Marked by the Moon (20 page)

As there was no cover once she left the protection of the buildings, Alex didn't even try to be subtle. She shot across the distance separating them, headed straight for George.

A loud
crack
split the night an instant before a wolf erupted straight through the snowbank. Covered in white, she couldn't see the true shade of its coat, and the animal was moving too fast to catch a glimpse of its eyes or anything else. The beast ran straight for George.

Alex leaped at the boy, knocking him to the ground, then rolling to her feet, trying to put herself between the downed kid and the second wolf.

Before she could gain her balance, the animal hit her broadside, and she flew off her paws, slamming into the ice hard enough to stun.

At the same time she heard another crack, wondered distantly what it had been, even as she waited for the wolf to tear at her throat or her belly.

And by the way—where in hell was Barlow?

Then he landed next to her in a heap. It took an instant before she understood that this wolf
was
Barlow. But why had he been chasing George? Why had he knocked her down?

And what was that smell?

Alex rolled onto her belly just as George came to his knees. “Someone's shooting at us,” he said.

Alex glanced at Barlow. Flames sputtered in the center of his chest.

“Or maybe just at you two,” George murmured.

Alex threw her body atop Julian's. Her fur caught fire.
George tried to help by scooping snow in his hands and tossing it on top of them both. He managed to put out Alex, but Barlow was another story.

Because once a silver bullet pierced a werewolf somewhere vital, they were done for.

“Ooooooo!”

The howl rose through the sifting snow toward the grainy, hidden moon.

Alex wished she had a gun, and fingers, so she could end Barlow's torment. Her throat ached to join him as he howled out the remaining seconds of his life.

George had run back to town, presumably to find water—a bucket, a hose, a fire hydrant. It wouldn't do any good, but it gave the boy something to do.

Her eyes prickled—the smoke, the stinging snow, that was all—as Alex fought the wolf's urge to run away. Barlow might be the bane of her existence, but she wasn't going to let him die alone.

“Ooooo—whooo!”

The shift in the howl from mindless pain and fury to a distinguishable word had Alex tilting her head, stepping closer. The snow had become a blizzard, and she could just discern the outline of Barlow shimmering—there, and then gone and then there again. Was he getting taller as he died?

“Whooooooooo dares?”

The words echoed across the night as Barlow, naked and man-size, his chest a bloody mess, burst from the swirling blanket of white.

His arms stretched outward, muscles flexing, fingertips twinkling, as his head tilted back and the cords in his neck tightened. A sound of pure, animalistic rage lifted toward the moon and the silver bullet popped out of his chest, arcing through the chilly air and plopping into the snow with a wet
thunk
.

Alex stood there, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling free as the hole in his skin knit together and the burn marks faded away.

No wonder Edward wanted this guy dead.

 

George returned with a pail in one hand and a down quilt in the other. The snow had thickened considerably and Barlow had become a shadow again an instant before George tossed the quilt at Alex, then hauled back to toss the water in his direction.

Barlow stepped out of the snow and, shocked, George let go of the pail, which flew several feet in the other direction. From the sloshing sounds, it landed upside down.

“What?” the boy began. Then, “How?” He finished with, “Huh?”

“Did you tell anyone what happened?” Barlow asked.

George shook his head. “I didn't know if whoever shot you was still here or if the rogue was, too. I didn't want them hurt.”

Barlow grunted, peering into the storm. “Get us some clothes,” he ordered.

The kid ran. Alex didn't blame him. She wanted to.

Alex imagined herself, herself and began the annoyingly
slow process of becoming human again. She had a few things to ask the wolf-god.

“I am still so
pissed
!” Barlow muttered, then he stomped closer, knelt, and set his hand on her back, which was contorting this way and that as it went from wolf to woman.

As soon as he touched her, the world spun, and by the time Alex opened her eyes, she had legs, fingers, skin. She lay in the snow, dizzy and freezing, doing her best to catch up.

“What can't you do?” she muttered.

Barlow, who'd straightened and returned to staring at the swirling white, glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“You can move at the speed of sound.” He snorted. “Almost. You can become invisible.” He shrugged. “Change the shade of your fur.”

“Not sure about that.” He turned again to the storm.

“Well, since you can heal silver, I'm betting turning from a golden wolf to a purple one wouldn't be any trouble for you at all.”

“Mmm,” he murmured.

