saved Richard from having to kill to get to you was Verne's intercession.”

“Raina would love that, to drag one of us down to the grave.”

“I felt the munin's pleasure in destruction. You are attracted to violence, but only as it serves a greater purpose. It is a tool that you use well. Your old lupa was attracted to violence for its own sake, as a destructive thing. Destroying was what she was about. It is nicely ironic that someone so dedicated to negativity was also a healer.”

“Life is just full of little ironies,” I said. I didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“You have a chance to make her munin, her essence, into something positive. In a way, you might help her spirit work through some of its karma.”

I frowned at her.

She waved her hands. “My apologies. I'll keep the philosophy to a miniumum. I believe I can help you call and tame the munin. I believe that together we can begin to harness all the different kinds of power you are being offered now. I can teach you to ride not just the munin but this master vampire of yours, and even your Ulfric. You are their key to each other, Anita. Their bridge. Their feelings for you are part of the binding that has been wrought between the three. I can make you the rider and not the horse.”

There was a fierceness in her face, a force that made my skin react. She meant what she said; she believed it. And strangely, so did I.

“I want to control it, Marianne, all of it. I want that more than almost anything right now. If I can't stop it, I want to control it.”

She smiled, and it made her eyes sparkle. “Good; then let's begin with our first lesson.”

I frowned at her. “What lesson?”

“Come into the house, Anita. The first lesson is waiting for you if your heart and mind are open to it.” She went back inside without waiting for me.

I stood there for a moment in the summer heat. If my heart and mind were open to it. What the hell did that mean? Well, as the cliché goes, only one way to find out. I opened the screen door and walked inside. Lesson number one was waiting for me.

M
ARIANNE LED ME
to the room where she'd settled Nathaniel. It was a large bedroom downstairs. Hours earlier, the room would have been filled with morning light, but now, at nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, the room was dim, almost dark. The window was open, and a breeze had finally found us, spilling the white lacy curtains into the room. A small oscillating fan sat on a kitchen chair so the fan could cool the bed. The wallpaper was off-white with a fine line of pink flowers. There was a large brown water stain in the corner of the ceiling like a giant Rorschach ink blot.

The bed was a brass four-poster that had been painted white. The bedspread was quilted and looked homemade with a lot of purple- and pink-flowered fabric. Marianne had folded the bedspread and placed it on top of a large cedar chest that was under the window. “Too hot for quilts,” she'd said.

Nathaniel lay naked on the pink sheets. Marianne tucked the sheets to the tops of his thighs, patting his shoulder in a motherly sort of way. I would have protested his state of undress, but I could see the wounds clearly for the first time.

Something with claws had swiped him wide and deep, starting about the middle of his back and slashing downward across the right side of his buttocks. The wound was deep and ragged on his back, growing more shallow as it worked down his body. It must have hurt to have clothes over it, hurt a lot.

I was surprised that Nathaniel hadn't flashed me his wounds earlier. He usually went to great lengths to show me his body. What had changed?

Marianne pointed to the phone beside the bed. “In case your police friend calls you. I've got a cordless phone for normal calls, but I use the bedside phone for pack business.”

“So no one can accidentally monitor the cordless phone,” I said.

Marianne nodded. She walked to the vanity, which had a heavy oval mirror and marble knobs on the drawers. “When I was a little girl and I was hurt or lonely, especially when it was so hot, my mother would unbraid my hair and brush it. She'd brush it until it lay like silk down my back.” She turned with a brush in her hands. “Even now, when I am low, one of my greatest pleasures is for some friend to brush my hair.”

I looked at her. “Are you suggesting I brush your hair?”

She smiled, and it was bright and charming, and I didn't trust it. “No, I am suggesting you brush Nathaniel's hair.”

I kept staring at her. “Come again?”

She walked towards me, offering me the brush, that too-cheery smile on her face. “Part of what makes you vulnerable to Raina is your own squeamishness.”

“I'm not squeamish.”

“Prudishness, then,” she said.

I frowned at her. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that every time one of the lycanthropes disrobes, you get embarrassed. Every time one of them touches you, you take it sexually. That isn't always what they mean. A healthy pack or pard is built up of a thousand gentle touches. A million small comforts. It's like building a relationship with a boyfriend. Every touch builds and strengthens it.”

My frown deepened. “I thought you said it wasn't sexual.”

It was her turn to frown. “A different metaphor then. It is like building your relationship with a newborn baby. Every touch, every time you feed him when he's hungry, change him when he's wet, comfort him when he's frightened—the everyday intimacies forge a bond between you. True parenthood is built over years of interdependency. The bond between the pack is built much the same way.”

