Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

“You’re safe here, Alex. I promise.”

Her gaze flicked up. “You can’t promise that.”

“I’ve been promising it for a century. We’re still here, and he isn’t.”

“Yet,” she muttered.

“Yet,” he agreed, and she shivered. “Let’s continue this conversation back in town.”

“I’m all right,” she said.

“I’m not.” He pointed at his stocking feet. “Come on.”

Julian climbed on the snowmobile, and Alex joined him without further argument.

Which proved more than anything else just how not all right she was.

Barlow thought she was worried that Edward might show up and shoot her with silver along with the rest of them. She had to make sure he kept thinking that, which meant she had to behave like a frightened girl.

Too bad she had no idea how.

She hadn’t stepped foot in a traditional school since kindergarten—except that time when there’d been the werewolf massacre at Graystone Middle School—

Alex shuddered, and Julian shouted, “Almost home.”

The word home made her start. This wasn’t her home, and it never could be.

Edward had manipulated the media, and everyone else involved, into believing that the twelve dead at Graystone were the result of a school shooting. Edward manipulated a lot. Manipulation was what Edward did best. How else had he convinced her to do this?

Alex yanked her mind from her memories and Mandenauer. While she was here she had to think like a werewolf, not like a Jäger-Sucher. If Julian discovered that she was working for Edward—

Alex shuddered again, and Barlow pulled her arms more firmly around his waist so that the entire front of her was pressed to the back of him. He gave off heat like a furnace, and before she could stop herself she actually cuddled.

Alex did not cuddle. Especially with werewolves.

But she was a werewolf.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her own thoughts making her dizzy.

Barlowsville appeared on the horizon, and Alex was damn glad to see it. Which only confused her more.

They roared into town, straight past the square and down a street Alex had never been down before. She’d figured Barlow would take her straight to Ella’s and leave her there so he could discover the traitor in their midst. She certainly wouldn’t want to be that wolf.

But what if…

She’d heard the old man point out that Barlow was a sorcerer; he could be anything. Even a brown wolf when his hair was gold. However, according to the wolf man he didn’t kill for sport. No one here did.

So then who had eaten the wise woman?

Barlow stopped in front of a two-story log structure at the very end of the street. Behind it she could see a long, white, really ugly warehouse-type building. What the hell did he keep in there?

Alex heaved a silent sigh. She was going to have to find out. That and a whole lot more.

Barlow shut off the motor, slid free of the seat and trotted up the steps, then into the house. Alex sat on the snowmobile, uncertain what she should do. Did he already know who the rogue was, and he’d come directly to the wolf’s house to kill it?

However Barlow reappeared with the Inuit kid. He saw her still sitting there and frowned. “George has to go home now,” he said. “Come inside.”

Alex glanced at the rustic home. “This is your place?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” She climbed off the machine. In truth, she wanted it with a longing that embarrassed her. Whenever she’d dreamed of a house of her own—not often, it was never going to happen—she’d dreamed of a log cabin very similar to this. “Where are the white pillars, golden window frames, marble steps, and neon sign that flashes home of the wolf-god king of barlowsville?”

George’s blue eyes widened, and he glanced at Barlow as if he expected him to…what? Kill her now?

Instead Barlow’s lips twitched. He appeared to be finding her funnier and funnier as time went on.

Huh. Usually people found her less and less funny the more she hung around. Then again, Barlow wasn’t most people. Hell, he wasn’t even a people.

“I left it in my other suit,” he said. Which made no sense. So why, then, did Alex laugh?

George glanced back and forth between the two of them, his expression of concern fading to one of confusion. He didn’t get the joke, either.

“I’m afraid we had a bit of an accident.” Barlow pointed to the dent. “And your helmet is—” His eyes met hers, and he smiled.

“Toast,” Alex said. “Your helmet is toast.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Barlow continued to hold Alex’s gaze, and something flickered just below her breastbone—a trickle of heat that both intrigued and disturbed her.

“It’s all right, Ataniq. ” George came down the steps. “I have other helmets.”

“I meant the snowmobile,” Barlow said drily.

“Oh!” The boy glanced at Alex, and his cheeks reddened. She wasn’t sure why.

He smiled at her shyly, and she smiled back, which only made him blush all the more.

Barlow cleared his throat, and George’s clear blue gaze flicked from Alex to Barlow; then he straightened as if he might click his heels together and bow.

The incongruity of that image—the Indian boy with the long flowing hair, bowing like a European underling to a lord—almost made Alex laugh again, but she managed not to. Poor George would think she was laughing at him.

“There’s no need, Ataniq . I can fix it.”

“You’ve always been good at that.” Barlow beckoned Alex, and with a small shrug in lieu of good-bye, she moved toward the house.

Barlow’s eyes suddenly narrowed, and Alex glanced behind her, concerned, only to find George’s gaze on her ass.

“Go,” Barlow ordered in a voice so icy she got shivers. Then he watched until the snowmobile had left town as quickly as it had entered.

“You scared him,” Alex said.

“Good.” He flicked her an unreadable gaze and disappeared inside.

Alex followed, shutting the door behind her. “He’s just a kid.”

Barlow, who’d sat in what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden chair in the hall and begun to pull off his wet socks, tilted his head to look at her. “Are you a kid?”

“What? No.” She didn’t think she’d ever been a kid.

“He’s your age, Alex.” He stood and carried the dripping socks into the kitchen. “Or close enough.”

Alex remained in the hall. He was probably right. George was her age, maybe even a year older. But he’d seemed so damn young.

“Hey!” she called, striding down the hall, then pausing when her ridiculous rubber boots slid as the ice on the bottoms melted all over the polished wood floor. Alex cursed, yanked them off, and left them on the mat near the door. “You got any paper—” She stopped just inside the entryway, mouth half open as she stared at the most gorgeous kitchen she’d ever seen.

The sun spilled through a skylight, illuminating the honey shade of the wooden beams and walls. The countertops were blinding white and the appliances chrome. But what she really liked were the huge natural stones that decorated both the center island and the fireplace in the attached dining area.

“Got any paper what?” Julian asked as he came out of a tiny room to the rear. Alex caught a glimpse of a washing machine before he shut the door.

“Towels,” she managed, still staring.

Julian noticed and glanced around. “What?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I—uh—” He shrugged. “Like to cook.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“I just, well I never…have.”