Marked by the Moon (14 page)

The one who had killed his wife.

Of course if it hadn't been for him, Alana would never have been out there alone.

He threw back his head, roaring his fury to the heavens, and she clenched around him, the pulse of her orgasm fuel
ing his own. But in that instant before he spilled everything, a memory sparked.

A boy with his golden hair. A girl with her green eyes. A dream that had become a nightmare through a bizarre combination of love and lies and impossibility.

The thoughts were agony, and Julian snarled again, his beast rumbling so close.

Alex drew his mouth to hers, and right before their lips met, she whispered, “Julian.”

He came in a rush so strong, if he hadn't had the wall for support he would have fallen. As it was, he lost his grip on sanity, plunging into her, the thud of her spine against the house only fueling the violence within him.

She didn't seem to mind, clasping him to her, arms wrapped around his back as she took all that he gave, gave all that he took, gasping in his ear, “Again. Again. Again,” to the rhythm of his thrusts.

When he was spent, when she was, he pulled out of her body without meeting her eyes. His hands and feet became paws a mere instant before they hit the ground running as some of the last words his wife had ever said to him rang in his shaggy wolf's ears requesting the one thing he could never, ever give her.

A child.

 

“Just like a man,” Alex murmured as Julian's bushy golden tail disappeared into the darkness. “Get what you want, then shift into a wolf and run away.”

She shook her head as she went inside. Talk about irrational, but then she was. What on earth had possessed her to let Julian Barlow do her against the side of the house?

“I didn't ‘let' him do anything.” She sighed as she turned
the shower to a temperature just short of scalding. “I begged him to.”

Alex sat on the edge of the tub and took inventory. Bruised ass? Check. Scraped back? Check. Burning, slightly blue feet? Check. Self-esteem at an all-time low?

“Double check.”

She'd never begged for sex in her life; she hadn't begged for anything except—

“Hell,” Alex muttered, and let her chin fall down to her chest. She was right back where she'd started. Not wanting to remember, but unable to forget that night in Alabama.

The werewolf had come right at her. How she had missed killing it, Alex would never know. The whole night had been a disaster from the instant the beast first appeared. Charlie hesitating, when Charlie never did, and because he did, Alex had done the same.

She'd never made that mistake again.

The water was hot; so Alex climbed in and let the beat of it on her face wash away the grainy tracks of her tears. But the memories would never wash away.

The wolf had rushed forward; Alex had fired. But she thought maybe—
probably
—her hands had begun to shake, and the bullet went wide, catching something—an ear perhaps—because flames shot into the night. However, she hadn't hit anything vital since the beast kept coming. She'd known she was dead and—

“That was all right,” Alex whispered, as the steam rose all around her.

But instead of slashing her to shreds, the werewolf had knocked her aside, too, and disappeared into the hills. She should have followed; she should have finished him off. Instead she'd dropped to her knees at her father's side, and as his blood seeped into her jeans, she'd begged him not to die.

Unfortunately, he was already dead.

When the sun rose, so did she. Leaving Charlie's body behind, she'd gathered his weapons with hers; then she'd called Edward.

He'd arrived within twenty-four hours, and he'd taken care of everything, including her. Alex had become a
Jäger-Sucher
in more than name that night. She'd been fifteen years old.

Alex gasped, realizing she'd nearly fallen asleep standing up, with the shower still beating on her face, and she felt a little sick. She shut off the water, ignoring the jitter in her stomach, and went in search of clothes.

She settled on another pair of black slacks and a bulky cable-knit sweater, also black. She didn't bother with a colorful scarf this time. She just didn't care.

Alex really needed to get to a store and find something that was more “her.” Not that she had any money. Or that there was a Walmart anywhere nearby.

The idea of a Walmart in the middle of the Arctic, servicing werewolves and the occasional Inuit, made her laugh. Which felt really good until she started to cry. What was
wrong
with her?

She did
not
cry. What was the point? Crying wouldn't bring Charlie back any more than begging had. The only thing crying was good for was making her feel weak, alone, and sadder than she'd been before she started.

Her body languid—great sex appeared to have that effect—she decided to just lie down for a minute. The next thing she knew, she awoke—ears straining for…something.

Then, from the depths of the darkness, the scrape of claws across ice echoed. Alex was drawn to the window at the front of the silent house where she peered out upon an equally silent town.

Except for that
click, click, click.
It was going to drive her mad.

She shoved her bare feet into the horrible boots, which smelled like the burning remains of an old tire factory, and stepped outside.

