Changeling Moon (2 page)

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Authors: Dani Harper

BOOK: Changeling Moon
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“I just can't help myself,” she said, a little thickly. “You shoulda heard what I said to the grizzly and the moose that were here.” Her lips and face were obviously numb, making it difficult to shape the words.
“Let me help you down from there. I'm betting you could use some coffee.”
“A hot tub full of it.”
He held out his hand to her as she shifted to swing her legs around. The cold had made her movements awkward, almost wooden. She paused and glared at Connor. “Don't you dare be an ax murderer.”
“I won't. I'm not.” He dared to smile a little—but only a little. Damn, but her expression reminded him of that falcon. Beautiful and downright ferocious. If she was ever truly pissed off, he'd bet she could nail someone to the nearest wall with only a look. “I'll remove that from my résumé, pronto. In fact, let me take off
serial killer
and
stalker
while I'm at it.”
Her face relaxed into that grin as she took his outstretched hand. He immediately grasped her other hand as well, willing his body heat into her frozen fingers. He was about to lift her down when the tang of fresh blood snapped his senses into high alert.
“Hold on a minute.” Connor began inspecting her right leg. The lower pant leg was shredded, the tall leather boot beneath it full of holes. Blood welled from the punctures, dripping to the ice-covered sidewalk below, where it quickly congealed. His own blood chilled. It was all he could do to compose his face, keep his tone light.
“I think we might need a little first-aid here. Are you okay for a minute while I do a fast field dressing?”
She nodded and he fumbled in his coat pocket, producing a bright roll of elastic bandage which he set in her lap. As he did so, something clattered to the pavement.
“Sorry.” He picked up a windshield wiper, or what was left of it. She held her hand out, but it was a long moment before Connor recovered from his astonishment enough to give it to her. Scent told him there was blood on the thin strip of metal, and it wasn't human. His exquisite night vision showed him bits of fur stuck to it as well. Wolf fur.
Christ.
Grown men, strong men, often surrendered to terror against creatures like her attacker. Yet this woman had battled for her life with the most meager of weapons and had actually held the beast at bay. Connor handed back the wiper as solemnly as a warrior might award a sword.
She took it and shrugged. “The damn thing had hold of me. I had to make it let go.”
“Good job,” he managed. What an understatement. She had no idea what she'd done, what she'd saved herself from. An ordinary wolf could exert enough bite force to crack the heavy thighbones of moose and bison. But the creature that had attacked her could have taken her leg off. Easily.
Still, what
had
happened was bad enough. He turned his attention back to the wound. “This might hurt a bit.” She hissed in a breath but said nothing as he unzipped the boot and eased it off.
Pushing back the shredded pant leg, he sucked in his own breath as he surveyed the damage. There were the deep prints of a monstrous wolf's teeth on both sides of her shapely calf. The front incisors had only dented the skin but the fanglike canines had driven through both leather and soft skin like nails. And following them were the savage stabs of the pointed molars. A wolf's molars weren't meant for chewing and grinding like a human's. Instead, they were
carnassials
, designed to shear flesh. The boot's leather had protected her to a degree. But had the wolf had a better grip; if it had jerked its head to one side or the other. . . .
Connor shook off the grisly thoughts as he tore strips from the hem of her jeans. Deftly, he folded them into pads and placed them against the worst of the wounds, wrapping her leg with the bandage so the thick cloth pads put some pressure on the torn flesh. “This should slow the bleeding,” he explained.
She surveyed his work, clearly puzzled. “Orange isn't really my color . . .”
He laughed a little. “These bandages only come in fluorescents for some warped reason. You ought to see this orange stuff on a black cat. It's like some bad Halloween joke.”
“A cat? Why would you—”
“—wrap up a cat? Because I'm the local vet. I wrap up cows and horses too. Had to put a cast on a lizard last week.”
“I thought you were a paramedic or something.”
“Sorry. The EMTs had a previous engagement.” He placed his hands gently around her waist and then lifted her down to the icy sidewalk. He was about to release her when her knees suddenly buckled and he found himself supporting her.
“Am I drunk?” she asked as she struggled to get her feet under her, her hands hanging onto his coat. She looked surprised, almost bewildered. “I don't remember drinking anything. I was going to make an omelet, not a margarita . . . I'm so sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. You're not at your best right now.” Her sudden confusion worried him. “Come on, we're going to sit in my truck for a while and warm up.”
“But I don't know you.” She tried to push away from him, might even have succeeded if he'd been less determined—and human. But her legs were unsteady and so he kept his hands firmly on her waist. “I can't get in a truck with a stranger!” she protested.
