Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

He coughed again, right in her face, and she rolled her eyes as if he were the biggest crybaby ever, then got off him and stood.

Julian just lay there awhile and got used to his lungs again.

“Barlow…” she warned.

“Okay, hold on.” He sat up, lifting a hand to stay her next attack. “What are you so mad about?”

“What—?” she sputtered. “You. Me. We.” She clenched her hands, lifted her face to the sky, and screamed with fury. If Alexandra Trevalyn had been a Viking, Julian had no doubt she would have been a berserker, too.

When she stopped, she seemed calmer. He’d be the first to admit—sometimes screaming helped.

“You’ve told me over and over that your wolves are different,” she began, voice a bit hoarse.

“They are.”

“ How different? Can you make little Barlows?” She took a step forward, and from the gleam in her eyes Julian could tell she wanted to kick him again. “Did you make one in me?”

He blinked. “No. Of course not. I—”

“Didn’t use any protection.” She gagged, bent over, and he feared for an instant she’d be sick right there on the snow.

“There was no need,” he said. “My wolves aren’t that different. We can’t procreate.”

He pushed aside the shimmy of memory his words brought forth. That fact had caused him no end of trouble already.

Alex took several deep, shaky breaths. When she straightened, she was pale but steady. “Explain the blue eyes. Even Tutaaluga had them.”

Julian lifted a brow. “Tutaaluga?”

“The old guy. Which is kind of freaky considering how much younger you look than him.”

“His name is Jorund.”

Confusion spread over her face. “You called him Tutaaluga. ”

“ Tutaaluga means ‘my grandson.’”

“He’s your grandson ? But that’s not possible if you can’t impregnate the Indian maidens.”

“The—” Laughter bubbled, but Julian refused to let it flow free. He had a feeling his testicles might get introduced to his throat if he did, and he liked them exactly where they were. “You thought I’d been…”

“Boinking the natives,” she filled in. “Why not? They treat you like the local wolf-god.”

Well…he kind of was.

“I wouldn’t boink anyone.”

She snorted.

Except you.

The thought floated through his head and nearly out of his mouth. He bit his lip. Hard.

“ Don’t say it.” Alex narrowed her eyes. “Just don’t.”

Could she read his mind? Or merely his face?

“Explain how the old guy…Jorund?” Julian nodded. “Could be your grandson.”

“He isn’t. Not technically, as in son of my son, because—like you said—that’s impossible. But he’s a descendant.”

“Of yours?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all descendants?”

“In a way.”

Alex rubbed her head as if it ached. He had no doubt it did. Though her wound had begun to heal, her hand came away bloody. She scowled at the red slash, began to wipe her palm on Ella’s pants, then thought better of it. Knowing Ella, the garment probably cost more than the snowmobile.

Instead she bent and picked up a loose handful of snow, held it between her palms until it melted, then rubbed them together until they were clean again.

She was adapting quicker and better than any of his others. But she’d had a lot of practice. Dragged from city to city all her life, blending in, making do, as she hunted monsters that would gladly kill her if they knew that she was there.

Sympathy sparked, but Julian squelched it. If she saw that expression on his face, he didn’t want to think where she’d kick him next.

Alex waved a damp hand. “Go on.”

Julian really wanted to get back to town and start questioning people. He needed to find out if anyone had gone crazy on him before another Inuit died. And if no one had, then he needed to find out how a rogue wolf had invaded his territory and no one had noticed. Had they lived safely for so long that they’d lost any sense of approaching danger?

First he should explain things to Alex. He didn’t blame her for being worried. He should have considered what she might think before he’d brought her to a village where every third inhabitant had his eyes.

“I sailed here long ago. Back when I was called Jorund the Blund.”

Her head came up. “Jorund? Like the old man?”

“Yes. Although he was named after me, not the other way around.”

“How did that happen?”

“A lot of the Native American tribes believe that once a person dies, their name must never be uttered again for fear their spirit will haunt the speaker. But the Inuit believe that the good aspects of the dead will inhabit those who are given the same name.”

“But you aren’t dead.”

“They didn’t know that when they started naming a child in every generation Jorund.” Julian shrugged. “It’s become a tradition.”

“So you sailed here back in what…8000 BC?”

“The Viking era was a thousand years ago.” He tilted his head, wondering what he could get her to tell him if he played dumb. “Didn’t you study that in school?”

She looked away, across the wide expanse of tundra that rolled on and on, acres of snow that resembled a perfectly white sea. “When would I have gone to school, Barlow? Maybe after we chased down that nahual in Mexico. Or while we were hunting the Scottish wulver in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

“I don’t know what those are,” he admitted.

She laughed, though the sound held the whisper of a sob. “I learned to shoot a gun at the age of eight. By the time I was ten I could make my own silver bullets. Every night before bed I was drilled in the different categories of monsters. Nahual—” She lifted a finger. “—Mexican werewolf-wizard.” She lifted another. “Wulver. A Scottish fiend with the body of a man and the head of a wolf.”

“Alex,” he began, but she kept talking.

“My quizzes consisted of ways to kill each one. And I got one hundred percent on them, because if I didn’t, I knew I’d die.”

The flash of sympathy threatened again. Again he squelched it unmercifully. So she’d had a rough childhood. A lot of people did, yet they didn’t go around murdering innocent wives.

“Isn’t it illegal not to go to school?” he asked.

“Call a cop.” Her lips twisted wryly. “We never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to notice.”

Julian frowned. “Wouldn’t child services have come searching for you eventually?”

Now she laughed with true mirth. “You said you knew Edward.”

“We all know Edward.”

“Apparently not well.”

“If I knew him well, I’d be ashes.”

“Good point.” She drew in a breath and as she let it out, her smile faded. “Edward has J-S agents everywhere. Social services. Child services. FBI. How do you think he knows every damn thing?”

“He doesn’t know where I am.”

“Give him time,” she said.

A flicker of unease trickled across the back of Julian’s neck. “What do you mean by that?”

She threw up her hands. “Edward’s been at this since the Second World War. He’s got funding up the wazoo. You think you can hide from him forever?”

“I’ve been at this longer than that. So yes, I think I can.”

“Okay.” Alex nodded, staring at the ground. When she lifted her hand to shove her hair out of her face, her fingers trembled. Maybe she was cold, but he didn’t think so.

Alex knew Edward. She understood, perhaps better than anyone here, how dangerous he was, how far reaching his influence, of what he might be capable. And he’d made her into the very thing Edward excelled at killing. He couldn’t blame her for being a little scared.