The moon fell toward the horizon, throwing strange, elongated shadows across the snow. The village looked like a geometrically challenged children's game—one where colorful plastic squares, rectangles, and the like needed to be shoved into their matching holes before the timer went off and popped them all back out.

The sound of those claws was like the tick of that clock, creating a sense of urgency that caused Alex to head down the steps and into the street.

Alex had thought herself the only one left in Barlowsville after Julian loped off. Just like the previous night, all the werewolves were running beneath the moon.

Alex reached the end of the street that spilled into the town square and caught sight of a tail disappearing around an ATV parked at the edge. She hurried after, wincing as her boots crunched in the snow like newspaper crushed in her hands.

She paused in case she had to duck around the side of the ice cream shop—who ate ice cream in the Arctic?—to avoid being seen. Why she wanted to avoid that, she wasn't sure, but she did.

However, the animal kept going. With his super-duper ears he had to have heard her, but he didn't even glance back.

Who was this wolf? Why was it here? What did it want?

Alex had already rushed through the common and followed the four-legged shadow across the street before her brain caught up to her questions.

“Rogue,” she whispered, then she cursed.

Why hadn't she brought a gun?

Oh, right. She no longer
had
a gun.

For an instant, Alex could barely think past the thunder of her heart in her head. Then she realized she had a better weapon within.

She'd just begun to slide Ella's slacks from her hips when she caught sight of the wolf again. Though the moon leached the color from everything, it couldn't change the shape of the body, the particular shagginess of the coat, the size of the paws, or the arrogant tilt of the head.

“Barlow,” she muttered.

She nearly turned away and went back to Ella's. But then the wolf trotted right past Barlow's house and headed for the white monstrosity to the rear.

Alex followed. She couldn't help it. She wanted to know what that place was, and now seemed like a very good time.

She reached Julian's backyard just as the wolf turned into a man. Then she stood there frowning as the man opened the door and went inside.

She knew Barlow's backside better than she knew her own.

That hadn't been it.

Julian ran through the night, attempting to make the memories fade. Not surprisingly, running didn't help any more than fucking had.

He avoided his wolves. Right now he wasn't fit company for man or beast.

He heard them in the distance, their howls lifting in a joyous serenade to the moon. If he was with them, he would do the same. The moon had marked them, it called, it soothed and invigorated. For werewolves, the moon was everything.

Julian ran until his stomach jittered and his head ached, and it became clear that he hadn't become ill in LA because he'd left Alex too soon, he'd become ill because he'd left her at all.

And wasn't that just fantastic?

Julian pushed that problem aside, dug a hollow in the snow, crawled in, tucked his tail atop his nose, and gave in to what was haunting him.

The memory of his wife.

I want your child, Julian.

She'd whispered the words into his ear as they lay side by
side in their bed, and her hand drifted over him. He smiled, rolling on top of her, hardening even as he slipped within. Then he heard what she'd said, and he slipped right back out again.

She reached for him, but he stilled her hand. “Alana, I thought you understood.”

Sitting up, she pulled the sheet to her chin. “Understood what?”

“The limits of our existence.”

“There are no limits. We're
werewolves,
Julian.”

As if he didn't know.

Julian climbed out of bed and began to pace. “Your grandmother told me she explained things.”

“She did. She said I'd have a second chance at the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?”

“A dozen children.” She laughed. The sound, which usually made Julian's heart flutter, suddenly made it stutter painfully. “Well, maybe not that many. But I love them so much. That's why I kept teaching preschool even though the money was crap. Kids make life worth living.”

“Alana,” he began, and her smile faded. “There'll be no children. Werewolves can't have them. It's impossible.”

“That's…crazy,” she said.

“Is it?” Julian came around to her side of the bed, refusing to be hurt when she scooted away as if she'd just seen him for the monster he was. “Why would you think a werewolf could procreate?”

“Because—Because Gran
said
so!” Her eyes darkened with shock. “She promised me. Do you think I would have agreed to become like this—” Her lip curled. “—otherwise?”

“You'd have been dead otherwise.”

“Better dead than craving blood, being ruled by the
moon, living in the middle of nowhere, with a town full of freaks.”

Julian jerked as if she'd slapped him. He'd known she didn't care for the blood; she rarely ran beneath the moon unless she had to. And she really hadn't made many friends beyond Cade and her gran. But he hadn't realized she felt like this.

“Better dead,” she continued softly, “than an eternity of life without a family.”