I glanced back at the bed. Nathaniel was still lying there naked except for the sheets on his legs. I turned back to Marianne. “If he was a newborn baby, I'd be fine with him being naked. I might be afraid I'd drop him, but I wouldn't be embarrassed.”

“And that is precisely my point,” she said. She held the brush out to me. “If you could control the munin, you could heal his wounds. You could take his pain.”

“You're not suggesting that I purposely try to call Raina?”

“No, Anita. This is the first lesson, not the graduation exercise. Today, I simply want you to begin to try and be more comfortable around their nudity. I believe that if you can desensitize yourself to the more casual sexual situations, that Raina will have less hold on you. You draw away from situations like this, and that leaves a void, a place where you will not go willingly. So Raina spills into that void and forces you to go much farther than you would have gone on your own.”

“And what good will brushing Nathaniel's hair do?”

She held the brush inches from me, arms folded. “It is a small thing, Anita. A thing to give him comfort while we wait for Dr. Patrick to come. Patrick will give him a local for the pain, but sometime before he is finished stitching him up, the painkiller will wear off. Their metabolism is too fast for a local, and giving more than that can be tricky. It can be deadly in one with such a low aura of power as Nathaniel.”

I stared up at her, meeting those calm, serious grey eyes. “You're saying that he'll be stitched up without a painkiller.”

She just looked at me.

“And that's my fault because I could heal him if I could control the munin.”

Marianne shook her head. “It is not your fault, Anita, not yet. But the munin is a tool like your guns or your necromancy. Once you learn how to control it, it can do wonderful things. You must look at the ability to call the munin not as a curse but as a gift.”

I shook my head. “I think you've exceeded the lesson for the day, Marianne.”

She smiled. “Perhaps. But take the brush, do this one small thing. Not for me. Not for Nathaniel, but for yourself. Take back that piece of you that looks away from his body. Give Raina less ground in your heart.”

“And if I can't help being embarrassed or thinking sexual thoughts and Raina comes up and tries to eat me, what then?”

Marianne's smile widened. “Then I will help you, child. We will all help you. That is what a pack is for.”

“Nathaniel isn't lukoi any more than I am,” I said.

“Lukoi or pard, it makes no difference to you, Anita. You are queen of both castles. Growing comfortable with one will help with the other.”

She actually took my hand and pried it out from under my
elbow. She put the hairbrush in my hand and closed my fingers over it. “Be with him, child. Wait for your phone call. Answer only the bedside phone. Only pack will call that number. You can't possibly answer my other phone because you are in another state. Do not answer the door, either.”

“You sound like you're going somewhere,” I said.

“You must learn to be comfortable around your people, Anita. That means without me looking over your shoulder.”

She pulled me towards the bed by the arm. She tried to make me sit on the bed, but I just didn't bend with it. Short of pushing me onto the bed, she had to leave me standing.

She tsked at me. “Stand here and do nothing. It is your choice, child, but at least stand here.” She left.

I was left standing in the middle of the room where I'd followed her, like a child not wanting to be left alone on the first day of school. The brush was still in my hand. The brush looked as antique as the rest of the room. It was wooden but painted white with a shine of varnish. The varnish had a webbing of cracks but held. I ran the pale bristles over the back of my other hand. They were as soft as they looked, silken like a baby's brush. I had no idea what the bristles were made out of.

I glanced back at Nathaniel. He was watching me out of those eyes of his. His face was neutral as if it didn't matter, but his eyes weren't neutral. They were tight, waiting for the rejection, waiting for me to leave him alone in the strange room, naked and waiting for a doctor to come and stitch him up. He was nineteen, and lying there with that raw look in his eyes, he looked it. Hell, he looked younger. The body was great. When you're a stripper, you've got to take care of yourself. But the face . . . the face was young and in the same gaze old. Nathaniel still had the most jaded eyes of anyone I'd ever met under the age of twenty. No, not jaded, lost.

I walked around to the far side of the bed. I laid the hairbrush on the pillow on the empty side of the bed.

Nathaniel moved just his head, turning to look at me. No, to watch me. He watched me like every movement was important. It was a level of scrutiny that made me want to squirm or blush or run. It wasn't exactly sexual, but it wasn't exactly not sexual, either.

No matter what metaphores Marianne used, this was not the same thing as caring for an infant. Nathaniel was young, but he
was definitely not a child. At least not childlike in the way that would have made this comfortable.

