Marked by the Moon

12

Julian sighed and lifted his face to the sky. The old man had a point. Julian probably could change the shade of his fur just by thinking of it.

But he hadn’t. On the other hand…

He looked at Alex. She was staring at him, obviously wondering the same thing about him that he was wondering about her: What had she been doing during the time they’d been running separately last night? He doubted she’d been snacking on the local wise woman, but who knew?

Turning back to the elder, he murmured, “I swore to protect this village.”

“For a price.”

“There’s always a price.”

The Inuit inclined his head in agreement.

“I will discover who’s done this, and I will make sure they never do it again.”

Julian strode toward the snowmobile without another glance in Alex’s direction. If she wanted to return with him, she could move her ass. If she didn’t, he’d leave her behind.

He barely registered her climbing on as he started the machine, barely felt her hands at his waist as he sped away. He was so damn mad.

His village had existed for over a century unharmed, undetected, because they had one simple rule and it was this: Never eat the people.

Now someone had broken it—at least once—and who was to say that someone hadn’t ranged farther and wider and broken that rule again and again in a place over which Julian had little chance of damage control?

In no time there would be representatives of this or that government agency detached with guns and orders to kill the rabid wolf. They’d have a bit of trouble with that, of course—he doubted they’d bring silver bullets —which only meant that Edward would hear about it.

Edward would have no trouble at all.

Julian wasn’t aware that he was driving faster and faster until Alex’s fingers dug into his side as they bounced far too high over an incline, then came down far too hard on the other side.

“Brown wolf,” Julian muttered. He should have asked what shade. Dark as mud at midnight? Or light as the sand beneath the dawn? That might narrow it down.

Anger flared, and Julian imagined himself as a wolf, chasing down another wolf—dark brown, light brown, didn’t matter. He would leap; he would land on its back; they would roll over and over in the snow, but the golden wolf would come out on top; then he would grab the traitor by the throat and—

Julian jerked his head to the side with a ripping motion.

Ahhh. He could almost taste the blood.

His fury surged, and the next thing Julian knew both he and Alex were sailing through the air and skidding across the frozen tundra.

It wasn’t until Julian slammed into a snowbank, the impact knocking the rage right out of him, that he understood what had happened. Then he lay there trying to breathe evenly so he could make the paws that existed where his hands and feet should have been disappear.

A boot heel scuffed against the snow; then a shadow was cast over his face. “That’s a nice look for you.”

“Mmm,” Julian said noncommitally. He continued to concentrate on smooth, calm seas, balmy breezes, springtime. Anything that would calm him down. Alex’s voice…

Just wasn’t helping.

He breathed in and out, slow and steady. Which didn’t help, either. The scent of her filled his nostrils, and when his body responded as if she were a bitch in heat he got all pissed off again.

“Hey,” she said. “Your—uh—nose is growing.”

“Back off,” Julian snarled, the sound half man, half beast.

To her credit, she did.

Once he no longer had to fight his anger and his lust, he managed to put all the pieces of himself back the way they belonged.

Julian sat up, flexed his fingers, then wiggled his toes. He’d burst out of his boots when he’d begun to change. Dammit. He’d liked those boots. Now they lay strewn in pieces across the snow-white ground.

Alex leaned against the snowmobile, which had a dent the size of an Easter ham in the fender. Hell. He’d have to buy George a new one, or at least fix this one.

Her eyes shone brilliant green in the morning sun, so bright they seemed to bore into his. She was as mad as he had been. Luckily his wolves didn’t inherit his magic as well as his tendency to turn furry.

“Are you done with your temper tantrum?” she asked. “Did you put your tail back in your ass?”

He didn’t bother to answer. She knew as well as he did that the tail always popped out last.

“I should be impressed.” Alex pushed away from the machine and stalked slowly toward him, the rubber soles of her crappy boots making an annoying squelching noise in the snow. “I’ve never seen anyone change only their hands or their feet or their—” She wiggled her fingers at his face. “Snout. But I guess I’ve never met anyone as old or as powerful as you.”

Julian got to his feet. “Don’t you mean killed? You’ve never killed anyone as powerful as me?”

“Not yet,” she muttered, then hauled back one foot and kicked what appeared to be half of a black, shiny basketball.

The thing sailed directly at Julian’s face, and if he hadn’t been what he was, it would have broken his nose. He snatched the object out of the air, then contemplated one portion of a cracked helmet.

“Sorry.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “That must have hurt.”

“I don’t give a shit about hurt.” She kicked the other half even harder. He managed to grab this one an instant before it slammed into his groin.

“When did you take up soccer?” he asked. “I thought softball was your game.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you—?”

