Marked by the Moon (11 page)

“No?”
Tutaaluga
murmured, still staring at Alex as if she were a bug on a pin. “New wolves are always the most vicious.”

“She's only just arrived. With me.”

“Hmm.” The old man turned his gaze back to Julian. “You ran right past us in the depths of the night. Yet you saw no evil, heard no evil,
smelled
no evil?”

“Do you think it was her?” Julian's eyes flared. “Or do you think it was me?”

The old man shrugged. “I don't know what to think. There
is new wolf vicious and there is alpha wolf vicious. Sometimes they can be very much the same.”

“The wolf is brown,” Julian said. “I'm not.”

“You are a shaman,” the elder pointed out. “I think you could be anything that you wish.”

Julian sighed and lifted his face to the sky. The old man had a point. Julian probably could change the shade of his fur just by thinking of it.

But he hadn't. On the other hand…

He looked at Alex. She was staring at him, obviously wondering the same thing about him that he was wondering about her: What had she been doing during the time they'd been running separately last night? He doubted she'd been snacking on the local wise woman, but who knew?

Turning back to the elder, he murmured, “I swore to protect this village.”

“For a price.”

“There's always a price.”

The Inuit inclined his head in agreement.

“I will discover who's done this, and I will make sure they never do it again.”

Julian strode toward the snowmobile without another glance in Alex's direction. If she wanted to return with him, she could move her ass. If she didn't, he'd leave her behind.

He barely registered her climbing on as he started the
machine, barely felt her hands at his waist as he sped away. He was so damn mad.

His village had existed for over a century unharmed, undetected, because they had one simple rule and it was this: Never eat the people.

Now someone had broken it—at least once—and who was to say that someone hadn't ranged farther and wider and broken that rule again and again in a place over which Julian had little chance of damage control?

In no time there would be representatives of this or that government agency detached with guns and orders to kill the rabid wolf. They'd have a bit of trouble with that, of course—he doubted they'd bring silver bullets—which only meant that Edward would hear about it.

Edward would have no trouble at all.

Julian wasn't aware that he was driving faster and faster until Alex's fingers dug into his side as they bounced far too high over an incline, then came down far too hard on the other side.

“Brown wolf,” Julian muttered. He should have asked what shade. Dark as mud at midnight? Or light as the sand beneath the dawn? That might narrow it down.

Anger flared, and Julian imagined himself as a wolf, chasing down another wolf—dark brown, light brown, didn't matter. He would leap; he would land on its back; they would roll over and over in the snow, but the golden wolf would come out on top; then he would grab the traitor by the throat and—

Julian jerked his head to the side with a ripping motion.

Ahhh. He could almost taste the blood.

His fury surged, and the next thing Julian knew both he and Alex were sailing through the air and skidding across the frozen tundra.

It wasn't until Julian slammed into a snowbank, the impact knocking the rage right out of him, that he understood what had happened. Then he lay there trying to breathe evenly so he could make the paws that existed where his hands and feet should have been disappear.

A boot heel scuffed against the snow; then a shadow was cast over his face. “That's a nice look for you.”

“Mmm,” Julian said noncommitally. He continued to concentrate on smooth, calm seas, balmy breezes, springtime. Anything that would calm him down. Alex's voice…

Just wasn't helping.

He breathed in and out, slow and steady. Which didn't help, either. The scent of her filled his nostrils, and when his body responded as if she were a bitch in heat he got all pissed off again.

“Hey,” she said. “Your—uh—nose is growing.”

“Back off,” Julian snarled, the sound half man, half beast.

To her credit, she did.

Once he no longer had to fight his anger and his lust, he managed to put all the pieces of himself back the way they belonged.

Julian sat up, flexed his fingers, then wiggled his toes. He'd burst out of his boots when he'd begun to change. Dammit. He'd liked those boots. Now they lay strewn in pieces across the snow-white ground.

Alex leaned against the snowmobile, which had a dent the size of an Easter ham in the fender. Hell. He'd have to buy George a new one, or at least fix this one.