Uh-huh. “Okay, I'm Connor Macleod, and I'm the guy who's presently holding you up.” He studied her face with growing concern. “As I mentioned, I'm the vet around here and I just finished delivering a calf out at Peterson's. I was going to stop at the corner store for some hot coffee before I went home and then I saw you out here playing with wolves. So now I'm not a stranger.” He turned a mock suspicious eye on her. “Say, I don't know you either. Maybe I should ask who
you
are before I let you in my vehicle.”
“Zoey Tyler,” she murmured, then frowned. “I shouldn't tell you that. Have I been drinking?” Her words were definitely slurring now, her eyelids fluttering down. “I just need to get into my Bronco and I'll be fine.”
Connor shook his head. “Good survival instincts, but a little misplaced right now. You can sue me later, Zoey Tyler.” She mumbled a brief objection as he scooped her up and carried her to his truck.
 
The vehicle had been left running and the heat was thick and heavenly. Connor was seldom bothered by cold but pins and needles heralded the return of feeling to his fingers and toes. How much longer had Zoey been outside in the freezing rain? He regretted his decision to dress her wounds—he should have gotten her out of the weather first. Her eyes had opened for only a moment when he put her in the truck and hadn't opened since. She was shaking now, her teeth chattering. Carefully he worked at getting the soggy jacket off her as her head lolled forward, water dripping from the curtain of her long, thick hair.
Connor reached behind the seat for a big plaid blanket. He wrapped it around Zoey like a shawl, taking care to cover her head to prevent further heat loss from her body. She was barely conscious. Exhaustion probably. Delayed shock likely. Even hypothermia was a strong possibility. There was no hospital in the village and he couldn't take her to the medical clinic. He'd heard the dispatcher over his radio talking about a nasty accident earlier with three cars involved. Both of Dunvegan's doctors had accompanied the injured to the city. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd filled in for the human medical professionals in an emergency. Although this was a bit different from splinting a broken arm or stitching up a gashed thumb.
Shoving back the driver's seat, Connor tilted the steering wheel out of the way, then sat with his back against the door. He opened his coat and pulled Zoey inside it, onto his lap. It took some maneuvering—and some cussing—in such tight quarters but he finally managed to get her feet to rest on the dashboard above the glove box. Elevating them would keep blood in her internal organs, standard treatment for anyone suffering from shock. It would help her wounded leg to stop bleeding too.
Now if he could only get her warm. . . .
Chapter Two
I
n the middle of a dark and stormy night, Connor Macleod was sitting in his truck with a strange woman in his arms. Why didn't it feel odd? Instead, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and that in itself was just plain weird.
Resting his chin lightly on her head, he had to admit that she fit very nicely. Zoey was shorter than he was—so was almost everyone he had ever met—but she was taller than most women. And not tiny and fragile by any means. She felt solid, strong. Come to think of it, she had fought the wolf and would probably try to kick
his
butt too if she woke up and caught him cuddling her like this. Connor couldn't help smiling a little at the thought of her fierce amber eyes.
So what did he really know about her? Of course he'd recognized her name at once. As the new editor of the
Dunvegan Herald Weekly
, she'd been behind some major changes at the eighty-three-year-old newspaper. The name banner across the top had been replaced with a new full-color graphic. And her first front-page photo was not of the members of the local service club presenting a check to charity. Instead, it was an exciting action shot from the annual dogsled races. Zoey Tyler had captured two teams running neck and neck, snow flying, and almost every paw off the ground. The dogs looked airborne, ethereal. Connor had clipped it and put it on the bulletin board at the clinic, marveling at the talent of the photographer. He kept meaning to order a print that he could frame for his office.
And the updates to the
Weekly
went far beyond appearance. When residents pulled the paper from their mailboxes, the front page displayed actual news instead of instructions on how to make yet another version of Saskatoon berry jam. And that first editorial—well, he'd wondered what the hell was going on when he saw a large group of people standing around talking at the post office. He hadn't seen a natural gathering that big since Murray Clements jumped off the Peace River Bridge with a homemade parachute. Then someone had handed him a newspaper. . . .
He had to credit Zoey Tyler—she really knew how to get people involved. No sensationalism, no tabloid tricks, just good solid research and the ability to shine a light on an issue. Some of her editorials had gotten results too, like the construction of new crosswalks on Fourth Street. But would Zoey's talent create a problem for the Pack? She'd just been viciously attacked by a wolf in the middle of town. What would she write about
that
?
