Kiss of a Dark Moon (9 page)

She continued to swerve through traffic until she reached the freeway she needed to take out of town. Still, it was several more minutes before she relaxed. Before she felt her shoulders ease back down from her ears, the tension ebb as tall buildings gave way to suburbs.

Soon, she would be out of the city. At the next town, she would look for a used-car dealership shady enough to exchange her car without filing the proper paperwork.

Then she would put miles, and one state, between herself and Rafe Santiago.

And forget that she had ever met the man.

K
it stared at the single-story building through her windshield, feeling herself grimace. She guessed the motel would not require a credit card. That was something. The most important thing. Although whether it would give her lice remained to be seen.

The squat building reminded her of some motel out of a horror movie. The kind that sat along a remote desert highway with hardly any cars in the parking lot. Just your car and that of the truck driver set on murdering you in typical gruesome horror-movie fashion. The main difference—the one that had persuaded her to pull over—was that this motel sat along a busy intersection and several cars occupied the parking lot. Sighing, she grabbed her wallet, left her parked car, and entered the front door, trying to ignore the fact that the desk clerk took her money behind a glass cage and asked whether she wanted to pay by the hour or the night.

Paying her twenty-nine dollars, she stepped back outside. Luckily, she had found an after-hours used-car dealership, and she was now the proud owner of a Taurus sedan. Well, she was the owner for at least another week. That was all the time the salesmen had promised her before he would report the vehicle stolen. A small crime, it seemed, for the
gift
of her car. She sank back behind the wheel and drove a few hundred yards, parking the car directly in front of room eleven.

She let herself inside the room. Closing the door behind her, she could not help thinking it had the consistency of cardboard. She gave the simulated wood a pat and grimaced. It wouldn't stand up to lycans. But then, she had always marveled that a steel door and walls of steel effectively contained Darius every moonrise. If any lycans tracked her, nothing except silver would stop them from getting to her anyway.

After driving steadily for the last several hours, she prayed that she was home free. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should even go to Gideon. Should she expose him and Claire to such a risk?

The room smelled of stale smoke and moldy carpet. She dropped her bags on the full-size bed and tossed her brown paper bag of takeout on the small table near the window. Falling gracelessly into one of the chairs, she pulled her gun out and set it within reach, on the table.

Turning her attention to her dinner, she pulled the foil-wrapped burrito from its bag. Despite the appetizing aroma of melted cheese, she could manage only a few bites. Her temples throbbed.

The same questions that had plagued her as she drove still buzzed through her head: How long would she go to ground? Where would she hole up? She couldn't spend a lifetime looking over her shoulder.

Suddenly the dream of marriage and half a dozen kids seemed farther away than ever. As distant as reruns of
The Waltons
she watched over coffee and cereal. Foolish and naïve and completely beyond her reach. Not that the dream had ever loomed close. Gus fixing her up on one date wasn't going to get the job done. Survival suddenly took on larger proportions and made all other wishes foolish and small.

Rewrapping the burrito in its foil, she tossed it the trash bin and stood, stretching muscles cramped from long hours behind the wheel. How long until Rafe Santiago quit looking for her? Before they all quit?

We'll meet again, Kit March.

His eyes had glowed black fire as he said those words. Hard to believe he hadn't meant them.

A warm flush stole over her as she recalled the hard press of his body against hers, the firm feel of his hands on her face as he pulled her closer. Gentle yet strong. She squeezed her eyes tight, banishing the feelings, ordering the heat those memories evoked to dissolve.

Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Damn if she wasn't confused. He wanted her dead. And her brother. Probably Claire, too. Rafe Santiago's helping her had clearly addled her thinking. He was not her savior. Merely a thug who worked for EFLA and who enjoyed playing with her, like a cat that toys with a mouse before devouring it. And just as deadly. Little better than the lycans she hunted. The only difference was that he was human.

Flipping on the television, she picked up the remote control and scrolled through the limited channels, wishing she could get the Houston news and decipher any NODEAL and EFLA activity. She could usually detect which homicides were lycan hits, especially when some happened to be her doing. Or Gideon's.

Finding nothing, she opted for a
Law and Order
rerun.

Sitting at the end of the sagging mattress, she nudged off her sneakers, laces still tied, and watched Jack McCoy deliver his signature closing argument. If only her life drama could be solved in a one-hour segment.

