By the Pale Moonlight (Book One of the Moonlight Series) (35 page)

"I don't know why she's doing this, but you
can't trust her," I said. "I wouldn't lie to you. You have to know
that."

Ty's mouth was a grim line when he turned
around to face me again, his eyes full of such sadness. "Tell me
one thing, Mac. Just one thing that proves that what you're saying
is true."

It would've been so easy to tell him in that
moment. To simply blurt out the truth of what I had become. That I
knew what Melanie was because I could smell it on her very being.
But I could see the pain in his eyes. The anger—and now, as I
really studied him, the guilt. True to his character, Ty blamed
himself for everything. And no matter how strong his shoulders, it
was a burden he would never be able to bear alone.

I couldn't—I refused to add to his
self-recrimination. If he were to find out he had played even the
smallest role in making me into a werewolf, he would lose himself
to the guilt. No, there had to be another way.

My mind flipped through the past month,
scrambling for anything tangible I could present to him as
evidence. None of it worked in my favor. Melanie, for all intents
and purposes, had appeared devastated by Kim's death. And whatever
her reasons at the time—I suspected to throw us off her trail—the
fact she had attacked Ty didn't help my case. If my suspicions were
correct, Ty had always been the main objective. Like it or not, her
friendship had been a ruse—a way to get closer to him.

I tried not to dwell on the fact that if I
failed here, she would most likely succeed at just that.

Try as I might, I couldn't find a single
thing to point to that would be irrefutable. Nothing but the words
I knew would send him into a tailspin.

Out of frustration, I started to say them,
determined that if it was the only way, I would go through with it.
The truth weighted down my tongue, though, and I closed my mouth
again, the words unspoken.

"I just know," I said finally. "I know. You
have to trust me."

Again Ty looked away, his gaze locked on
something in the distance as he spoke. "I know you mean well, Mac.
But you're wrong."

Whatever feeble hope I had of convincing him
began to slip from my grasp. He simply couldn't believe me, and I
couldn't blame him. I had been so convinced Carrie was behind it
all, that I helped blind him to what was essentially before our
eyes the entire time.

In the end, maybe I was to blame for it all.
Kim. Carrie. Maybe even Ty. Was it really Ty Melanie had been after
the entire time, or had he simply been a product of her need to
destroy
me
? Could her anger for me really run that deep?

Dig as I might, I couldn't find the answer.
To any of it.

"I have to go," Ty said, studying the rush of
emotions playing across my features. I must've looked half-crazed
to him. Maybe I was.

He turned to leave, but I grabbed his arm,
stopping him. I met his eyes full on. "I'm right, and somehow I'm
going to prove it to you." A tremor streaked its way through me,
making my words sound weak. Even to me.

Ty didn't answer, only pulled his mouth into
a tighter line. I reluctantly let go of his arm and watched him
walk away.

To go to her.

o0o

End of Book One

o0o

Thank you very much for reading.

I hope you enjoyed the first book in my
Moonlight series.

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About the Author

BY THE PALE MOONLIGHT is Jennifer Hendren's
debut novel. She's currently hard at work on the second book of the
Moonlight series, WALKING IN SHADOW. Chances are, she's drinking
too much coffee and begging her dogs to go outside and play. (But
that's only a guess.)

Please continue reading for a sneak peek
at:

WALKING IN SHADOW

Book Two of the Moonlight Series

Book Two of the Moonlight Series

An Excerpt from WALKING IN SHADOW

“Tell me just one thing.” Caleb took a long
drag off of his cigarette and slowly exhaled as he took me in from
head to foot. “What the hell are you?”

I was shocked mute for a long heartbeat. Even
if I could form the right words to explain what it was I had
become, I wouldn’t have been able to utter them in that moment.
Whatever Caleb may be, he wasn’t a fool. And clearly he knew more
than I had given him credit for. But just how much did he know?
Surely he was fishing to see what I would give up. He couldn’t
possibly fathom the truth. It was a fairy tale to most. A horror
story left for dark and stormy nights.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

He flicked the ashes of his cigarette and
popped his neck, first one way and then the other. “Come on,
Princess. Give me some credit.”

Anger flared in my chest. “I told you not to
call me that.”

His eyes tilted my way, but he said nothing.
Instead, he dropped down on his haunches and crushed the tip of his
cigarette into the ground. “This is the way I see it. You and your
little boyfriend back there...” he gestured vaguely in the
direction Ty had gone.

I bristled at the condescending note in his
tone, but held my tongue, waiting for him to finish.

“...got yourselves messed up in some nasty
business.” He stood abruptly, brushing off the seat of his jeans.
“Only question is, what kind?”

My heart thrummed against my chest.

He’s playing with you. He doesn’t know.

I turned on my heel, but he stopped me with a
firm grip on my upper arm. “Don’t play with me. I’m not stupid.” He
smiled then, no humor in his expression. “And I’m not above using
whatever means necessary to get the answer.”

We locked eyes. His were hard, unyielding,
and seemed to penetrate down to my very core. I was the first to
break away, dropping my focus to the top button of his shirt.

“Tell me the truth. That’s all I want.” He
removed his hand and blood flowed through my arm again. “Otherwise,
I’m sure there are more than a few people who would be interested
in hearing about where I saw you and your boyfriend…that
night.”

I met his eyes again. “You wouldn’t
dare.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up further.
“Try me.”

I licked my lips, my pulse quickening. I had
no doubt he wasn’t one to make idle threats. He was just the type
of guy who would get enjoyment out of watching other people suffer.
And suffer we would. Placing Ty and me at the scene of Carrie's
death would have unimaginable ramifications. Even in my darkest
hour, I hadn’t allowed my mind to go down that road. Just a few
words spoken to the wrong person and Caleb would destroy us
both.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I
said, feeling like a caged animal. I knew my face was red, and I
swiped the hair out of my eyes, not caring that I scratched my
cheek in the process.