Deep in thought, he ran his hand down Zoey's back—and jerked to attention. The woman in his arms was now perfectly still, her shaking subsided, but he knew that wasn't a good sign, not so soon. He tipped her head back so he could see her face. It seemed whiter than ever and her lips were pale and bluish. He placed the back of his hand against her cheek. A human would feel cool to him anyway—his ambient body temperature ran between 103 and 104 degrees—but he knew instantly that she was much colder than she should be. If her core temperature had fallen. . . .
The heater was already on full blast. Connor often complained that the temperature control had two settings,
North Pole
and
Hell
. He'd been too warm within the first few moments of entering the vehicle and now he was cooking. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his tired eyes and yet the oppressive heat was having no effect on Zoey.
“Hey there, wake up for me. Wake up now!” Connor massaged her back through the blanket, ran his hands over her arms, stroked her head, patted her cheeks. “Zoey!” Finally he slapped her face lightly, but she remained unresponsive, her breathing so faint he could barely hear it. Connor reached under the blanket for her wrist. The weak and thready pulse, coupled with his own preternatural senses, confirmed his worst suspicions.
Shit.
There was no lack of recorded incidents in which accident survivors appeared completely unhurt, had even walked around and tended to others, yet nonetheless died from untreated shock. Hypothermia could be fatal as well, even to Changelings like himself. A human being was far more fragile.
“Come on, little falcon, I'm fighting for you, but you have to help me. Just a little bit, honey.” Connor sat her up, framed her face in his large hands. He usually held his psychic abilities in reserve, declining to use them on humans out of courtesy. But politeness be damned, he
had
to make a connection with this woman before it was too late. “Look at me, Zoey. Listen to me. Come back.” His voice was coaxing at first but rapidly hardened to commanding. He willed her to respond, his mind reaching for hers as he had never done with a human. Still he felt her floating away from him. Good Christ, he was going to lose her.
No.
The word stood out in his mind as something within him stirred and came to the forefront. Telepathy was every Changeling's birthright and Connor's abilities were formidable. But his greatest power came from his wolfen form. He couldn't Change now, couldn't become the wolf. Yet the wolf had come to
him
, unexpectedly lending its strength. Connor didn't stop to wonder at this strange occurrence. He focused everything he had on Zoey. “Come back right now!”
He could feel her mentally resist him, even slap at him. See her with his mind's eye, adrift in a gray haze. She was tired and cold, and wanted to rest in the soft, warm depths into which she had spiraled. She had no way of knowing she might not wake up.
“Come back!” he commanded her. Confused, angry, but finally unable to resist him, he sensed her swimming slowly up through layers of awareness, a great gray sea.
Come on, Zoey, just a little closer, you can do it. Come back.
... Finally she neared the surface where he could reach her with his energy, wrap it around her like a lifeline and anchor her to him, keep her from again drifting downward.
Connor sensed the change in her at once. He cradled her close against his chest and sought her wrist again. The pulse was stronger, there was no imagining it. He closed his eyes and brought her wrist to his lips, then held her hand to his cheek. He could hear her breathing, steady and deep. He breathed easier too. The wolf within him, apparently satisfied with Zoey's condition, receded, but not very far. Connor could feel it just beneath the surface of his human self, watchful and alert. Christ, was it
guarding
her? Connor had lived a long time, yet his wolf had never emerged unbidden, never behaved like this.
This night could not get any stranger—
And then it did. A sudden rapid blur of images flashed across Connor's mind. He saw creatures of all kinds—deer, bear, puma, fox, elk, eagle, even a falcon. All glowing with the strange silvery light of
farsight
. . . and in their midst stood Zoey Tyler.
The vision lasted mere seconds, then vanished.
What the hell was that?
Connor was sweating and this time it had nothing to do with the heat in the truck. His
farsight
was usually literal, not symbolic—after all, it had told him that a human woman was in trouble and then led him directly to her. Why would he see a parade of unrelated animals surrounding Zoey?
Had to be a brain fart of some kind.
Had to be.
Obviously he was a lot more tired than he realized.
Strands of Zoey's hair dried in the heat and curled out from under the blanket. Connor seized a stray lock and wound it around his finger. The darkness couldn't hide the color of her hair from his acute vision and he found himself marveling at the hue. Not red, not gold, but a deep blend of both, like an autumn apple.
Russet
. It suited his fierce little falcon.
His?
He shook his head to clear it. He was just oversensitive to this woman after the strong psychic connection he had made, right? That had to account for the powerful sense of familiarity. He really didn't know her, not yet
.
