Twelfth Moon (2 page)

When he was finished, he settled the boy on the extra bedroll near the blazing fire. Kneeling down, he placed a hand behind the boy’s head, holding a tin cup filled with water to his mouth.

The boy’s face was smudged with the dust of the desert, his dark hair stringy with grime and sweat. His eyelids fluttered as he drank, some of the liquid trickling down his chin. He had unusually thick lashes and when he opened his eyes, Jonah was surprised by their striking color, reflected in the firelight. They were a dark green, like the thick mossy floor of an ancient forest.

Those eyes looked up into Jonah’s face, and then widened with shock. The boy sputtered and choked, scooting backward on his elbows. With his hands still tied behind his back, he resembled a drunken crab.

“Kind of like seeing a ghost, isn’t it, boy?” Jonah drawled in a steely voice.

Cadence tried to speak, but her throat felt like she’d swallowed burning embers from a fire. Her voice came out as a scratchy whisper. “You – you’re…but you’re dead.” He
was
dead. She knew it to be true, but who was this man who looked so much like Robert Kincaid?

On closer inspection, she could see that it wasn’t him. This man was bigger, more muscled, and older than Robert Kincaid – and more dangerous. He’d followed her as she’d scrambled away, the fire at his back now. She could no longer make out his features, now hidden in the shadows.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said in a smooth voice that held a distinct note of menace. “My name is Jonah…U.S. Marshal, Jonah
Kincaid
. Robert was my brother, you no good piece of buffalo shit.”

All the blood drained from Cadence’s head and she promptly fainted.

“
Christ!
” Jonah dragged the boy back to the bedroll. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this first meeting with his brother’s killer. He’d wanted – he didn’t really know what he’d wanted, but this wasn’t it – to have the scum-sac pass out right after he found out whose custody he was in.

Jonah looked at the boy’s face. He seemed so young – too young to have killed two people. At least that was the number as far as he knew. This kid could have killed more than just Jonah’s brother and that old woman.

With a sound of disgust, he drew a large knife from his boot and cut the ropes holding the boy’s hands together. It would be an easier job to check his wounds while he was unconscious, anyway. After all, he didn’t want to drag a dead and rotting body back to New Orleans.

There was a patch of crimson near the kid’s left ear. It stood out like some macabre exotic flower, contrasting sharply against the muted, monochrome colors of dust and grime that covered him from head to toe. Jonah pulled the faded, red bandana from around his neck, soaked it with water from his canteen, and wiped at the blood. There was a small cut there, but it didn’t look serious enough for stitches.

Going over to Athos, he reached inside one of the saddle bags, retrieving a tin of ointment. He kneeled back down next to the boy. Opening the small, metal can, he dipped the tip of his finger in and smeared a little on the cut.

Next, he washed the boy’s wrists, which had been rubbed raw from the ropes, applying more of the ointment. As he turned the boy’s hands over in his own large ones, something puzzled Jonah. The kid didn’t seem to possess the size and strength to overcome, let alone kill, a man much larger than he was. The bones in his wrists were small and delicate, the skin smooth except for a blister on the inside of one thumb. This kid did not fit the usual profile of a hardened outlaw – a killer. Christ, by the looks of him, a stiff wind would easily blow him over.

He moved his attention to the boy’s neck. Jonah had witnessed many horrifying things, both during and after the war. It wasn’t that he was used to any of it, not by a long shot, but he had learned to keep his emotions at a distance, to withdraw from the human aspect of death and all the gory details in between. However, the sight of this kid’s neck, marked by a band of dried blood, punctuated with angry bruises, was enough to unsettle even a battle-hardened soldier like Jonah.

As Jonah washed the blood away as best he could, dabbing on the sweet-smelling ointment, the boy whimpered softly. The hanging rope had crushed his throat and would take some time to heal. Luckily, since the boy wasn’t very heavy, the damage shouldn’t be permanent. Otherwise, he might live with a hoarse voice for the rest of his life – however long that might be.

