Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

She paused in case she had to duck around the side of the ice cream shop—who ate ice cream in the Arctic?—to avoid being seen. Why she wanted to avoid that, she wasn’t sure, but she did.

However, the animal kept going. With his super- duper ears he had to have heard her, but he didn’t even glance back.

Who was this wolf? Why was it here? What did it want?

Alex had already rushed through the common and followed the four-legged shadow across the street before her brain caught up to her questions.

“Rogue,” she whispered, then she cursed.

Why hadn’t she brought a gun?

Oh, right. She no longer had a gun.

For an instant, Alex could barely think past the thunder of her heart in her head. Then she realized she had a better weapon within.

She’d just begun to slide Ella’s slacks from her hips when she caught sight of the wolf again. Though the moon leached the color from everything, it couldn’t change the shape of the body, the particular shagginess of the coat, the size of the paws, or the arrogant tilt of the head.

“Barlow,” she muttered.

She nearly turned away and went back to Ella’s. But then the wolf trotted right past Barlow’s house and headed for the white monstrosity to the rear.

Alex followed. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know what that place was, and now seemed like a very good time.

She reached Julian’s backyard just as the wolf turned into a man. Then she stood there frowning as the man opened the door and went inside.

She knew Barlow’s backside better than she knew her own.

That hadn’t been it.

Julian ran through the night, attempting to make the memories fade. Not surprisingly, running didn’t help any more than fucking had.

He avoided his wolves. Right now he wasn’t fit company for man or beast.

He heard them in the distance, their howls lifting in a joyous serenade to the moon. If he was with them, he would do the same. The moon had marked them, it called, it soothed and invigorated. For werewolves, the moon was everything.

Julian ran until his stomach jittered and his head ached, and it became clear that he hadn’t become ill in LA because he’d left Alex too soon, he’d become ill because he’d left her at all.

And wasn’t that just fantastic?

Julian pushed that problem aside, dug a hollow in the snow, crawled in, tucked his tail atop his nose, and gave in to what was haunting him.

The memory of his wife.

I want your child, Julian.

She’d whispered the words into his ear as they lay side by side in their bed, and her hand drifted over him. He smiled, rolling on top of her, hardening even as he slipped within. Then he heard what she’d said, and he slipped right back out again.

She reached for him, but he stilled her hand. “Alana, I thought you understood.”

Sitting up, she pulled the sheet to her chin. “Understood what?”

“The limits of our existence.”

“There are no limits. We’re werewolves, Julian.”

As if he didn’t know.

Julian climbed out of bed and began to pace. “Your grandmother told me she explained things.”

“She did. She said I’d have a second chance at the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?”

“A dozen children.” She laughed. The sound, which usually made Julian’s heart flutter, suddenly made it stutter painfully. “Well, maybe not that many. But I love them so much. That’s why I kept teaching preschool even though the money was crap. Kids make life worth living.”

“Alana,” he began, and her smile faded. “There’ll be no children. Werewolves can’t have them. It’s impossible.”

“That’s…crazy,” she said.

“Is it?” Julian came around to her side of the bed, refusing to be hurt when she scooted away as if she’d just seen him for the monster he was. “Why would you think a werewolf could procreate?”

“Because—Because Gran said so!” Her eyes darkened with shock. “She promised me. Do you think I would have agreed to become like this—” Her lip curled. “—otherwise?”

“You’d have been dead otherwise.”

“Better dead than craving blood, being ruled by the moon, living in the middle of nowhere, with a town full of freaks.”

Julian jerked as if she’d slapped him. He’d known she didn’t care for the blood; she rarely ran beneath the moon unless she had to. And she really hadn’t made many friends beyond Cade and her gran. But he hadn’t realized she felt like this.

“Better dead,” she continued softly, “than an eternity of life without a family.”

“You have a family!” Julian shouted, frightened by her still, white face. “You have me. You have Cade. You have Margaret.” Although after the lie the old woman had told, she might not have her for very long. “You’ve got the whole damn town, Alana.”

Instead of fighting back—something she never did; he wasn’t certain she knew how—Alana had gotten out of their bed, dressed, and left the house.

Julian had let her go, figuring she’d gone to her gran. She’d come back; they’d talk, and everything would be all right.

But nothing was ever all right again.

Alex glanced at Barlow’s house, which remained pitch dark and still; then she crossed the distance between his place and the mysterious white complex.

The door had closed, but she figured she could probably break any lock known to man. Her strength in human form increased daily, along with her senses.

But in keeping with the theme around here, the door wasn’t locked. As she pulled it open, that lack suddenly made sense. What was the point to a dead bolt when everyone in town had the power to tear a door from its hinges? If anyone wandered in who wasn’t a werewolf —and considering the terrain, that was unlikely—they’d be damn sorry, and really surprised, if they tried to steal a single thing.

Inside, the building was like a fortress. Brick walls, cement floors, gray and white everything. Perhaps she’d stumbled into the prison, although she doubted they’d leave that door open.

She also doubted they had one. Knowing Barlow, he treated misbehavior the same way Edward did. Follow the rules or die.

The place felt deserted, yet she’d seen the man enter. Who was he? Why did he resemble Barlow, then again not? Why was he running through the night alone? Did he want to be taken for the rogue?

She opened her mouth to call out, then thought better of it when she smelled the blood.

Alex hurried down the hall, following her nose. Which was the only reason she didn’t see the man swinging the great big sword.

Luckily she heard it. A slight whistling whine coming toward her way too fast. Her instincts kicked in. She wasn’t sure if they were hunter or werewolf and she didn’t care when the sword clashed against the brick wall where her head had just been.

Alex, who had dropped to a crouch, kicked out, connecting with one of the man’s naked knees. All he wore were a pair of boxer shorts and a snarl. Something crunched, and he collapsed. The sword just missed braining her on the way down.

Alex snatched it out of the man’s hand and threw it as far as she could. The weapon slid along the floor, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, then bounced against the door she’d just come through and lay still.

She turned to her attacker just as he reached for her throat with both hands and caught him by the wrists, then yanked his arms wide. This brought his face in close to hers, and she saw that he had Barlow’s eyes.

“Sheesh,” Alex muttered, “who hasn’t he banged?”

With the crumpled knee he had very little leverage, and she was able to topple him onto his back with a simple shove. Then she got to her feet and planted an ugly rubber boot on his chest. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.