Moonglow (18 page)

Blood poured from his broken nose. He couldn’t smell a thing, only taste the rich, sharp flavor of his own blood. Maddened, he sprang up, catching the
were
by its tail before it could escape. With a roar, he swung it round and into a Grecian tomb. Mortar and old bone exploded outward. The
were
yelped high and pained as it landed in a tumble.

Ian heaved a breath but then the beast rose on its back paws. And looked directly at him. The hairs along Ian’s arms lifted and a queer slide of foreboding went through him. Oddly, his inner wolf howled for him to stop and not fight this beast. But it was too late to run. The yellow stare was utterly insane and filled with only one objective: death.

“Bloody hell,” Ian whispered before the
were
charged.

K
ill the lycan. It roared through the wolf’s head as he charged. His teeth sank deep into the lycan’s shoulder and the lycan screamed. The sound speared the wolf’s brain, scattering shards of pain. He looked down at his prey, and his blood stilled. That face. Panic surged, choking and hot. He knew this face, this lycan man. No, no, no! His lungs seized. Memories threatened to drown him.

He lashed out, his claws hitting the lycan’s face to obliterate it, make him die. Blood splattered. But the lycan did not die as humans did. Instead, he snarled, his own wolf coming to the fore, his human body growing, twisting, and bending, bones popping, changing, fur growing thick upon smooth skin.

The wolf remembered how it felt to turn from man to beast. Agony and dread. The thought confused him and made him slow when he should be quick.

The lycan used the advantage and sank his claws deep into the wolf’s belly and wrenched it open. Pain and more pain. The wolf howled and scrambled back. He did not
want any more pain. He wanted her. He needed her. But her scent was gone, replaced by the burning stench of human lamp oil and verbena.

The lycan rose over him, now more wolf than man, jaw elongating into a snout, his hands deformed by six-inch claws. Lycan bastard.
He
did this. He took the wolf’s woman. And he would die. The wolf lunged, his teeth bared to rip out the lycan’s exposed throat, when something stabbed his side. Darts. He knew them and feared them. Howling, the wolf fell hard upon the ground.

Strength gone and gasping for air, the wolf saw the lycan’s body jerk as he too felt the force of the poisoned darts. The lycan tumbled to his knees and then landed dead away on the cold earth.

Sight fading, and his body going numb, the wolf heard the man walk out of the wood, his voice familiar and maddening. His captor. “Ah, laddie, why must you insist on defying me?” A pair of boots stopped before the lycan lying on the ground. “Well, well, what do we have here? Ian Ranulf comes to the rescue.”
Ranulf.
He knew that name. The answer came to him just before the hard kick of his captor’s boot knocked the wolf senseless.

Minutes passed. Or had it been hours? Daisy’s rattled mind couldn’t distinguish the difference. Her body tingled from the strain of keeping still. The sound of her own disjointed breathing filled her ears. Ink-black colored her field of vision. Maddening, when she wanted more than anything to see, and to know what was happening.

Nothing stirred. Bloody hell, a quick death would be better than this. Sharp prickles broke out over her limbs as she rose. Heart pounding like an anvil in her breast, she eased the door open and cringed as it creaked in the
silence. Moonlight poured down through the trees, dappling the ground in celadon and silver.

The pins- and-needles sensation returned as she carefully looked outside. Dizziness threatened, and she realized she’d stopped breathing. Daisy sucked in a deep, much needed breath. All was quiet.

Just beyond the archway to the tombs was a familiar figure bathed in the ghostly rays of the full moon. He knelt on hands and knees, his broad shoulders shaking as though he’d taken a mortal chill. The expanse of his rib cage rose and fell in rapid succession. His shirt and trousers were shredded and blotchy with stains that she feared were blood. She approached him cautiously, for there was something about his state that had the hairs on the nape of her neck lifting.

“Northrup?” she whispered.

He did not answer but continued to pant with unnatural speed. When her skirts brushed against the tips of his boots, he made a sound that was unnervingly like a growl. He whipped around to look at her, and ice crawled down her spine. His irises, shining an unholy blue, filled his eyes until there was not a hint of white. The look of it was so animalistic that she felt a prey’s urge to flee.

His lips curled back in a snarl. “Get. Away.”

Drying blood crusted his upper lip as though his nose had bled. Crimson rivulets of blood ran from the edges of his mouth, and she realized with a horrified gasp that he was biting his lips.

“Dear God, Northrup—”

“Now!” His shout echoed against the walls, and she jumped.

But he was hurt. She could not simply walk away. “Let me—”

He was on her in a heartbeat, knocking into her and pressing her against the cold ground with his hard body. She cried out, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. Daisy tasted his blood, hot and metallic, felt the slickness of it on her lips. It was Northrup, and not. And she felt the strange push-pull of wanting and revulsion.

His movements were rough, uncoordinated, and uncontrolled. He growled again and thrust himself against her in a clumsy move. Hard hands groped her. Fear and humiliation rushed like the tide through her veins. Held down. Forced. Shamed. Her hand wrenched free, and she struck him. Hard. Once. Twice. The slaps cracked through the air, knocking his head aside from the force, and left her hand aching.

On a shout, he rolled away from her, and she scrambled back, her feet tangling in her skirts as she fought for purchase.