“I said I checked you out.”

She frowned, obviously wondering how he’d discovered her talent. It hadn’t been easy.

“Oh, yeah, I had tons of time to play games while I was being dragged around the country by my Jäger- Sucher father. Then once the werewolf ate him, it was directly into the pros for me.”

“Sarcasm,” he murmured. “My favorite.”

Alex looked around, presumably for something else to kick. When she saw nothing, she just hauled off and went for his nuts with the toe of her boot. Once again, he managed to catch the projectile inches from his crotch. Without a second thought he heaved upward and sent her flipping heels-over-head to land on her face in the snow.

Unfortunately snow in the Arctic was more like ice. Her temple cracked against it with a sick thud, and she lay still.

“Faet!” Julian hurried to her side. Just as he began to kneel, her hand shot out, and she yanked his feet out from under him.

The back of Julian’s head and the ice connected with the exact same thud. Then Alex landed on his chest, and he lost what was left of his air.

She leaned in close, seeming to press the boniest point of her knee into his very lungs, and blood dripped onto his face. Her eyes appeared a little crazy, and he wondered if getting knocked in the noggin twice in so short a time had unhinged her.

“Why did half that village have your eyes, Barlow?”

Now he knew she’d lost it. What kind of a question was that?

“Answer me,” she said between her teeth, then rapped his head against the ground again.

“Long—” he managed, wheezing and coughing. She let up a bit on his chest, and the second word exploded, “—story.”

“Then you’d better start talking.”

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.

“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.”

“I suppose not,” he said quietly, and for an instant she could have sworn she heard sympathy, or pity, in his voice. Which made her anger flare and she lashed out.

“I figured you’d eat everything raw. Like the wise woman.”

She’d been staring at his face, waiting for a flicker of…what? Guilt? Could a werewolf feel guilt?

But he merely lifted a brow. “You think I killed her?”

“Someone did.”

“Maybe it was you.”

“I don’t kill people.”

“You keep on believing that.” He yanked a huge handful of paper towels off the roll and handed them to her without even asking what she wanted them for. She guessed it was obvious when he followed her into the hall and leaned in the doorway while she wiped up her mess.

“I didn’t kill the wise woman,” he said quietly.

“Neither did I.”

Silence settled between them. Did he believe her? Did she believe him? She wasn’t sure.

Alex straightened and handed him the sopped towels. “I guess we’ll have to reserve judgment until we have proof.”

“Like catching each other red-pawed?” He returned to the kitchen and threw the towels into the trash.

“Mmm,” Alex said noncommitally. They had been separated for short periods last night, but would he have had time to wash the blood from his fur before she saw him again?

Probably not. Then again—magic man. How hard would it be for him to abracadabra away the stains?

Barlow motioned for Alex to sit at a table of white tile and sandy-shaded wood. She couldn’t help herself. She ran her palm over it like a lover. How was it that everything in his house was exactly what she would have chosen herself?

Barlow sat on the other side of the table, remaining silent until she met his gaze. “You want to tell me about it?”

“I didn’t kill the wise woman,” she said.

“Not that. The Jäger-Suchers.”

“You want me to tell you about the Jäger-Suchers?” Alex snorted. “So when Edward shows up he kills me first? No thanks.”

“Alex.” Julian reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. She frowned at it, and at her own because even though her head was telling her to break his fingers, her hand wanted to curl around his and hold on. “You’re one of us now.”

“I didn’t choose to be.”

“This is what I’ve been telling you. Most werewolves are made against their will. But the Jäger-Suchers don’t care. They kill them anyway.”

“They don’t have much choice,” she said. “Teeth and claws, blood and death. You try and reason with that.”

Julian sighed and leaned back, taking his hand with him. “You don’t understand—”

Because she missed his hand and she wanted it back, she snapped, “I’ve been there. I know. Werewolves are serial killers in a fur coat. They don’t change. They don’t want to. And the only way to stop them is with silver. Period.”

“You’ll discover differently here. I promise.”

“Considering what we heard from your grandson, there’s at least one wolf in this village that proves me right.” She smirked, feeling some of her old self shine through. “How long until there are more?”

“There won’t be.”

“Just because I didn’t get past kindergarten doesn’t mean I didn’t read and research and learn. I particularly enjoyed history, and one thing history’s good for is revealing patterns of behavior.”

“You lost me.”

“The more you hold these wolves under your thumb, the more you make them behave in a way that’s not natural, the more they’re going to want to break free, and the more violent they’ll be once they do.”

“This werewolf is a rogue,” he insisted. “Probably isn’t even from here.”

“You keep on believing that,” she said.