Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

Julian drew in a deep breath and frowned. He didn’t smell fear. His eyes narrowed, but all he saw on Alexandra’s face was a stoic resignation.

“Get it over with,” she said.

“What is it you think I brought you here to do?”

“Die.”

“You wish.”

Alexandra’s teeth ground together as he repeated the words she’d used to Jorge. He released her with a dismissive flick of the wrist. Best to get it over with as she’d said.

Lifting his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, Julian undid them one after the other, then let the dark garment slide to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she let her gaze wander over him. Wherever that gaze touched, gooseflesh rose. He didn’t want her looking at him, but he didn’t have much choice.

Julian lowered his hands to his trousers, and her eyes followed. But as soon as he unbuttoned the single button, they jerked up to meet his. The sound of the zipper shrieked through the heavy, waiting silence.

She started, paled, and it was then that he at last smelled her fear.

“Dying doesn’t scare you,” he murmured as he eased his thumb beneath the waistband of the black pants and drew them over his hips. “Let’s see what does.”

“You’re going to have a mighty hard time raping me with that,” she sneered, lifting her chin toward his limp member.

“Rape?” He yanked the tie from his ponytail and let his hair swirl loose. “Not my style.”

Confusion flickered over her face. “Then what’s with the striptease?”

Instead of answering, he threw back his head and howled.

The scent of her fear called to his beast. He’d dreamed of this, of her, planned it, lived for it. He wanted Alexandra Trevalyn to understand what she had done, suffer for it a very long time, and there was only one way that could happen.

Julian’s body bowed as his spine altered. Bones crackled, joints popped; his nose and mouth lengthened into a snout. Hands and feet became paws, claws sprouted where finger and toenails had been. When he fell to the ground on all fours, golden hair shot from every pore. Last but not least a tail and ears appeared as he became a wolf in every way but two—human eyes in an inhuman face, human intelligence in the guise of an animal.

“No one can shift that fast.” He swung his head toward the woman, who stared at him wide eyed.

Having once been a Jäger-Sucher, she had to know the basics. To paraphrase Shakespeare: There were more things in heaven and earth than could ever be dreamt of.

And Julian was one of them.

He had been born centuries ago, and with age comes not only wisdom but talent, at least to a werewolf. The older Julian got, the faster he changed.

He stalked toward her on stiff legs, ruff standing on end, upper lip pulled back. Her jaw tightened as she tried not to cringe, but her body wouldn’t obey her mind’s command. His hot breath cascaded over her arm, her neck, her face. She was helpless. He could do anything that he wanted. She knew it, and her fear whirled around him like a midsummer fog.

Had this been what Alana felt in the moments before she died? Or hadn’t she had a chance to feel anything before this child had shot her with silver, then watched her burn. A growl rumbled in Julian’s throat.

The girl tensed and shouted, “Do it!”

So Julian sank his teeth into her shoulder. Alex refused to scream even though the pain was worse than anything she’d ever known. Multicolored dots danced before her eyes; then the world wavered, shimmered, and disappeared.

Hours, moments, seconds later, she came awake sputtering. Someone had thrown water into her face.

The werewolf, now in human form—he’d even gotten dressed—leaned over her, empty plastic bottle crunched in his huge hand. “Soon,” he murmured, “you’ll understand.”

Her shoulder on fire, she was weak, dizzy, feverish, but she remembered everything, and the horror of it almost made her retch.

“You bastard!” Alex shouted, pulling at her bonds. “You bit me.”

“You told me to,” he said.

“I didn’t. I’d never—”

“Did you or did you not shout, ‘Do it!’”

“I meant tear out my throat. Kill me.”

If a werewolf bit a human, the human become a werewolf. If the ravenous beast ate from its victim, blessed death was the result.

Her tormentor tilted his head, and his long hair slid across his neck, spreading outward like a golden fan. “You’d rather be dead,” he murmured, “than a werewolf.”

“Damn straight.”

“And my wife would rather have been a werewolf than dead.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “I guess you’re even.”

Frustration and fury welled within her. She yanked on her bonds again, and the cot rattled as she lifted first one side, then the other from the floor. She was already getting stronger.

“Let me go.” He did nothing but laugh. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want you to understand what you’ve done.”

“I killed monsters. Evil, demonic creatures that belonged in hell.”

“You killed wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, someone’s children. You think we don’t love? You think we don’t mourn?”

“Animals don’t feel.”

He grabbed her by the chin again. “You’re wrong.”

Alex should have a huge bruise from when he’d wolf-handled her before. His touch should hurt, but it didn’t. She was already healing faster than humanly possible.

He let go of her with a flick of his wrist, as if he couldn’t bear to have his skin in contact with hers for one second longer than necessary—she knew the feeling—and walked away. Alex had to crane her neck to watch him disappear out the door.

“Hey!” she shouted, then paused. Would she be better or worse off if he left her behind?

The question became moot when he reappeared carrying an inert body, which he placed on the floor.

“Don’t worry.” He walked to the door again, drawing it closed behind him. “He’s a very bad man.”

As soon as he was gone, Alex fought to get loose in earnest.

He’d bitten her instead of killing her, then tied her down and left her in a room with a helpless human being. She had to pull free and run, then find a silver… anything and kill herself before she changed. Because as soon as she did, she’d need human blood, and there was some right here.

Her struggles only served to make her sweat. The room had no air-conditioning, no window. She pulled on the restraints so hard her wrists bled. The scent of blood, of man made her stomach growl.

Once bitten, a human shifts within twenty-four hours. Traditionally werewolves can only change between dusk and dawn—except that first time. Then it doesn’t matter—day or night, full moon or dark, new wolves become. They had no choice.

Suddenly the room vanished, and Alex ran through a dense forest. Warm sun cast dappled shadows through the branches. The cool air seemed to sparkle. The scent of pine surrounded her.

She burst from the trees onto a rolling plain. Here and there patches of snow shone electric white against just-sprung grass threaded with purple wildflowers. In the distance loomed piles of ice that appeared as high as a mountain.

A sense of freedom, of utter joy filled her. She wanted to run across this land forever. It was…

Home.

Except Alex had no home. She’d been born in Nebraska—not many mountains there, ice or any other. They were a little short on forests, too. And she hadn’t lived in one place for longer than a month since she was five.

She caught the scent of warm blood, of tasty meat, and turned tail—she had one—to return to the forest. Something flashed up ahead, crashing through the brush in terror.