Lori Handeland: Marked by the Moon

He could have stayed and watched but he hadn’t survived for more than a thousand years by remaining at the scene of any one of his crimes. He did not plan to be at this one when all hell—now known as Alexandra Trevalyn—broke loose.

Julian had no doubt that a Jäger-Sucher would show up eventually and put her out of her misery. And while he’d love to see how she liked it, he had no desire to run into any of Edward Mandenauer’s superior hunters again. He’d already had to dispose of far too many, and Edward was not a man who forgot such things. The old warrior would do his best to exact vengeance, but Julian did not plan to give him the opportunity.

After exiting the abandoned apartment building, Julian drew on his ability to move faster than the human eye could track—with age came many advantages, and this was one of them. He was several miles away when a strange, cold, somewhat sick feeling invaded his consciousness. He slowed and nearly knocked over a kid running in the other direction.

“Jeez, dude,” the young man said.

“Pardon me,” Julian muttered.

“Pardon?” The boy laughed. “Man, where you from?”

Julian didn’t bother to answer. He was both history and legend, from a time and place so far away there was no one left of it but him.

And one other.

The kid eyed Julian’s new clothes, clean hands, and expensive shoes. A spark of avarice lit his eyes, and his grubby paw disappeared into his pocket.

“You don’t want to do that,” Julian said.

The young man glanced up, and Julian let him see what lay beneath his smooth human veneer. Next thing he knew, the boy was scurrying back in the direction he’d just come, leaving Julian alone to examine what had caused him to stop running in the first place.

The sick sensation still lodged deep in his belly, and the breeze, which he knew to be hot, slid across his skin like an ice cube. He’d think he had a fever, the flu, except he didn’t get sick. Not since he’d become a werewolf.

He’d learned to listen to his feelings. In wolf form they would be called instincts, and they were as reliable as the sun at dawn.

Julian continued to walk in the direction he’d been headed. Immediately he began to shiver, and his stomach cramped.

“Knull mæ i øret,” he muttered. The only time his native language came naturally anymore was when he cursed.

Slowly he turned in the other direction and retraced his steps. As he did, the pain lessened. He was unable to move very quickly, but the closer he got to where he’d left Alexandra Trevalyn, the better he felt.

Which made no damn sense at all.

Julian sat on a crumbling cement stoop in front of a half-burned ware house. He breathed in and out, ignoring the scent of soot as he calmed his roiling belly. He managed to get past the nausea, but he couldn’t make himself stand up and go. Eventually he faced the truth.

He couldn’t leave her here. She was pack now.

“Knull mæ i øret,” he said again, then he laughed.

He’d made other wolves in his lifetime. But he’d never tried to leave any behind as soon as he’d made them. That would have been a recipe for disaster.

New wolves were…a problem. Until they became accustomed to the changes, Julian always remained close. Because of that, it had never occurred to him that he would be physically unable to let Alexandra fend for herself.

Julian sat on the stoop and tried to enjoy what he knew would probably be his last peaceful moments for a good long while. He was going to bring one of his most hated enemies into the heart of his existence.

Whose vengeance was this anyway?

Edward snapped his fingers, and a woman walked through the door.

“What is this, Grand Central?” Alex asked.

Edward, who’d always had a problem with sarcasm —probably because of his English-as-a-second-language issues—frowned. “This is Los Angeles. Grand Central is in New York, is it not?”

Alex rolled her eyes and caught the ghost of a smile on the newcomer’s face.

The woman was tiny, and that wasn’t just because Alex stood five-nine barefoot. She was petite, too, in a way Alex could never be, her youthful face framed by dark hair with a slash of white at the temple. Her eyes were clear blue, and held an honest, earnest expression Alex wanted very much to trust.

“I’m Cassandra,” the woman said. “Your friendly New Orleans voodoo priestess.”

Alex’s desire to trust evaporated. “Sure you are.”

Cassandra’s only answer was a widening of her smile, which convinced Alex more than any bones in the nose would have.

“Voodoo?” Alex glanced at Edward. “You finally lost that last marble, didn’t you?”

Cassandra choked.

The lines in Edward’s forehead deepened. “I do not understand why everyone is always discussing my marbles, or lack of them. I have not had any marbles since I was a boy.”

“Got that right,” Alex muttered, and Cassandra began to cough.

Edward pounded her on the back, more in irritation than to be helpful. “Move along,” he ordered. “Alex has been holding off the demon thus far, but I worry it will overtake her soon.”

Alex worried about that, too. She could practically hear their human hearts beating; she sensed the swoosh of blood through their veins. The scent of warm flesh made her stomach cramp and her mouth water.

On top of that, her own skin felt too small, her teeth too big. She kept hearing howls and growls, but they weren’t real; they were in her head. Every once in a while she flashed on a forest, on prey, and her pulse accelerated in anticipation of the kill.

And there would be a kill. There had to be.

“Do something,” she managed.

Cassandra got down to business, pulling bottles and vials and bags of what appeared to be grass out of her backpack; then she removed a clay bowl and set it on the table.

Tossing in a little of this and a little of that, she sang a song Alex had never heard before in what seemed to be a combination of French and something else. As she did, the sounds in Alex’s head faded.

“Come here,” Cassandra said.

Alex cast a quick glance at Edward. He had his gun pointed at her head. “Touch her and I will shoot you.”

“You’re under the delusion that I care if I live or die.” Alex strode closer to Cassandra.

“You might not care,” Edward said, “but the demon does. It wants to kill. It will fight what we mean to do.”

“Just say no,” Cassandra quipped, then she lifted a dagger.

Alex took a quick step back, the scent of the silver burning her nostrils. But Cassandra slashed her own palm before grabbing Alex’s. A jolt, reminiscent of the stun gun, went all the way through her.

Cassandra released Alex, and she fell to the ground, dizzy with the crackle, the scent, of flames that weren’t, the raging of a battle that was going on inside. She felt like a cartoon, as if her skull should be shaping and reshaping while the demon within poked and kicked and battered to be free.

Edward was right. It wanted her to kill. Them. Now.

The change threatened. Her teeth itched; so did her skin. She stared at her fingernails, waiting for them to grow. Once she shifted, she would be unable to control herself. She’d listen to the urges within her, urges that were no longer voices but instincts; they would be impossible to ignore. She would kill whoever was the closest, and she would enjoy it.

“No,” she said. “No.”

Everything stilled.

Cassandra knelt on the floor next to her, gaze intent on Alex’s face. “You okay?”

“Saying no actually worked.”

Cassandra shrugged. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Is she clean?” Edward asked.