“Sounds to me like you’re saying no.” With
that, he started back towards the school. I watched him go, his
stride purposeful, measured, not once letting up.

“Shit,” I hissed through clenched teeth. He
was a good twenty yards away. Thirty. Forty.

Damn him. Let him go to the police. I would
rather that happen than confide in a low-down dirty piece of pond
scum like Caleb Martin.

Fifty.

“No,” I said, setting out across the grass
towards the football field. “Not gonna do it.”

I didn’t get far. By the time I turned
around, Caleb was a good hundred yards ahead of me. I shouted his
name, my voice coming out a little hoarser each time. I had no
doubt he could hear me, but he let me yell out for a good thirty
seconds before turning back in my direction.

“Fine!” I yelled. “You win!”

I’ll give him credit for not smiling in
triumph. He simply strode back towards me, digging out a cigarette
in the process. He had it lit by the time he reached me. On a slow
exhale, he took in my angry, slightly crazed expression. “Was that
so hard?”

by Lori Devoti

The envelope had arrived open. I wouldn’t
have read the page inside otherwise, wouldn’t have thought to,
honestly.

And I wouldn’t have known I was about to lose
my home. The only home I’d ever known.

Letter still in hand, I went where I always
went when I needed to think: the hall closet. It was big for a
closet but cram-packed with old comforters, wool coats, and the
scent of my grandmother’s perfume. The space had got me through a
lot of bad, scary and lonely times.

As I pulled open the door, the hinges
creaked. As I tugged the heavy door closed, the knob rattled and
came loose in my hand. A line in the letter came back to
me...“
due to disrepair and continued devaluation of the
property
.”

This was what the bank executive whose name
was scribbled across the bottom of the letter had been talking
about. This and the peeling paint, rotting windows, and cracked
sidewalk. The tree branch that had crashed through our front porch
during a summer storm probably hadn’t helped either.

I settled myself on the floor and stared at
Nana’s green wool coat—the one with the real fur collar. The collar
had bald spots. What I’d once thought of as luxurious was just old
and worn out.

I hadn’t noticed before.

I glanced around the closet’s interior,
taking in cracked plastered walls and the worn oak floors. Even the
old heat vent was rusty.

The front door flew open and smacked into the
other side of the wall beside me.

“Lucinda?”

Nana back from the store.

Still holding the letter, I waited for her to
hobble away before burrowing deeper into the closet. I shoved aside
a stack of embroidered pillowcases that hid the floor board I had
loosened when I was eight. Under it was a cloth-covered box, my
storage place for things I didn’t want my grandmother to find.

Memories of my mother, mainly. Pictures, some
of her books.

Old report cards were stashed there too. The
ones with notes about how I didn’t talk, seemed withdrawn, and one
letter suggesting that my grandmother come in for a meeting.

I stared at the stack of papers and odd
objects, my secret life of not having a life tucked away under
once-crisp cotton linens.

My fingers brushed over the leather top of
one of Mum’s books. A shiver shot through me.

I tried not to touch my mother’s things. I
just kept them stored away where Nana wouldn’t find them and throw
them out.

Today, though, I paused. There were no words
on the book’s cover, but I knew what was inside.

“Lucinda?” Nana stomped away from the door,
heading toward the kitchen.

My fingers wiggled. The letter fell from my
hand and floated into the box. It landed on the book.

I hadn’t touched the book since I’d put it in
this box. I didn’t touch anything once it was in the box. The box
made things go away. At least that’s what mother had told me when
she’d given it to me. She’d had me write down my nightmares and
place them inside.

And she’d been right. Those nightmares had
gone away, but then she had too.

“Lucinda!”

Nana was getting angry. There was a thump,
her cane hitting the floor. If I didn’t appear soon, she’d get
suspicious.

I slid the lid onto the box and shoved it
back under the floorboard. Then I reached for a striped stocking
cap. Before pulling it onto my head, I glanced back at the
floorboard and the book hidden beneath it.

I hesitated.

The door flew open. “What are you doing in
there?”

I held up the hat. “I was cold.”

Nana leaned to the right, putting her weight
onto her cane. Her gaze darted behind me, over the contents of the
stuffed closet. Apparently not seeing anything suspicious, she
looked back at me and the hat. She wrinkled her nose. “Not that
cold.”

I glanced at the cap. It was gold and green
with a tassel on the tip. I jerked it down over my ears.

Shaking her head, Nana tromped toward the
kitchen. “Dinner’s soup, from a can. Tomato or chicken noodle. Your
choice.”

She pushed open the swinging door to the
kitchen, then, one foot in the kitchen, the other in the dining
room, she paused.

“Nana?” I asked.

She tilted her head, waiting.

“The Baxters moved. Do you know why?”

Her cane rose an inch, then slowly settled
back onto the floor. “Spent too much on cruises and big screen TVs.
Bank foreclosed.”

“Really?” I’d already known that, but I’d
hoped bringing it up would get Nana to come clean about our own
situation.

“Really. Now what do you want for
dinner?”

“But we own this house, right?” She’d always
said we did. It was one of the reasons the letter had been such a
shock.

She stood straighter, her gaze shooting
across the room and locking onto me like a spotlight on an escaping
convict. “I’m not making payments to anybody on anything. You know
that.”

Buy what you can afford and nothing
more
. It was the mantra I’d been raised with.

Nana didn’t borrow money. The letter had to
be a mistake.

But still, as I followed her into the
kitchen, I couldn’t let it go, couldn’t put the letter—or what it
would mean to my grandmother and me, if it was true—out of my mind.
But I couldn’t bring it up either, couldn’t ask her if we were at
risk of losing our home.