Now that she was a little more stable, he needed to get her home and look after those bite wounds properly.
And apply silver nitrate to them as soon as possible. . . .
Carefully Connor lifted Zoey away from him, easing her over to the passenger seat once more. As he did so, the blanket fell from her head, pulling her russet hair back from her face. Much of her color had returned and now he saw a riot of golden freckles that marched across her nose and over her cheekbones in such numbers that they met in places. He was instantly captivated, and his fingers found themselves wandering over her face in a kind of caress—
Suddenly she jerked awake. Zoey's gaze snapped and smoldered as she turned to regard Connor, fury in every cell of her body. Slowly he pulled his hand away, his eyes never leaving hers, fully aware he had overstepped a major boundary. And glad that she didn't know she'd just spent a considerable amount of time in his lap—at least, he sure as hell
hoped
she didn't know.
Zoey's eyes didn't waver, although she shoved a hand roughly through her long hair and brought it forward to curtain the left side of her face. The defensive gesture bothered him deeply and he quelled an impulse to brush the beautiful hair back over her shoulder, touch her face again, soothe her frown. Kiss every one of those freckles. . . .
“What did you think you were doing?” Her voice was low, almost shaking with anger. Both hands were now fisted in her lap; her body shifted just enough to let her use them.
Connor eased back behind the steering wheel. “Some of your color's come back, so I happened to be checking your skin temperature. And I admit it, I was admiring your freckles.”
She blushed furiously then, which only charmed him further. “Do you always look with your hands?” she demanded.
“Well, yes, I guess I do.” He nodded, considering. “Checking out cows and cats and dogs and whatnot every day—I never really thought about it, but I guess I use my hands as much as my eyes.” And he did. Although there was no point mentioning he had the ability to sense what the animal was feeling by touching it. Or that he had used some of the same ability to forge a psychic link with Zoey.
“I see.” She looked away from him and rubbed her hands over her face. “Geez, I feel awful. My leg hurts and it's
boiling
in here.”
“I'll bet you feel worse than awful. But the fact that you've noticed it's hotter than the seventh ring of hell in here is encouraging,” said Connor. Gratefully he turned the heat down and opened his window a little to let in some fresh air. “I'm glad you're awake. I was getting worried.”
There's an understatement. You scared the bejeezus out of me.
“Now that you're warmed up and not so shocky, I'll take you home. You've got a real nasty bite, and we need to look after that leg properly.”
“
Shocky
? Is that a word?”
“You
are
an editor, aren't you? Ask any EMT—it's probably classed as slang, but they use the word all the time.”
She objected most of the way to her apartment building, insisting that she could drive herself if he would only
take her to her truck
. It was obvious that she didn't feel well enough to do more than complain, but still, Connor was relieved to hear it. Human or animal, if the patient was putting up a fuss, they were going to be fine.
With a little help
, he reminded himself as he patted the pocket of his coat where he always kept a small bottle of silver nitrate.
 
Zoey's protests fell on deaf ears. Not only did this man not take her to her Bronco, but he insisted on carrying her up to her apartment, wrapped in a blanket like somebody's invalid granny. She lived on the top floor of what was jokingly referred to as “Dunvegan's Skyscraper,” a four-story complex that was just slightly taller than the lone office building. The guy wasn't even winded when he got to her door and set her on her feet. He must work out, she decided. With shoulders like that, he probably bench-pressed cows or something. And he was so warm. . . .
Get a grip, girl. It's dark, you're tired, and no one's ugly after midnight.
Zoey shook her head, hoping to clear it, as he produced her keys from somewhere and opened the door. The man—damn, she'd forgotten his name—had told her repeatedly that she hadn't been drinking, but her body felt like she'd spent the entire evening guzzling shooters in a bar. Acted like it too. She stumbled as she crossed the threshold, but then, missing one high-heeled boot probably had something to do with that. The man seized her arm and steered her carefully into the living room and onto the couch.
“I can work on this leg a lot better if you lie down,” he said as he knelt beside her and started to take the blanket off.
Suddenly, Zoey jerked and just as quickly gritted her teeth to suppress a groan. She wasn't fast enough to fool this guy, though.
“What's wrong?” he demanded.
“Nothing, I'm fine.”
He frowned, his pale eyes darkening into a stormy sea. “Like hell. You've gone even whiter than you were. Spill it or I'm taking more than the blanket off. Did you get bitten somewhere else?”
“No.” Pain was sawing at her now, and she just didn't have the strength to argue. “My ribs are just sore. I think it's from climbing the roof rack. It's nothing.”

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