“You have a family!” Julian shouted, frightened by her still, white face. “You have me. You have Cade. You have Margaret.” Although after the lie the old woman had told, she might not have her for very long. “You've got the whole damn town, Alana.”

Instead of fighting back—something she never did; he wasn't certain she knew how—Alana had gotten out of their bed, dressed, and left the house.

Julian had let her go, figuring she'd gone to her gran. She'd come back; they'd talk, and everything would be all right.

But nothing was ever all right again.

 

Alex glanced at Barlow's house, which remained pitch dark and still; then she crossed the distance between his place and the mysterious white complex.

The door had closed, but she figured she could probably break any lock known to man. Her strength in human form increased daily, along with her senses.

But in keeping with the theme around here, the door wasn't locked. As she pulled it open, that lack suddenly made sense. What was the point to a dead bolt when everyone in town had the power to tear a door from its hinges? If anyone wandered in who wasn't a werewolf—and considering the
terrain, that was unlikely—they'd be damn sorry, and really surprised, if they tried to steal a single thing.

Inside, the building was like a fortress. Brick walls, cement floors, gray and white everything. Perhaps she'd stumbled into the prison, although she doubted they'd leave
that
door open.

She also doubted they had one. Knowing Barlow, he treated misbehavior the same way Edward did. Follow the rules or die.

The place felt deserted, yet she'd seen the man enter. Who was he? Why did he resemble Barlow, then again not? Why was he running through the night alone? Did he
want
to be taken for the rogue?

She opened her mouth to call out, then thought better of it when she smelled the blood.

Alex hurried down the hall, following her nose. Which was the only reason she didn't see the man swinging the great big sword.

Luckily she
heard
it. A slight whistling whine coming toward her way too fast. Her instincts kicked in. She wasn't sure if they were hunter or werewolf and she didn't care when the sword clashed against the brick wall where her head had just been.

Alex, who had dropped to a crouch, kicked out, connecting with one of the man's naked knees. All he wore were a pair of boxer shorts and a snarl. Something crunched, and he collapsed. The sword just missed braining her on the way down.

Alex snatched it out of the man's hand and threw it as far as she could. The weapon slid along the floor, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, then bounced against the door she'd just come through and lay still.

She turned to her attacker just as he reached for her
throat with both hands and caught him by the wrists, then yanked his arms wide. This brought his face in close to hers, and she saw that he had Barlow's eyes.

“Sheesh,” Alex muttered, “who hasn't he banged?”

With the crumpled knee he had very little leverage, and she was able to topple him onto his back with a simple shove. Then she got to her feet and planted an ugly rubber boot on his chest. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“Who the hell are
you
?” he returned.

Now that she got a good look, she wasn't sure why she'd ever mistaken him for Barlow. The eyes aside—which she hadn't seen until just now—his hair was darker, longer, messier. Besides being shorter, he was also vampire-pale and kind of weak looking. She was surprised he'd been able to lift that huge sword, let alone swing it.

Of course, he was a werewolf. He could bench-press a car if he wanted to.

“I asked you first.” Alex pressed her boot into his chest, and he coughed. She let up a little. These days she wasn't sure of her own strength.

“You're in
my
home. Get out.”

Alex laughed. “I don't think you're in any position to order me around. And if this is a home, you need a new architect. Badly.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Why
was
she here? She'd seen him, followed him, kicked the crap out of him, and now—

She sniffed, and the hair at the back of her neck ruffled as if a chill breeze had just swirled past. She could still smell the blood.

“What is this place?” she asked. “It's not a home.” She shoved at his chest again with her foot. “Don't bullshit me. I can smell the blood.”

His eyebrows lifted, then his eyes slowly narrowed. “You're Alex,” he said.

She stiffened. “How do you know?”

“You should have just told me. I can take care of this quickly. You'll be out of here in no time.”

With a speed that blurred, even to her eyes, he snatched her foot and pushed it aside, coming nimbly to his feet, still favoring the knee she'd wrecked.

Alex brought up her hands, already clenched into fists, but he turned away, moving back into the room he'd just come out of.

“I'm going to grab some pants.” He vanished through a doorway at the far end, and his next words were muffled. “Probably a shirt.”

She'd taken one step forward, wondering if there was an escape route and he was using it, when he returned, pulling a geeky white lab coat over a pair of wrinkled black trousers.

The pronounced limp with which he'd walked away was already fading to a small hitch in his giddy-up. He was healing damn fast. Which meant he was a helluva lot older than he looked.

