Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

Alex was both energized by their success and seriously worried by it. What was the weird connection between them, and how could she break it?

“Alexandra,” Barlow murmured.

“Alex,” she returned. The last time someone had called her Alexandra, finger painting had been the most important thing on her schedule, followed by snack and an afternoon nap.

“Your keys?”

Her hand went to her pocket before she remembered this wasn’t her pocket. “I think they’re back in that room.” She put her palm against the passenger window. One of the boys stirred. Another groaned. “With my clothes.”

Barlow muttered a word in another language, and despite her not understanding it she knew it to be a curse. “We need to get out of LA,” he said. “The cops are going to figure this out.”

“Right. They’ll decide the torn clothes are because someone shifted into a werewolf, and the keys on the floor belong to—” She paused. “How will they figure out who they belong to?”

“Your ID?” he suggested.

“I was a Jäger-Sucher once. That translates to ‘hunter,’ not moron. No ID.”

He placed his hands on the steering column, closed his eyes, and…was that a growl? She wasn’t sure since, seconds later, the van started like magic.

“You’re some weird werewolf,” she said.

He ignored her. “You don’t have any ID?”

“I didn’t say I had no ID, just that I had no ID on me.”

Reaching forward, she tapped the side of her fist into a plastic square above the radio. Instead of popping open to reveal the secret compartment, the plastic shattered into a hundred charcoal-gray shards.

“Whoops,” she muttered.

“What did I say about pulling your punches?” he asked.

“Only do it when I’m not punching you?”

He gave a short bark of laughter, and Alex nearly joined in. Would have if she hadn’t already reached into the hole and pulled out her fake driver’s license and the single photo she had of her father, Charlie.

The sight of his face brought everything back. The years they’d spent on the road, the closeness they’d shared after her mother had…died.

They’d been the perfect family. Father with a good job. Mother who stayed home. Cute little girl who adored them both.

Every night after work, Charlie would take Alex to the park while his wife, Janet, made supper. He had loved softball—both watching and playing it—and he’d imparted that love to Alex. Even at five, she’d had her own glove, and she’d been able to catch pretty darn well. But what she’d loved more than the game itself was the time with Daddy.

Until there’d come a night when they’d returned to their house not long after dark and instead of supper, they’d found a nightmare.

Charlie’d had a secret life, one he hadn’t shared with Janet. He’d thought he left his Jäger-Sucher past behind him. He’d changed his name; he’d even changed his face. Unfortunately he hadn’t changed his scent. He couldn’t, and his past had sniffed him out.

One of the werewolves that had gotten away found him. Or rather, he found Janet. Then he killed her.

His mistake was in waiting for Charlie. Because even though Charlie worked in a hardware store now, even though he pretended to be just another guy, he still kept silver bullets in the gun he’d locked in the trunk of his car, and he could still shoot with the accuracy of the marine sniper who’d trained him.

Luckily her father had a sixth sense about danger, or maybe he’d just smelled the blood. He’d told Alex to run to the neighbor’s and play with their new kitten. By the time he’d picked her up, he’d packed the essentials into their car and called Edward to clean up the mess.

Charlie had rejoined the Jäger-Suchers. He hadn’t felt like he had any choice. He’d never be free of his past, and his daughter would never be safe unless he killed every last monster on earth.

He’d made a mistake keeping the secret. But he would rectify that by teaching Alex all that he knew so she could never be surprised as her mother had been.

It hadn’t been easy, but they’d managed. Werewolves hunted at night, and Charlie did, too, long after Alex was asleep. She’d been old enough to understand that something bad had happened to her mommy in the dark, and she knew better than to venture into it alone.

As she got older, she saw things, things that made her desperate to learn all her father had to teach.

So Charlie taught, Alex learned—how to kill werewolves, how to add and subtract—and when they had a little downtime between assignments, they played catch, just like they had when they’d still had a home.

Alex’s eyes suddenly burned with tears she could not shed. Because if Barlow saw her crying over Daddy and Mommy, he’d know something was wrong with her.

When people become werewolves, their humanity dies. They lose all allegiance to their family, their friends, to anyone or anything but themselves.

Alex glanced at Barlow out of the corner of her eye as she slid the photo of her father beneath the seat.

So what was wrong with him?

Julian was spooked, but he didn’t let it show. He’d learned long ago—before he’d even become what he was—to keep his emotions in check. Emotions were a weakness he couldn’t afford. Just look where his love for Alana had gotten him.

Here with this woman-wolf who was really freaking him out.

His lips twitched at the slang. It had taken him a few decades to figure out that the only way to fit in was to learn the local lingo and use it. Of course now that he no longer needed to fit in, he could probably do so without any problem at all.

He had no idea why he’d encouraged the fight. Perhaps to see what Alex could do in human form. He needed to know all he could about her before he brought her into his inner sanctum. He definitely hadn’t beaten those boys senseless because of the hint of sadness that had billowed around her like fading perfume.

Julian’s fingers clenched on the steering wheel. She was still sad. He could smell it.

It had taken him a few centuries to hone his human senses until they were nearly as sharp as his wolf’s. Trust a Norseman to adapt. It was one of the many things they were good at.

Of course he’d never adapted this well. He could smell anger, violence, fear. That was easy. But he couldn’t recall ever smelling sadness before. Even with Alana.

Julian drove to the crappy motel near LAX, parked around back, and got out.

Alex got out, too. “What gives?”

“You can’t get on a plane like that,” he said.

The blood on her body had seeped through the T-shirt and the sweatpants he’d given her, creating a gory polka-dot pattern. The fight had torn a few holes, added another level of dirt. She still wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Alex followed him into the dingy, dank room he’d rented when he’d arrived only a few days ago. The place smelled of a hundred others. He couldn’t wait to get home.

“Use the shower,” he ordered.

“What if I don’t want to?” she asked, but she was already headed that way.

As soon as the lock clicked on the bathroom door— foolish on her part, no door would keep him out if he truly wanted to get in—Julian pocketed the key and returned to her van.

He sat on the passenger side, slid his hand beneath the seat, pulled out the photo she’d hidden there. A man—same eyes, same smile, hair closer to chestnut than Alexandra’s shade of light brown. He was of average height, thin and rangy, with gold-rimmed glasses and big, hard, capable hands.

Charlie Trevalyn—Alex’s missing father.

Julian knew the man must have been killed, most likely by werewolves considering Alex’s loathing for them. Of course there was no record of such a thing. Just as there was none of what had happened to her mother. Why would there be?