Getting up, she strolled to the window and peered out through thick canvas curtains, searching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The parking lot was lit a hazy red from the motel's perimeter lights. Metallic hoods gleamed ominously in the night. Her sedan sat directly in front of her door, unobtrusive among some of the more vibrant colors of the other vehicles.

Seeing no one among the smattering of vehicles, she let the curtains fall back in place. Stepping into the tiny bathroom, she stripped and took a long shower, letting the warm water beat down on her bowed head and melt the tight muscles of her neck.

She washed her body, one hand slowing at her throat, stopping to caress the necklace Jack had given her, her thoughts softening. At least someone would miss her. Would wonder about her when she never returned home. She would miss him, too. And Gus. The crusty barkeep could always make her laugh.

After several moments, she forced herself to move, scrubbing herself with her loofa and a mild unscented soap she had brought. For once, she decided smelling sweet enough to eat was not such a good idea. With lycans out for her blood, she wasn't looking to attract the creatures.

Not for the first time, she wondered at her insistent need to hunt, to destroy lycans at the expense of everything else in her life: A husband. Kids. Family. Maybe she didn't really want those things. Not as she thought. If she did, she should have been able to set aside her quest for vengeance.

But then, hunting lycans, she supposed, was less work. Finding love, making it work, making it last—that was harder. Maybe impossible.

A few deft twists and she turned off the water and stepped from the shower.

Her wet feet soaked the hand towel she had tossed down to serve as a rug. She rubbed her hair with a larger towel until curls sprang around her face and neck in semi-dry corkscrews. Dragging the towel over her body, she slowed her ministrations as awareness stole over with the insidiousness of a big cat stalking through tall savannah grass.

Utter silence surrounded her. A tomblike quiet that felt heavy, oppressive. The buzz of the television was gone. No voices. No music. Nothing.

Wrapping herself in her damp towel, she pushed open the cracked bathroom door. Its oil-hungry hinges creaked, the sound loud and obscene, pinching her nerves tight.

Darkness yawned before her, thick as smoke. The lights had been on when she entered the bathroom. Of that she was certain. Just as she was certain of one other thing now: she wasn't alone.

S
he froze at the threshold, fingers twisting in the towel, knowing that with the bathroom light on, she was perfectly visible. A sitting target for whoever—whatever—watched and waited.

Water from her hair ran down her neck. The uneven rattle of her breath joined with the humming silence. She could not steady it. She squinted, straining her vision to see into the blackness. The shower-head began to drip, each tiny splash on the tub like a rocket explosion in the deafening silence.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed down the fear, the panic that threatened to consume her, and let her training take over.

Her senses sprang into high alert, her hand gripping her towel so tightly her fingers went numb, bloodless.

Her free hand flew to the light switch, dousing the tiny bathroom in blackness, and guaranteeing that anyone watching her, waiting for her, was now as blind as she was.

Assuming he was human, of course.

Rafe's face flashed before her eyes. Dark eyes glinting. Her heart beat harder, faster, the pulse skittering at her neck.

Let it be him. Let it be him
. As much as she never wanted to see him again, she wanted even less to come face-to-face with a lycan.

Her mind leapt into action, assessing her options, grim as they were. Even if Rafe Santiago had stolen into her room, he wasn't there for idle chitchat.

The gun she had left on the table was now too far to reach without her potentially colliding with her late-night visitor. Later she could kick herself for leaving it there.

Her bag of guns and ammo sat on the bed. One gun tucked beneath the pillow. Not too far.
The pillow
. Her fingers twitched reflexively, readying. Her semiautomatic, with its attached silencer and fourteen-round clip of customized silver-tipped bullets that Gideon had given her upon completing her training two years ago, was just beneath the pillow.

Dragging a silent breath into her lungs, she dropped her towel, tossing modesty to the wind. She did not need the distraction of trying to keep herself covered as she dove for the bed.

She eased one foot out of the bathroom, the carpet dry and flat beneath her damp feet. Another step followed, as silent and slow as the last. She concentrated on
not
running for the gun in a mad, panicked dash. That would only draw attention and get her killed.

Praying that she had just forgotten the act of shutting off the television, that the overhead light had simply burned out, she continued her careful advance toward the bed. Maybe someone wasn't in the room, breathing in the same stale air. Maybe her imagination was working overtime. Maybe, for once, her gut was wrong.

Despite her even breaths, her heart slammed fiercely against her ribs, unconvinced.

Knowing she had to be near the bed, she squatted, her thigh muscles tense and burning, quivering with strain and anxiety.

