Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

He let go, and the sudden release of her throat from captivity had Alex spinning from back to front—the instinct of an animal to protect its soft side—where she met him face-to-face as he hunkered shoulders low, tail end high, wiggling in anticipation of play.

He feinted; she parried; then he was running, she was chasing. They went skidding across the ice. She felt like a kid again, until she remembered that she’d never been a kid.

Had he?

The distant howl of a wolf had them both pausing mid-wiggle. Alex knew with an instinct she hadn’t realized she possessed that the howl had been that of an actual wolf. But the call reminded them both of why they were here and sent them trotting briskly in the direction of where they needed to be. Clouds danced over the moon; then snow began to tumble down.

Barlow had taken a quick trip to Awanitok that afternoon and had an equally quick chat with George. The young man was supposed to wait until he heard Barlow’s howl before walking about in the night like the foolish boy he wasn’t.

The Inuit settlement was quiet and dark as they approached, until something moved on the outskirts.

The ruff on Alex’s neck went up. She lifted her nose.

George.

The kid had heard the call of the wolf, but, unlike them, he’d been unable to distinguish wolf from werewolf, so he’d exited his home and begun his stroll. He was already leaving the boundaries of the village.

Barlow jerked his head, indicating Alex should go in one direction; he would go in the other. They needed to be closer to George, and they needed to stay downwind.

Alex stalked the boy as he clumped along, making as much noise as he could, whistling, too. If the rogue was out there, it couldn’t help but hear him.

The snow had thickened, the wind had come up. At times the flakes became so frenzied, Alex had a hard time seeing.

Her gaze scanned the area. Flat in some places, there were also mounds of snow and chunks of ice big enough to hide a wolf. Combined with all the nooks and crannies within the town itself plus the damnable snowstorm, the rogue could be anywhere.

Then something moved, a shadow just there, low to the ground and very quick. Alex looked for Barlow, didn’t see him, which didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Considering who—make that what —he was, he might be invisible. He’d been so before.

Regardless, she needed to get closer to George. If the rogue attacked, someone had to stop it.

She slunk from behind a building, slithered along its edge, blending into the swirling shadows as best she could as she kept her gaze on the lump of snow and ice where she’d seen the movement.

It hadn’t been wolf-like. Then again it hadn’t really been human. Alex tilted her head, considering. Maybe the movement had been Barlow.

She blew air out her nose, pawed the snow a little, confused. She wanted to charge over there and discover what was going on. But she couldn’t reveal her presence and perhaps let the rogue get away for good.

Almost as if he’d heard her thoughts, or perhaps merely seen the shadow, George ventured closer to the suspicious pile of snow. Alex whined, just a little, hoping he would hear her and hesitate.

Instead George walked nearer and nearer the place where danger might lie, and Alex couldn’t stay in the shadows any longer. If the rogue crouched behind that glistening white mound, it would kill the boy before she could stop it.

As there was no cover once she left the protection of the buildings, Alex didn’t even try to be subtle. She shot across the distance separating them, headed straight for George.

A loud crack split the night an instant before a wolf erupted straight through the snowbank. Covered in white, she couldn’t see the true shade of its coat, and the animal was moving too fast to catch a glimpse of its eyes or anything else. The beast ran straight for George.

Alex leaped at the boy, knocking him to the ground, then rolling to her feet, trying to put herself between the downed kid and the second wolf.

Before she could gain her balance, the animal hit her broadside, and she flew off her paws, slamming into the ice hard enough to stun.

At the same time she heard another crack, wondered distantly what it had been, even as she waited for the wolf to tear at her throat or her belly.

And by the way—where in hell was Barlow?

Then he landed next to her in a heap. It took an instant before she understood that this wolf was Barlow. But why had he been chasing George? Why had he knocked her down?

And what was that smell?

Alex rolled onto her belly just as George came to his knees. “Someone’s shooting at us,” he said.

Alex glanced at Barlow. Flames sputtered in the center of his chest.

“Or maybe just at you two,” George murmured.

Alex threw her body atop Julian’s. Her fur caught fire. George tried to help by scooping snow in his hands and tossing it on top of them both. He managed to put out Alex, but Barlow was another story.

Because once a silver bullet pierced a werewolf somewhere vital, they were done for.

“Ooooooo!”

The howl rose through the sifting snow toward the grainy, hidden moon.

Alex wished she had a gun, and fingers, so she could end Barlow’s torment. Her throat ached to join him as he howled out the remaining seconds of his life.

George had run back to town, presumably to find water—a bucket, a hose, a fire hydrant. It wouldn’t do any good, but it gave the boy something to do.

Her eyes prickled—the smoke, the stinging snow, that was all—as Alex fought the wolf’s urge to run away. Barlow might be the bane of her existence, but she wasn’t going to let him die alone.

“Ooooo—whooo!”

The shift in the howl from mindless pain and fury to a distinguishable word had Alex tilting her head, stepping closer. The snow had become a blizzard, and she could just discern the outline of Barlow shimmering—there, and then gone and then there again. Was he getting taller as he died?

“Whooooooooo dares?”

The words echoed across the night as Barlow, naked and man-size, his chest a bloody mess, burst from the swirling blanket of white.

His arms stretched outward, muscles flexing, fingertips twinkling, as his head tilted back and the cords in his neck tightened. A sound of pure, animalistic rage lifted toward the moon and the silver bullet popped out of his chest, arcing through the chilly air and plopping into the snow with a wet thunk .

Alex stood there, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling free as the hole in his skin knit together and the burn marks faded away.

No wonder Edward wanted this guy dead. George returned with a pail in one hand and a down quilt in the other. The snow had thickened considerably and Barlow had become a shadow again an instant before George tossed the quilt at Alex, then hauled back to toss the water in his direction.

Barlow stepped out of the snow and, shocked, George let go of the pail, which flew several feet in the other direction. From the sloshing sounds, it landed upside down.

“What?” the boy began. Then, “How?” He finished with, “Huh?”

“Did you tell anyone what happened?” Barlow asked.

George shook his head. “I didn’t know if whoever shot you was still here or if the rogue was, too. I didn’t want them hurt.”

Barlow grunted, peering into the storm. “Get us some clothes,” he ordered.

The kid ran. Alex didn’t blame him. She wanted to.

Alex imagined herself, herself and began the annoyingly slow process of becoming human again. She had a few things to ask the wolf-god.

“I am still so pissed !” Barlow muttered, then he stomped closer, knelt, and set his hand on her back, which was contorting this way and that as it went from wolf to woman.