Her eyes shone brilliant green in the morning sun, so bright they seemed to bore into his. She was as mad as he had been. Luckily his wolves didn't inherit his magic as well as his tendency to turn furry.

“Are you done with your temper tantrum?” she asked. “Did you put your tail back in your ass?”

He didn't bother to answer. She knew as well as he did that the tail always popped out last.

“I should be impressed.” Alex pushed away from the machine and stalked slowly toward him, the rubber soles of her crappy boots making an annoying squelching noise in the snow. “I've never seen anyone change only their hands or their feet or their—” She wiggled her fingers at his face. “Snout. But I guess I've never met anyone as old or as powerful as you.”

Julian got to his feet. “Don't you mean
killed
? You've never
killed
anyone as powerful as me?”

“Not yet,” she muttered, then hauled back one foot and kicked what appeared to be half of a black, shiny basketball.

The thing sailed directly at Julian's face, and if he hadn't been what he was, it would have broken his nose. He snatched the object out of the air, then contemplated one portion of a cracked helmet.

“Sorry.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “That must have hurt.”

“I don't give a shit about hurt.” She kicked the other half even harder. He managed to grab this one an instant before it slammed into his groin.

“When did you take up soccer?” he asked. “I thought softball was your game.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you—?”

“I said I checked you out.”

She frowned, obviously wondering how he'd discovered her talent. It hadn't been easy.

“Oh, yeah, I had
tons
of time to play games while I was being dragged around the country by my
Jäger-Sucher
father. Then once the werewolf ate him, it was directly into the pros for me.”

“Sarcasm,” he murmured. “My favorite.”

Alex looked around, presumably for something else to kick. When she saw nothing, she just hauled off and went for his nuts with the toe of her boot. Once again, he managed to catch the projectile inches from his crotch. Without a second thought he heaved upward and sent her flipping heels-over-head to land on her face in the snow.

Unfortunately snow in the Arctic was more like ice. Her temple cracked against it with a sick thud, and she lay still.

“Faet!”
Julian hurried to her side. Just as he began to kneel, her hand shot out, and she yanked his feet out from under him.

The back of Julian's head and the ice connected with the exact same thud. Then Alex landed on his chest, and he lost what was left of his air.

She leaned in close, seeming to press the boniest point of her knee into his very lungs, and blood dripped onto his face. Her eyes appeared a little crazy, and he wondered if getting knocked in the noggin twice in so short a time had unhinged her.

“Why did half that village have your eyes, Barlow?”

Now he knew she'd lost it. What kind of a question was that?

“Answer me,” she said between her teeth, then rapped his head against the ground again.

“Long—” he managed, wheezing and coughing. She let up a bit on his chest, and the second word exploded, “—story.”

“Then you'd better start talking.”

He coughed again, right in her face, and she rolled her eyes as if he were the biggest crybaby ever, then got off him and stood.

Julian just lay there awhile and got used to his lungs again.

“Barlow…” she warned.

“Okay, hold on.” He sat up, lifting a hand to stay her next attack. “What are you so mad about?”

“What—?” she sputtered. “You. Me. We.” She clenched her hands, lifted her face to the sky, and screamed with fury. If Alexandra Trevalyn had been a Viking, Julian had no doubt she would have been a berserker, too.

When she stopped, she seemed calmer. He'd be the first to admit—sometimes screaming helped.

“You've told me over and over that your wolves are different,” she began, voice a bit hoarse.

“They are.”

“
How
different? Can you make little Barlows?” She took a step forward, and from the gleam in her eyes Julian could tell she wanted to kick him again. “Did you make one in me?”

He blinked. “No. Of course not. I—”

“Didn't use any protection.” She gagged, bent over, and he feared for an instant she'd be sick right there on the snow.

“There was no need,” he said. “My wolves aren't
that
different. We can't procreate.”

He pushed aside the shimmy of memory his words brought forth. That fact had caused him no end of trouble already.

Alex took several deep, shaky breaths. When she straightened, she was pale but steady. “Explain the blue eyes. Even
Tutaaluga
had them.”

