Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

Werewolf kills were sometimes written off as rabid animal attacks, but usually people just disappeared. When they did, Edward Mandenauer was often involved.

Julian put the photo of Charlie back where he’d found it and returned to the hotel room. He placed a call to the airport and let his pilot know when he wanted to leave. By the time he hung up, sweat had broken out on his brow, dampened the back of his shirt, and begun to run down his neck. Sometimes werewolf senses were a gift and other times, like now, a curse.

He heard every drop splashing against her body, swirling downward, cascading over her shoulders, her breasts, belly, thighs. He could smell the soap, the shampoo, hear the swish of her hands as she washed.

If he closed his eyes he could see the water, the bubbles, the stroke of fingers against skin. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he tasted her—that mouth, her neck, the blood.

“Shit. Fuck. Hell.” Sometimes if he cursed in English he managed to draw his mind away from whatever he was cursing about. But not this time. He could still see her naked body, hear her rapid breathing, smell the soap mixing with her tangy scent.

He opened his eyes. Steam trailed out from beneath the door, snaking toward him like a magical mist, enticing him to do things he should not. He’d taken several steps forward before he stopped, turned, and forced himself to retreat, to stare out the window at the coming dawn and once again count to ten, then fifty, then a hundred in Norwegian, trying to shake the bizarre sense of destiny from his brain. Alex had closed the door behind her—locked it, too— then turned on the shower. When she’d stepped beneath the water, she’d discovered that the usual just-short-of-scalding temperature she preferred was something she preferred no longer. Tepid was all she could stand against skin that felt like she’d been lying naked in the tropical sun for hours with no respite—or sunscreen.

She easily scrubbed off the blood and the dirt, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter how long she rubbed, she couldn’t get rid of the scent of werewolf. That scent was part of her now.

She had a sudden flash of Barlow’s hands on her breasts, his tongue in her mouth, and everything she’d felt in that small clip of time she’d spent in his arms rushed back. Despite her hatred of werewolves, and him in particular, she’d wanted the man more than she’d ever wanted anyone else.

There was definitely something hinky about Julian Barlow.

Mind control? Witchcraft? A magic spell? Maybe all three. She’d find out of course. Finding out was what she did best—along with killing.

His brush lay on the sink; Alex used it even though the mingling of his golden strands with her light brown made her edgy. After wrapping herself tightly in a scratchy hotel towel, Alex opened the door. A fresh set of clothes lay on the floor just outside.

She snatched them up without even looking around. The clothes, obviously his, fit badly. The jeans were huge—she threaded a length of what appeared to be telephone cord through the belt loops to hold them up —the tank top, too. She didn’t really want to wear his boxers, but what choice did she have? The long-sleeved shirt, heavy socks, and bulky, tree-hugger sandals were also too large. She managed by pulling the straps as tight on her feet as they’d go.

When Alex stepped into the room again, the first thing she saw was Barlow staring out the window. The night had turned gray as dawn approached. In the distance she caught the twinkling lights of LAX, so numerous and bright they seemed like stars that had fallen to the earth.

The room smelled of smoke—but not cigarettes— reminding her of the small towns she and her father had passed through, places where they’d burned their garbage in the backyard. The scent made her ache with the echo of loneliness.

Every dusk had brought another monster; every dawn had brought another town. They never got friendly. It didn’t pay. Who knew when the kid you’d struck up a friendship with might turn out to be the next werewolf victim, or perhaps the next werewolf.

“We should get to the airport,” Barlow murmured without turning. “We leave in an hour.”

Alex opened her mouth to question him, then thought better of it. She’d know soon enough where they were going. All she’d have to do was read her boarding pass.

Except they didn’t fly commercial. Barlow had his very own plane.

They also didn’t leave in an hour. Something needed to be adjusted, and when dealing with planes Alex was all for adjusting it, however long that might take. She sat in a hard plastic chair and watched Barlow pace. He seemed more like a wild animal now than when he’d been one.

At last the pilot motioned for them to board. Alex reached for her ID, then remembered she’d left her license on the table in the hotel when she’d gone into the shower, then she’d never seen it again. The scent of burning waste in the room suddenly made a lot more sense.

“You burned my ID?” she whispered furiously.

“You won’t need it where we’re going.”

“Just because you have your own plane doesn’t mean we don’t have to show ID.”

He smiled. “It does on my plane.”

“But—”

“If you have enough money you can buy anything. Especially anonymity. I’d think you would have learned that from Mandenauer.”

Barlow got on board, leaving Alex to follow or not. Though she had no doubt that if she chose not, he’d make her.

They flew away from the sun, out over the Pacific. Just when Alex had begun to obsess about landing in China or Russia or some Stan country with a lot of caves and disappearing forever, the pilot turned toward land, then tilted the nose north.

“You’ll see Fairbanks before you know it,” he announced through the headphones they’d all donned along with their seat belts.

Alaska?

No wonder Edward had never found them.

Several hours later they flew over Fairbanks. The pilot couldn’t help playing tour guide.

“Fairbanks has one of the largest population centers this far north in the world. About thirty thousand in the town, and another eighty-four thousand in there.” He pointed to the acres upon acres of trees. “Place is surrounded by hundreds of miles of subarctic bush.”

“How cold does it get?” Alex asked.

The guy grinned, enjoying himself. “In January down to sixty-six below; in July it can hit ninety-nine.”

“What about right now?”

“September is a strange one. We’ve had snow, temps in the teens. Today it’s probably forty.” He waved at the western horizon where the sun was falling down. “But it’s gonna cool off soon.”

“Kind of early to be getting dark.”

“You’re near the Arctic Circle. In December they only see the sun for a few hours.”

Alex definitely needed to be out of here before December.

The plane banked over the city, which appeared fairly modern, full of paved streets, concrete and steel buildings. She even caught the bright flare of golden arches; then they sailed past, headed toward some pretty thick timber. The trees were so tall, the belly seemed to skim the branches.

“Where’s the airport?” Alex asked, and her voice shook just a little.

Barlow lifted a brow and mouthed, Scared?

She turned away.

“I don’t need no stinkin’ airport,” the pilot answered in a very bad Speedy Gonzales accent.

Alex almost panicked—until she remembered she couldn’t die. Unless the vehicle was pure silver, and if so neither Barlow nor she would be flying in it. This damn-hard-to-kill thing was kind of liberating.

The pilot set the plane down on a gravel road that wound among towering pines. They climbed out; he waved and was gone.