Around here, everyone was.

“Follow me.” He strode past her and into the hall.

“Why?”

He disappeared around the corner just ahead without answering.

Alex glanced at the door that led outside, caught sight of the sword, and picked it up. The weapon was heavy, obviously very old, with an intricately carved but well-worn grip. She took it with her. She didn't plan on being surprised again.

But she was. How could she not be when she turned the
same corner he had and found herself in a huge, glaringly bright laboratory?

“Hello, Dr. Frankenstein,” she murmured, gaze touching on the bottles and beakers, the test tubes and Bunsen burners, many of them sporting a liquid that shone scarlet beneath the fluorescent lights and explained why the place smelled like a slaughter house. She wondered if Elise knew about this.

Or if
he
knew about
her
.

“Cade,” the man said, his back to her as he messed with something atop a long, shiny black table to the rear.

“Huh?”

“Not Frankenstein.” He turned, a large needle in his hand. “Not yet.”

Alex brought the sword up. “What do you plan to do with that?”

Confusion dropped over his face. “Draw your blood. What else?”

“Take your own. I'm not sharing.”

“But—” The creases in his forehead deepened. “Didn't Julian tell you?”

Barlow had told her a lot of things. None of them had involved giving Herr Doctor her blood.

“No,” she said, figuring that answered his question
and
told him what she thought of his poking her with that needle. But she waved his sword back and forth just in case he didn't get the message.

Cade—was that his first name or his last?—sighed. “He forgot again. He has a lot on his mind.”

Alex lifted a brow. No doubt.

He motioned for her to come closer. “Just a little prick—”

“Don't sell yourself short, pal. I'm sure it's not that little.”

He blinked, clearly not getting the joke. Then shook his head dismissing it. “No, really.” He stepped forward. “I promise. It'll be over before you know it.”

Alex waved the sword in a faster, wider arc. “Since it ain't happening, you're right.”

“Don't you want to know why you're different?”

The sword stopped mid-arc. “What?”

“Julian said that you could touch the others and they could touch you.”

“So?”

“Unless you were inoculated with my serum, your head should threaten to split open if you do that.”

“But he said—” Alex paused. Barlow had said that he could touch the wolves he'd made and they could touch him. He'd never said that they could all play patty-cake together. “What else did Barlow say?”

“That he wanted me to find out why.”

“And you always do what he says?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Not me.”

Cade tilted his head. “I should probably find out why that is, too.”

“Because I'm a bitch, he's an ass, and I don't wanna?”

Cade choked; then his laughter spilled free. “This is going to be so much fun to watch. No one's defied him in centuries. I think the last wolf that did woke up one day without a throat.”

“I see now where the fun comes in,” Alex said drily.

Cade, who'd finally stopped laughing, snorted. “If he hasn't killed you yet, he isn't going to.”

“I wouldn't count on that.”

The sword was getting heavy. Not that she couldn't
manage it but Alex saw no reason to continue holding the thing in front of her as if she were auditioning for the movie version of
Xena: Warrior Werewolf.
So she set the weapon on the nearest tabletop that wasn't cluttered with books and papers and glass, but she kept her hand on the hilt.

“How do you resist his…?” Cade made a circle in the air with the needle.

Alex's mouth tightened. She hadn't resisted him very well at all—at least when it came to sex. She could tell Barlow to blow off, but when it came right down to it, all she really wanted to do was blow him.

“Commands,” Cade finished.

Alex had to scramble for the question. Resisting his commands? It wasn't easy. But the more she did it, the easier it got. Maybe if she refrained from doing him a few times, she'd be able to resist him for good.

And why did the thought of never feeling his skin beneath her palms, his mouth on hers, his body deep within make her twitchy? She didn't know, and she didn't want to.

“I just say nuh-uh,” Alex answered. “You should try it sometime.”

“I have. It makes me…” Cade shifted his thin shoulders beneath the starched white coat. “Squirrelly.”

Alex nodded. That was as good a word as any. “Me too. But I'd rather feel squirrelly than…owned.”

“He doesn't own us.”

“Close enough,” Alex muttered. Then, since she didn't want to argue a point she wouldn't win—not with one of the ownees—Alex moved on. “Why were you out alone in the night?” she asked.

“Alone?” he repeated.

“There's a rogue wolf picking off the Inuit villagers one by one.”

“Wasn't me,” he said with the quickness of a seven-year-old accused of breaking into the cookie jar. “And no one from our village would ever hurt anyone from theirs.”