Northrup lay in a heap, his shoulders shaking slightly. Daisy could only stare. Her lips throbbed. The feel of his touch did not abate but burned with a low flare that made her stomach pitch.

Slowly, he raised his head. His eyes, when they met hers, were desolate and utterly human once more. His gaze landed on her mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, God, Daisy. I did not mean…” He broke off, breathing hard.

Daisy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cringed when it came away bloody. Not her blood, but his. She did not know what to say. He had warned her. She hadn’t heeded. He was not Craigmore. Not that brand of evil. She knew this. Yet her heart was still going like a snare drum within her breast.

“Did I hurt you?” It was a stark question that echoed against the tombs.

“No.” She curled her legs close to her chest. “No, I’m all right.”

“I did.” He swallowed with visible effort. “I hurt you.”

She couldn’t look at him. “Let it go, Northrup.” Her voice wavered. “Please.”

He nodded sharply and then stood with the slowness of an old man. There was only a slight tremor in his hand as he extended it to her, asking for her permission in assisting her to rise.

Daisy stared at his hand, broad of palm and long fingered. No claws now. She knew that hand to be warm and strong. Not Craigmore.

Even so, her head shook. “No.”

When he frowned, she made herself speak again. “I just…” She shook her head again.

Northrup’s expression went blank, and his fingers curled into a fist before his hand dropped away.

Daisy eased to her feet alone.

A
lone in a room that was not her own, and tucked into a bed that was not her own, Daisy stared up at the half-tester curtains that hovered overhead. Her head ached. Indeed, the whole of her body ached. Which, she reflected wryly, was not a surprise given how she’d spent the evening. Northrup sat on the other side of her door. He’d crept up silently, but Daisy was well-versed in listening for footsteps outside her door. Craigmore never sought her out for sexual attentions, but there were far worse attentions he often wanted to inflict upon her. She had quickly learned to lock her doors and keep her senses sharp.

The thick down counterpane rustled as she turned onto her side. She stared at the door, which was little more than a hazy gray rectangle in the predawn hours. A terrible awkwardness now lay between her and Northrup.

“This is your home,” she had said earlier when she realized that the hack Northrup had hired was turning into an unfamiliar drive. The townhome before her was far grander than her own, with high wrought-iron gates that all but cried out
Keep out
.

Sitting in the seat across from her, he had flicked a glance her way, the first in the long and tense drive back from Highgate. “Yes.” His voice was devoid of its usual teasing lilt.

“You intend for me to stay here?” Though she had fussed about the arrangement earlier, after tonight, the thought of going home alone made her stomach clench. Only pride kept her from crawling into Northrup’s lap and putting her head beneath his ruined coat. He might have acted like a beast in the graveyard but he was the beast she knew.

Mistaking her query, he’d looked away as if pained, and the light of the coach lamp set off his features in a sharp study of golds and brown. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered before clearing his throat and speaking with more strength. “Not yet.”

In his hand, he twirled one of the long, wicked-looking darts that he had pulled out of his chest before they’d left the cemetery.

“What is that thing?” Daisy asked.

“Lycans use them to hunt down werewolves. The tips are poisoned with a drug that will weaken us.” The twirling dart stilled between his fingers. “Use enough of them and we’ll be knocked into oblivion, only to awaken confused and disoriented.”

Daisy had sucked in a sharp breath. Confused and disoriented.
I am not myself.
Cold shame filled her, for Northrup had warned her to keep back. And she had ignored it to both of their detriment.

“Lycans did this to you? There are more of you around here then?” He gave her a speaking look, which made her feel foolish. “Precisely who are these lycans?”

Northrup hadn’t met her eyes, but studied the dart. “They are the Clan Ranulf. My people.” The scowl on his face grew fierce then. “Before I chose exile.”

The thought of him in exile made her sad. She ought to not care, but Northrup was such a social being. To be cut off from his people must have hurt him, at least on some level. “Why did you leave?” she asked softly.

The glossy locks of his hair hid his expression, but his voice was low and clear. “Because I no longer wanted to be like them.”

And what could she say to that? An uncomfortable silence filled the coach before she broke it. “Does this mean that your clan captured the werewolf? Is it over?”

Northrup had laughed then, short and humorless. “If it were over, they would not have shot me as well.” He sighed and his blue eyes became as opaque as sea glass. “Instinct tells me that we are in more danger than ever.”

“Why?” It was more of a plaintive cry than question.

Northrup’s scowl returned but this time there was a bite to it, as if he’d gladly tear into a Ranulf clan member should one appear. “Because they now know I’m involved.”

She’d been too tired and battered to say anything further then. Northrup had handed her off to the care of Tuttle as he stalked off with his valet, a young man whom he’d introduced as Jack Talent. Mr. Talent was a suspicious sort, who looked at her askance, as if waiting for her to do something foolish. She refused to be cowed by him, or hurt by Northrup’s curt good-night.

Now, warm and clean after a hot bath, she lay cocooned in a bed he provided, as he stood guard outside her door. A sense of desolation filled her. The memory of his hands so rough and wild upon her made her stomach turn. Had that been Northrup, or the beast within him? Did it matter? Stretching her hand out toward the door, she drifted off to sleep, heartsick yet knowing that he would watch over her.