“That's all you can say? Mmm?” She got to her feet, ignoring the burn of the ice against her soles. “You just popped a silver bullet out of your chest, Julian.” Alex threw up her hands. “What the fuck?”

For an instant she considered that Barlow himself could be the werewolf that had murdered her father. He could heal silver; there wouldn't be a mark on him from the bullet she'd fired on that long-ago night. But if Barlow were the culprit, wouldn't Edward have mentioned that?

No,
whispered a little voice. Because if he had, Alex would have shot Barlow the next time she saw him rather than allowing him to lead her to the werewolf village. And
the village was what Edward was after—that and the army Barlow didn't appear to have.

Alex's mind whirled. Who was the bad guy? Who was manipulating whom? Who could she trust?

“I don't know what I can do,” Julian murmured, still facing away from her. “Most everything I've ever tried, I've done.”

“Maybe that's why someone tried to kill you.”

Barlow turned then, eyebrows lifted. “They weren't trying to kill me, Alex, they were trying to kill you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

If possible, Barlow's eyebrows went higher.

“Lately,” she muttered.

Alex considered what had happened. She'd left the safety of the village; there'd been a sharp crack, which she'd ignored in her concern for George. Barlow had burst
through
the snowbank, knocked her aside, and then—

Crack!

“You pushed me out of the way,” she said.

Barlow shrugged and didn't comment.

Why would anyone want to kill her? No one knew her well enough yet to hate her.

It suddenly occurred to Alex that while she had not gotten a good look at her father's killer, her father's killer might have gotten a pretty good look at her. But if that was the case, why hadn't the culprit outed her as a
Jäger-Sucher
to the others the instant she'd loped into town?

Because to do that would be to admit that he or she had not been the good little Barlow-escue werewolf he or she was supposed to be but had instead been out killing
people.

Alex thought it far more likely that the wolf, if it had recognized her—and maybe it hadn't, she'd been fifteen at the time—would try to kill her. Now someone had.

Which meant her father's killer
was
here. Perhaps Edward hadn't been manipulating her—much—after all.

“Aren't you the slightest bit concerned?” Barlow asked. “I just told you someone tried to put a silver bullet into you, and you stand there staring into space.”

“Werewolves try to kill me every damn day,” Alex said. “It's when they try to be my friend that I get a little freaked out.”

“Who said it was a werewolf?”

Alex scowled. “Who the hell else would it be?”

“Let's find out.”

 

George appeared out of the ever-thickening snow, his arms full of clothing and boots. He dumped them onto the ground between Alex and Julian.

“Thanks,” Julian said. “Now get inside and stay there.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue. Julian narrowed his eyes, and George snapped it shut again, then spun on his heel and marched away.

Alex snorted and muttered something that sounded a lot like
wolf-god.
As if that were some kind of insult.

Julian wasn't sure where George had found the clothes, but he'd done a good job. Certainly everything was a bit tight on him, but Alex's apparel appeared just her size. Probably because he'd caught the kid staring at her ass on more than one occasion.

And why wouldn't he? It was a damn good ass.

Julian coughed to cover the growl that rumbled in his chest, then winced and put his hand over the shooting pain. He might have popped out a silver bullet, then healed the wound, but it still hurt and probably would for a good long while. He wasn't sure. He'd never healed silver before.

Had anyone?

Alex stomped her foot into a second boot and straightened. “Now what?”

Julian lifted his chin, indicating the ice mound where the shots had originated. “Now we see if there are any tracks worth tracking.”

“But the ice—” she began, hurrying to keep up as he strode in that direction.

Julian kicked at the fluffy layer of white. “Snow,” he said.

She smacked herself in the forehead. “Duh.”

Julian had to stifle a smile. Sometimes she amused him.

Alex stopped abruptly and laid a hand on his arm. Julian paused and gazed at her quizzically.

“What if they're still there?” she murmured.

Julian started walking again. “If they were still there they'd have shot you while I was burning.”

His amusement faded with those words. He might have angered out the bullet; he might have magically healed. But while the silver had been in his chest, while his skin had been sizzling and his hair had been frying, the agony had been beyond anything he'd ever known.

It had made him so mad.

When he'd seen the first shot kick up the snow a few inches from Alex's paws, rage had sparked, allowing him to burst through the icy bank that had concealed him. Then, when the bullet had slammed into him, his fury had exploded along with the flames.