Shit!
Why was he suddenly so concerned about this cold-blooded killer?

It was the boy’s young and innocent face.

He just didn’t look like a murderer. But Jonah knew from past experience that looks could be deceiving. This boy had killed his brother and, so long as Jonah had breath in his body, he would see justice served.

Two

CADENCE WAS TRAPPED in a black void, memories from so many weeks ago swirling unchecked through her unconscious mind. That night – that horrible night – she’d killed a man.

“
Hey, honey, you sure are a pretty little thing.”

Cadence ignored the man’s silky, southern drawl and kept on walking. She was returning home from the market, a basket filled with fresh vegetables slung across one arm.

“
I don’t’ think I’ve ever seen such a lovely shade of green as your eyes,” he crooned softly.

He easily kept up with her brisk pace, striding along beside her like he had the right to. The sun had just dropped over the horizon, leaving behind that strange shade of light between day and the coming darkness. In her peripheral vision, she could see he was handsome. In fact, he was probably the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on, but her highly acute instincts told her he was dangerous.

“
I’m willin’ to pay good money for your company.”

So that’s what it was. Just another man thinking he could buy anything with his money. She’d encountered the type many times before, knew how to handle them. Reaching the end of the block, she turned the corner onto another street. “Listen, mister,” she snapped, “you don’t want me. I’ve got the syphilis.”

That always got them to lose interest. She snickered inwardly at the memory of those other men, the look on their faces, the way they shrank away from her, their expressions filled with disgust.

He grabbed her free arm, halting her in front of a darkened alley.

Oh, oh.

“
I’d bet all my pocket money you’re lyin’, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “And you’re just so delectable, I’m willin’ to take my chances.”

His grip on her arm was like a band of steel. She looked up at his face, her heart leaping into her throat at the intense way he was looking at her. Even in the shadows of growing darkness, she could make out the steel blue of his eyes, the way his pitch-black hair waved over his forehead, behind his ears, down to his collar. His immaculate suit was that of a wealthy gentleman, and he was tall.

But she sensed his troubled, twisted mind, his burdened heart. It came at her in waves, like an invisible, ominous storm, surrounding her, suffocating her. The instinct to
turn
tore through her, clambering in her brain like a separate entity, but she couldn’t do it out in the open where someone might see her. Besides, she didn’t want to, would do anything to avoid it. As her mother had taught her, nothing good could come out of it. She couldn’t risk discovery. The people of New Orleans were too superstitious. She would be hanged – or worse – burned as a witch.

“
Please, mister,” she pleaded in a low voice. “I don’t want to go with you. I’m not one of those women. I’m not for sale.”

“
Well, I really don’t give a fuck, sweet thing,” he responded in that smooth drawl, so at odds with his crude language and the intensity in his eyes. It raised the hackles on the back of her neck.

He pulled her along, into the alley. She dug in her heels, trying to stop him. It did no good. He was bigger and stronger than her – at least while she remained in her human form.

“
Come on, now, don’t be shy.” He pulled Cadence further into the alley.

“
Please, let me go!” She desperately fought against the defensive instinct to shift and protect herself.

One large hand came over her mouth, the other grasping her around the waist, bracing her against his solid chest. He forced her up a flight of steep, wooden steps, her basket tumbling back down, spilling its contents. He pushed her through a door, shoving her forward. She fell to her knees. The door slammed shut, the snick of the lock adding an exclamation point to the dire situation she was in.

She quickly surveyed the room, searching for an escape route, but found no other door leading to freedom. A fire blazed in the small hearth, its glow casting ominous, flickering shadows on the walls.

“
Take off your clothes, sweetheart. I’m eager to see what lies beneath.”

Cadence jerked at the sound of his low, raspy voice, her eyes darting to the bed, and then back to his face. He stood in front of the door, looking at her with eyes that had turned almost black, glittering in the light of the fire. It gave her a start, for he seemed otherworldly. Surely, it was just her fear making her see things that weren’t real?