Her hand brushed the scratchy bedspread, sliding along its surface, searching for the pillow.

Anxious, she set both hands on the bed, bumping into something…firm.

Her throat constricting shut, she backed away, hands shaking, hovering over the bed. Her lips trembled on a silent whimper.

A hand shot out and seized her wrist in a brutal grip.

Her whimper spilled free then, startled and terrified as a shock of light flooded the room. She squinted against the harsh intrusion of brightness.

“Hello, there, huntress. We've been looking for you.”

Her gaze narrowed on the silver-eyed creature before her.

“No easy task,” he added.

She had no time to struggle. He flung her on the bed, the mattress hard beneath her back. Her head bounced, her neck wrenching at the rough treatment.

She blinked past the discomfort and stared up as two lycans crowded her. The one who had flung her down hovered over her on the bed. Shaggy fair hair fell over his forehead and curtained his face, doing nothing, though, to shield the silver eyes crawling over her with a soulless evil she knew too well.

She shrank back into the mattress, agonizingly aware of her nudity, of his relentless hold on her, of just what they would do to her if she didn't figure a way out of this.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the pillow just to her right.

The lycan's hand fell on her bare leg. She jumped as he squeezed her thigh, his long fingers digging like a cruel claw.

“Do you know what we're going to do with you?” he rasped, his mouth close to hers, the scent of his breath coppery sweet.
Blood-sweet
.

Shivering, she forced her gaze to hold his, to not look away from that cold pewter stare as her right hand crept to the pillow on the rumpled bed.

Determined to keep their attention on her body—not such a challenge since she was nude—she suffered their hungry leers and the savage hand on her thigh as her fingers brushed the pillow.

She let them look their fill, wincing when one reached down to pinch her breast, twisting the tip cruelly between his fingers.

“Sweet,” he growled, eyes glittering that eerie silver. He glanced to his brethren. “Perfect timing. We can play with her for two days, then gorge ourselves.”

The fair-haired lycan brushed his cohort's hands off her with a growl. “I'm first.” He smiled an evil grin.

His hand on her thigh gentled then, his fingers softening on her flesh, feather-light on the skin he had bruised. But the touch was somehow worse, turning her stomach until she feared she might be sick all over the bed. Swallowing down bile, she concentrated on sliding her hand beneath the pillow.

A hand wedged between her thighs, forcing them apart.

Oh God, please no.

She forced herself to endure his touch, to resist instinct and not struggle until her gun was firmly in her grip. Without it, she did not stand a chance. Without it, she was dead. Only silver could stop him. Stop any of them.

Holding her legs with both hands, he stretched her open before him, splaying her indecently.

Her throat tightened, trapping the scream that threatened to shatter the air, shatter her sanity as she contemplated his foul touch on her, the depravity he would visit on her in moments if she did not stop him. Her hand fumbled over the rumpled bedspread, straining beneath the pillow, searching for cold steel.

The other lycan crowded behind him, his devil eyes sharing the view, feasting on her.

Shame washed over her, mingling with the fear that swam in her gut, threatening to spill over in hysteria. She fought for composure, for calm—for a way out of this hell.

“You're small, huntress. Hard to imagine you've put so many of my brethren into the ground,” he murmured thickly, his thumbs rotating in ever-widening circles on her flesh.

And you're about to join them, scum
.

As his hands slid up her thighs, thumbs gliding inward on her legs, inching ever closer to her nest of curls, his nostrils flared wide, inhaling her. “I'd like to keep you alive until moonrise, so that we can enjoy tearing you limb from delectable limb.” With a click of his tongue, he shook his head. His fingers dug into her, increasing their pressure. “But I just don't know if I can resist spilling your blood sooner. You smell so damn…delicious.”

A whimper escaped her lips.

His mouth curved in a cruel smile, clearly enjoying the sound of her pain.

Keeping her movements subtle, she allowed her fingers to meet the cold steel. Carefully, she closed her damp hand around the grip and flipped off the safety. Her palm and fingers tightened around the textured grip, its reassuring weight the final liberation.

Enough
.

Time to show them they'd messed with the wrong woman.

“After tonight,” he continued, “there might not be much left of you.”

An angry growl erupted from her then.

She slid the gun from beneath the pillow and swung it in his face.

Silver eyes widened in front of the gun's unwavering barrel.

“Wrong,” she bit out, staring down the barrel.

Arm locked straight, she tightened her finger around the trigger and fired.