They reached the looming hill of ice and stepped gingerly around its edge. Then together they stared at the rifle half covered with snow.

“Why would an Inuit shoot me?” Alex asked.

“True. They barely know you.”

She laughed. Julian's smile broke free, but it faded as he continued to peer at the ground.

“Look.”

He pointed at the tracks—first feet, but then several yards away from the village, out where the snow would have masked everything, the feet became paws. A few yards farther, the wind across the tundra had erased them completely.

“The rogue is both human and wolf,” Julian said.

“Needed fingers to pull the trigger,” Alex murmured. “And paws to get the hell gone. But how did he know what we were planning?”

Julian cut her a quick, curious glance, and she explained. “He—or she—knew we were coming. He brought a rifle loaded with silver. If he was here to eat another villager, no need for a gun.”

Julian stared into the wall of swirling white. She was right.

“There's nothing else to see here,” he said. “Let's go.”

But Alex was staring into the storm now, too. “Shh,” she whispered, head tilting, eyes narrowing.

Julian listened, detected nothing, held his breath and tried again. Somewhere out in that swirling white he heard the patter of paws.

He glanced at Alex. She lifted her chin, sniffed. So did he.

Definitely a werewolf. But who? The snow, the wind, all the people who lived nearby were throwing off his nose.

Julian stepped forward, and Alex touched his arm, shook her head; then her gaze tracked to the right and she slowly lifted her arm, pointing to the glistening black wolf that burst from the night.

“Ella,” he whispered.

They followed her back toward Awanitok. Julian bent and grabbed the discarded rifle as they hurried past. He didn't bother to check if there were any bullets left. He could smell them.

Ella appeared on her way somewhere, trotting purposefully through town as if she hadn't a care in the world.

“Just because she's here,” Alex said, “doesn't mean she's evil.”

“This from the woman who thinks that just because we breathe we're evil.”

Alex didn't have a snappy comeback for that, and Julian would have asked why if Ella hadn't chosen that moment to turn into Jorund's backyard.

“Faet!”
Julian spat, and began to run.

He came around the corner as the wolf gracefully leaped onto the back porch. Sliding glass doors reflected the swirling snow and the foggy sheen of the moon. Julian feared Ella would crash right through them.

Was Jorund sitting at his kitchen table, peacefully drinking tea? Did he have his aching feet propped up on an ottoman, glasses settled on his determined blade of a nose, a science-fiction novel—his favorite—open on his quilt-covered lap?

When the werewolf burst through his window would the old man spring up, tangle his feet in the quilt, and fall down? Break a hip? An arm? Have a heart attack? Any of those would be preferable to the alternative—bloody, painful death by rogue werewolf.

Julian couldn't let that happen. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and sighted on Ella's flank.

“Wait,” Alex whispered.

“No.”

“Look.”

Something in her voice stopped him. Perhaps that she'd tried
to
stop him. Alex would be the first person to let him shoot a werewolf—unless she had a very good reason not to.

The glass doors slid open. Jorund appeared in a wash of yellow light from his kitchen. He wore a black silk robe adorned with golden dragons and tied loosely with a matching sash. His hair flowed in a river of silver-threaded black past his shoulders, and he held a glass of red wine in one hand. Behind him, on the table, sat the bottle and a second, empty glass.

The old man stood to the side, and the wolf trotted in. Jorund let his free hand trail over her back, on his face an expression Julian had never seen there before.

“Maybe we'd better go,” Alex said.

“Put down the gun,
Ataniq.
” Jorund turned away, leaving the door open. “And come inside.”

By the time Julian and Alex got there, Jorund had pulled out two more glasses and poured them each some wine. Ella was nowhere to be found, though Julian heard someone moving about in one of the bedrooms.

Jorund sat at the table. From the way he carefully adjusted his knee-length robe to avoid flashing them, he wore nothing beneath the silk. Julian was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. He downed his wine in a single swallow.

“George told me what you had planned.”

Julian scowled. “He was supposed to tell no one.”

“I'm the leader of this village, not you.”

Annoyed, Julian snapped, “Yet you call me master.”

“Courtesy title,” the old man murmured.

“Then why did you send George to bring me here each time you found someone dead?”

“You promised to protect us from your wolves. You aren't living up to your end of the agreement. Why wouldn't I call you?”