I slipped off the short-sleeved shirt. There was no one to see the shoulder holster, and it would be cooler. Of course, it would really be cooler if I took off all the guns and the spine sheath, but I wasn't that hot. I did lay the Firestar under the pillow. It had a short enough barrel to sit or lie down with it, but there is no such thing as a truly comfortable gun to wear if you're lounging around. Guns aren't designed for comfort. It's one of the few things that are worn, mostly by men, that are as uncomfortable as a pair of high heels.

I crawled onto the bed, kneeling, still not within touching distance. He was so easily hurt that I had to say it out loud. “I'm not upset with you, Nathaniel. I just don't like playing student.”

“You like Marianne, but you resent her,” he said.

That made me blink a couple of times and stare at him. He was right, and it was more perceptive than I'd ever expected from Nathaniel. Hearing him say something that smart made me feel better. If there was a brain in that body, then he wasn't just a submissive mess. And maybe, just maybe, he was salvageable, saveable. It was the most positive thought I'd had all day.

I crawled to Nathaniel's side, brush in hand. I stared down at him stretched across the bed, eyes watching me. The look in his eyes stopped me. It was too intense.

Maybe he sensed it, because he turned his head back so that I couldn't see his face. All I could see was all that long, auburn hair. Even in the dim light, it was an incredibly rich color. The darkest auburn I'd ever seen that was still truly auburn and not brown.

I smoothed my hand through his hair. It was like heavy silk, warm to the touch. Of course, that could have just been the room. The fan swept over the bed, ruffling the sheets, passing like a cool hand over my back. Nathaniel's long hair stirred in the fan's caress, the sheet over his thighs blowing like a hand had moved them. He shifted as the fan passed over his bare body. Then stillness. His hair, the sheet, everything utterly still while the fan made its circuit. It swept back, spilling over everything in reverse; the pink sheets, Nathaniel's hair, my chest this time, blowing my own hair back from my face, then past us, and the heat wrapped around us like a suffocating hand.

The breeze from the window had died. The white curtains lay like a painting until the small fan spilled over them. I knelt in the hot room with the only sound the whir of the fan and the small tick it made every time it came to the end of its cycle.

I stroked the hairbrush through his hair, and the stroke ended long before I got to the end of the hair. I'd had hair down to my butt once upon a time when I was about fourteen. But Nathaniel's hair was knee length. If he'd been a woman, I'd have said his hair fell like a dress around him. The hair lay in a soft, silken pile beside his body so it wouldn't brush the wound. I lifted the hair in my arms, and it was like holding something alive. The hair poured through my hands with a sound like dry water, a rushing noise.

I had enough trouble taking care of shoulder-length hair. I couldn't imagine the amount of effort that just washing it must take. I was either going to have to divide the hair to either side and actually get up and move from side to side, or sweep the hair back behind his head so it spilled across the bed. I voted for that.

I pulled his hair behind his back and spilled it behind his head. He moved his head as if snuggling into the pillow, but other than that made no movement and said nothing.

“How you doing?” I asked.

“I'm fine,” he said. His voice was soft, neutral, almost empty.

“Talk to me, Nathaniel,” I said.

“You don't like it when I talk to you.”

I leaned over him, smoothing the hair back so I had a clear view of his face. “That's not true.”

He turned his face enough to look up at me. “Isn't it?”

I leaned back from that direct gaze. “It's not you talking I mind, Nathaniel. It's your choice of topics.”

“Tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it.”

“I can tell you what not to say,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Don't talk about pornographic movies, sadomasochism, sex in general.” I thought about it for a second or two. “That hits the usual things you say to piss me off.”

He laughed. “I don't know what else to talk about.”

I started combing his hair across the bed. The stroke was firm and flowing, then I actually had to pick the hair up to finish the
stroke. The fan hit me with an armful of hair, and the hair spilled around my face in a vanilla-scented cloud that tickled my face and neck.

“Talk about anything, Nathaniel. Talk about yourself.”

“I don't like to talk about myself.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He raised up enough to look at me. “You talk about yourself.”

“Okay.” Then I didn't know what to say. I just suddenly couldn't think of where to start. I smiled. “Good point, forget I said it.”

The phone rang, and I gave a little yip. Nervous? Who me? It was Dolph. “Anita?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“Franklin Niley, unless it's a different guy with the same name, is an art dealer. He specializes in mystical artifacts. He's not picky about how he gets them, either.”