His chest rose and fell as though he labored for breath. Her own breath caught at how shockingly handsome he was.

He was younger than she’d first thought, his pale face smooth, unblemished and unscarred. But she knew – could clearly sense it as though it were written in the air above him, that his scars were carried on the inside. They festered within him, clawing their way to the surface. He suffered from his madness, and therefore was compelled to make others suffer as well.

Remaining on her knees in a submissive, non-threatening position, she spoke to him in a soft tone. “What’s your name?”

He took a menacing step toward her. “My name? Why do you want to know, ma cherie, so you can set the authorities on me?”

“
I was only curious to know the name of my admirer, is all,” she replied softly. If she could calm him, she might have a chance to slip past him.

“
Ah, so you like what you see, eh?” His grin was dazzling. He removed his coat, not taking his eyes off her, tossing it to the floor. A flash of gold drew her attention to the large ring on the last finger of his right hand.

“
You’re very handsome. You must have no trouble at all with willing women, so why do you wish to force me?” Big mistake, she realized, when he directed a cold glare at her, his smile vanishing.

“
Because it pleases me, darlin’, to take what I want. You belong to me now. My mark will testify to that fact.”

“
Y-your mark?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he meant by that.

“
You’ll see.”

He’d dropped to the floor, then, tearing at her clothes, cuffing her when she fought him. When she’d weakened, he left her for a moment, while she lay sprawled on the thin rug, naked and dazed.

The searing pain on the inside of her left thigh had brought her out of her half conscious state, her scream captured by his mouth on hers. He was over her, crushing her, burning her, his male member hard and pushing its way inside her. She’d cried out as he broke through her virgin’s barrier, burying himself deeper still.

“
You’re mine, now,”
he’d growled with triumph into her ear.

The animal within her had taken over then, her need to protect herself reduced to its most basic level of instinct.

She’d become the Pantera – the panther.

Cadence was
de forme apparence
– the Pantera – a shape-shifter. Every daughter born in the line of succession since the sixth century inherited the gift – or curse, depending on one’s viewpoint.

It had happened so fast, there’d been no time for him to even comprehend.

Sharp claws slashed at him, slicing across his chest, spilling his blood. It spattered her black fur, pooled on the floor, soaking the rug. In her dreams, all she could ever see was the blood – dark red blotches standing out against a blurred background and smelling of copper.

She’d returned to her human form, cleaned herself up, and then dressed in her tattered clothes, covering herself as best she could. The burning pain on the inside of her thigh, she discovered, was a brand. He’d heated his ring in the fire, held by a long metal rod with small tongs on the end. An imprint of the letter ‘K’ within a circle had been burned into her flesh.

He’d planned the whole thing ahead of time.

All he’d needed was a victim.

She’d run, then, her feet skidding down the steps in her haste and fled into the night. In her panic, she’d run smack into a line of clothes left out to dry. Pushing back her fear, she’d had the presence of mind to search the line for something that might fit her. There was a pair of trousers and a shirt, small enough to have belonged to a boy about her size.

After grabbing the boy’s clothes, she’d realized she’d lost her locket, and had to return to the room. She found the locket, the chain broken sometime during the struggle, and changed into the boy’s clothes. Afterward, she’d rolled her own clothes into a tight bundle, taking care not to leave any evidence behind that might lead someone back to her.

As she’d turned, her toe kicked his ring, sending it skittering across the floor. Picking it up, she turned it over in her fingers, studying the engraved ‘K,’ which now matched the brand on her leg, wondering what his name was. She slipped the ring into a pocket of the borrowed trousers riding low on her slim hips, deciding to keep it. For what reason, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Desperate and terrified, she’d run home, into the comforting arms of her sisters. They’d been waiting for her. Jaelene, who had gifts beyond that of a shape-shifter, had felt Cadence’s pain, her terror. She told Cadence about a vision she’d had of a dark-haired man wearing a fancy gold ring. She even described the letter ‘K’ on it. It was too much of a coincidence.