Julian lifted a brow.
“Tutaaluga?”

“The old guy. Which is kind of freaky considering how much younger you look than him.”

“His name is Jorund.”

Confusion spread over her face. “You called him
Tutaaluga.
”

“
Tutaaluga
means ‘my grandson.'”

“He's your
grandson
? But that's not possible if you can't impregnate the Indian maidens.”

“The—” Laughter bubbled, but Julian refused to let it flow free. He had a feeling his testicles might get introduced to his throat if he did, and he liked them exactly where they were. “You thought I'd been…”

“Boinking the natives,” she filled in. “Why not? They treat you like the local wolf-god.”

Well…he kind of was.

“I wouldn't
boink
anyone.”

She snorted.

Except you.

The thought floated through his head and nearly out of his mouth. He bit his lip. Hard.

“
Don't
say it.” Alex narrowed her eyes. “Just don't.”

Could she read his mind? Or merely his face?

“Explain how the old guy…Jorund?” Julian nodded. “Could be your grandson.”

“He isn't. Not technically, as in son of my son, because—like you said—that's impossible. But he's a descendant.”

“Of yours?”

“Yes.”

“They're
all
descendants?”

“In a way.”

Alex rubbed her head as if it ached. He had no doubt it did. Though her wound had begun to heal, her hand came away bloody. She scowled at the red slash, began to wipe her palm on Ella's pants, then thought better of it. Knowing Ella, the garment probably cost more than the snowmobile.

Instead she bent and picked up a loose handful of snow, held it between her palms until it melted, then rubbed them together until they were clean again.

She was adapting quicker and better than any of his others. But she'd had a lot of practice. Dragged from city to city
all her life, blending in, making do, as she hunted monsters that would gladly kill her if they knew that she was there.

Sympathy sparked, but Julian squelched it. If she saw that expression on his face, he didn't want to think where she'd kick him next.

Alex waved a damp hand. “Go on.”

Julian really wanted to get back to town and start questioning people. He needed to find out if anyone had gone crazy on him before another Inuit died. And if no one had, then he needed to find out how a rogue wolf had invaded his territory and no one had noticed. Had they lived safely for so long that they'd lost any sense of approaching danger?

First he should explain things to Alex. He didn't blame her for being worried. He should have considered what she might think before he'd brought her to a village where every third inhabitant had his eyes.

“I sailed here long ago. Back when I was called Jorund the Blund.”

Her head came up. “Jorund? Like the old man?”

“Yes. Although he was named after me, not the other way around.”

“How did that happen?”

“A lot of the Native American tribes believe that once a person dies, their name must never be uttered again for fear their spirit will haunt the speaker. But the Inuit believe that the good aspects of the dead will inhabit those who are given the same name.”

“But you aren't dead.”

“They didn't know that when they started naming a child in every generation Jorund.” Julian shrugged. “It's become a tradition.”

“So you sailed here back in what…8000
BC
?”

“The Viking era was a thousand years ago.” He tilted his head, wondering what he could get her to tell him if he played dumb. “Didn't you study that in school?”

She looked away, across the wide expanse of tundra that rolled on and on, acres of snow that resembled a perfectly white sea. “When would I have gone to school, Barlow? Maybe after we chased down that nahual in Mexico. Or while we were hunting the Scottish wulver in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

“I don't know what those are,” he admitted.

She laughed, though the sound held the whisper of a sob. “I learned to shoot a gun at the age of eight. By the time I was ten I could make my own silver bullets. Every night before bed I was drilled in the different categories of monsters. Nahual—” She lifted a finger. “—Mexican werewolf-wizard.” She lifted another. “Wulver. A Scottish fiend with the body of a man and the head of a wolf.”

“Alex,” he began, but she kept talking.

“My quizzes consisted of ways to kill each one. And I got one hundred percent on them, because if I didn't, I knew I'd die.”

The flash of sympathy threatened again. Again he squelched it unmercifully. So she'd had a rough childhood. A lot of people did, yet they didn't go around murdering innocent wives.

“Isn't it illegal not to go to school?” he asked.