Marked by the Moon

15

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.

“Who the hell are you?” he returned.

Now that she got a good look, she wasn’t sure why she’d ever mistaken him for Barlow. The eyes aside— which she hadn’t seen until just now—his hair was darker, longer, messier. Besides being shorter, he was also vampire-pale and kind of weak looking. She was surprised he’d been able to lift that huge sword, let alone swing it.

Of course, he was a werewolf. He could bench-press a car if he wanted to.

“I asked you first.” Alex pressed her boot into his chest, and he coughed. She let up a little. These days she wasn’t sure of her own strength.

“You’re in my home. Get out.”

Alex laughed. “I don’t think you’re in any position to order me around. And if this is a home, you need a new architect. Badly.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Why was she here? She’d seen him, followed him, kicked the crap out of him, and now—

She sniffed, and the hair at the back of her neck ruffled as if a chill breeze had just swirled past. She could still smell the blood.

“What is this place?” she asked. “It’s not a home.” She shoved at his chest again with her foot. “Don’t bullshit me. I can smell the blood.”

His eyebrows lifted, then his eyes slowly narrowed. “You’re Alex,” he said.

She stiffened. “How do you know?”

“You should have just told me. I can take care of this quickly. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

With a speed that blurred, even to her eyes, he snatched her foot and pushed it aside, coming nimbly to his feet, still favoring the knee she’d wrecked.

Alex brought up her hands, already clenched into fists, but he turned away, moving back into the room he’d just come out of.

“I’m going to grab some pants.” He vanished through a doorway at the far end, and his next words were muffled. “Probably a shirt.”

She’d taken one step forward, wondering if there was an escape route and he was using it, when he returned, pulling a geeky white lab coat over a pair of wrinkled black trousers.

The pronounced limp with which he’d walked away was already fading to a small hitch in his giddy-up. He was healing damn fast. Which meant he was a helluva lot older than he looked.

Around here, everyone was.

“Follow me.” He strode past her and into the hall.

“Why?”

He disappeared around the corner just ahead without answering.

Alex glanced at the door that led outside, caught sight of the sword, and picked it up. The weapon was heavy, obviously very old, with an intricately carved but well-worn grip. She took it with her. She didn’t plan on being surprised again.

But she was. How could she not be when she turned the same corner he had and found herself in a huge, glaringly bright laboratory?

“Hello, Dr. Frankenstein,” she murmured, gaze touching on the bottles and beakers, the test tubes and Bunsen burners, many of them sporting a liquid that shone scarlet beneath the fluorescent lights and explained why the place smelled like a slaughter house. She wondered if Elise knew about this.

Or if he knew about her.

“Cade,” the man said, his back to her as he messed with something atop a long, shiny black table to the rear.

“Huh?”

“Not Frankenstein.” He turned, a large needle in his hand. “Not yet.”

Alex brought the sword up. “What do you plan to do with that?”

Confusion dropped over his face. “Draw your blood. What else?”

“Take your own. I’m not sharing.”

“But—” The creases in his forehead deepened. “Didn’t Julian tell you?”

Barlow had told her a lot of things. None of them had involved giving Herr Doctor her blood.

“No,” she said, figuring that answered his question and told him what she thought of his poking her with that needle. But she waved his sword back and forth just in case he didn’t get the message.

Cade—was that his first name or his last?—sighed. “He forgot again. He has a lot on his mind.”

Alex lifted a brow. No doubt.

He motioned for her to come closer. “Just a little prick—”

“Don’t sell yourself short, pal. I’m sure it’s not that little.”

He blinked, clearly not getting the joke. Then shook his head dismissing it. “No, really.” He stepped forward. “I promise. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Alex waved the sword in a faster, wider arc. “Since it ain’t happening, you’re right.”

“Don’t you want to know why you’re different?”

The sword stopped mid-arc. “What?”

“Julian said that you could touch the others and they could touch you.”

“So?”

“Unless you were inoculated with my serum, your head should threaten to split open if you do that.”

“But he said—” Alex paused. Barlow had said that he could touch the wolves he’d made and they could touch him. He’d never said that they could all play patty-cake together. “What else did Barlow say?”

“That he wanted me to find out why.”

“And you always do what he says?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me.”

Cade tilted his head. “I should probably find out why that is, too.”

“Because I’m a bitch, he’s an ass, and I don’t wanna?”

Cade choked; then his laughter spilled free. “This is going to be so much fun to watch. No one’s defied him in centuries. I think the last wolf that did woke up one day without a throat.”

“I see now where the fun comes in,” Alex said drily.

Cade, who’d finally stopped laughing, snorted. “If he hasn’t killed you yet, he isn’t going to.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

The sword was getting heavy. Not that she couldn’t manage it but Alex saw no reason to continue holding the thing in front of her as if she were auditioning for the movie version of Xena: Warrior Werewolf. So she set the weapon on the nearest tabletop that wasn’t cluttered with books and papers and glass, but she kept her hand on the hilt.

“How do you resist his…?” Cade made a circle in the air with the needle.

Alex’s mouth tightened. She hadn’t resisted him very well at all—at least when it came to sex. She could tell Barlow to blow off, but when it came right down to it, all she really wanted to do was blow him.

“Commands,” Cade finished.

Alex had to scramble for the question. Resisting his commands? It wasn’t easy. But the more she did it, the easier it got. Maybe if she refrained from doing him a few times, she’d be able to resist him for good.

And why did the thought of never feeling his skin beneath her palms, his mouth on hers, his body deep within make her twitchy? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to.

“I just say nuh-uh,” Alex answered. “You should try it sometime.”

“I have. It makes me…” Cade shifted his thin shoulders beneath the starched white coat. “Squirrelly.”

Alex nodded. That was as good a word as any. “Me too. But I’d rather feel squirrelly than…owned.”

“He doesn’t own us.”

“Close enough,” Alex muttered. Then, since she didn’t want to argue a point she wouldn’t win—not with one of the ownees—Alex moved on. “Why were you out alone in the night?” she asked.

“Alone?” he repeated.

“There’s a rogue wolf picking off the Inuit villagers one by one.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said with the quickness of a seven-year-old accused of breaking into the cookie jar. “And no one from our village would ever hurt anyone from theirs.”

“Because of the agreement.”

Cade bobbled the needle, barely managing to keep from sticking himself or dropping it. “Julian’s been chatty.”

“Barlow’s a lot of things. Chatty isn’t one of them.”

“Yet you know about Awanitok and our agreement with them after being in town for barely a day.”

“I’m easy to talk to.” And a really good liar. “If no one here would dare defy him…” Except Alex, and she hadn’t eaten anyone lately. “…then whatever’s doing it is a rogue.”

“Must be.”

“But a rogue, by definition, is…” Alex cast about for a word.

“A scoundrel?”

“If you live in the seventeenth century.” Alex narrowed her eyes. “Did you live in the seventeenth century?”

“Among others.”

“Where were you born?” she asked, suddenly curious.

“Norse land.”

“Never heard of it.”

“The land of the Vikings.”

Alex looked him up and down. “You were a Viking?”

His face became distant. “I wasn’t a very good one.”

“Let me guess. You were from Norway. Like him.” Cade nodded, and Alex flicked a finger to indicate his eyes. “Did he boink your mama, too?”

Cade jerked, mouth pulling into an expression of horror. “Why would you say such a disgusting thing?”

“Your eyes,” Alex said. “They’re like his.”

The scuff of a shoe had them both glancing toward the doorway where Barlow leaned, the nonchalance of his posture belied by the flare of fury in his all-too-familiar blue gaze.