Moonglow (9 page)

Laughter, the clink of a glass, and the murmur of conversation swelled around them. Daisy moved, a subtle gesture that brought her an inch closer to him. Her eyes, when he made himself look, did not hold pity but the dark pain of personal understanding. “I find it hard,” she said in a voice so low a normal man might have missed it, “to imagine any available woman you set your sights on not offering herself to you freely.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that an offer then, Daisy-Meg?”

“I prefer to leave you with bated breath rather than answer,” she said tartly before her expression turned sorrowful. “You were at the funeral. Why?”

He sat a bit straighter. “To pay my respects.”

“You know something.” Her slim throat worked on a hard swallow. “About that night.”

“Aye.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I went to the autopsy.”

“Isn’t that the sort of business best left to the police?”

“Police.” He snorted. “They couldn’t find their cocks to take a piss.”

Ian felt a moment’s qualm when she colored, but her lips twitched. What was it about her that made him forget even basic manners?

“Careful now,” she said as if reading his very thoughts. “My brother-in-law is police, and I shall have to be insulted in his stead.”

“Winston Lane,” Ian confirmed with a nod. “He’s seems capable enough. But there’s no getting around the fact that he cannot help with this particular issue.”

Again came the subtle paling of her cheeks. She was trying mightily to take the notion of werewolves in stride, but it wasn’t quite working. Could he blame her? Hadn’t he blanched when he’d learned that his kind wasn’t the only thing to go bump in the night?

“Does Winston know about… werewolves?” she asked.

“No. He thinks the killer is using a knife. Archer and I were not inclined to dissuade him of the notion.”

“Archer was there?” A little furrow had worked its way between her golden brows. She waved her question away. “Of course he was. What good is one meddling noble when you can have two? Never mind. Tell me what you found.”

As practical as a Scot, she was. “There was another victim,” he said. “Murdered before your attack. A woman. Young lady, actually.”

“Poor dear.” Daisy’s hand trembled as she took a deep drink of her ale. “The same… did she…”

He nodded dully. He’d be damned if he’d tell Daisy about that poor girl being violated. Swallowing down his rage, he told the bare facts of her death.

“God.” Daisy shuddered. “He’s got to be stopped.”

“He will be.” Ian reached out, laying his fingers lightly on her wrist. At any other time, he might be smug about the way her pulse leaped. Now he sought only to keep her there should she bolt. “There is a link between the women.” His grip tightened a fraction. “Daisy, did you let your friend Mrs. Trent borrow your perfume? Or you hers?”

Her eyes darted over his face. “My…” Her breath hitched. “Why do you ask?”

“All three of you wore the same perfume.” He closed his eyes. “Tea rose, ambergris and jasmine, a hint of sandalwood mixed with neroli.” He looked to find her mouth softly open. “A lovely floral perfume. Although your natural scent is sunshine on summer grass, vanilla, and spice, and you, as it were. Which I confess, I much prefer.”

Unfortunately, his light jest did not take the pain from her eyes. “Alex admired my perfume,” Daisy said hoarsely. “Her party. She wanted… to be a smashing success. So I let her…” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Gently, he wiped one away with his thumb. “It is not your fault.”

“No?” She took a shaky breath and looked away.

“No. Never think it, do you hear?”

Staring off into the crowd, she nodded and then began to tap a steady rhythm with her fingers. “My perfume is an original blend, Northrup. I created the formula myself. Why was this girl wearing it?”

“Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps the girl blended
something similar on her own.” He didn’t believe the words any more than she, apparently.

Her nose wrinkled. “That would be very great odds indeed,” she said with a sniff, and then turned to him. “Do you need my help then? Is that why you’ve come?”

Something quite like tenderness turned over in his chest, and he fought valiantly not to smile. Though she argued with him at every turn, she clearly understood partnership and how to strategize before going into battle. She was like a wolf that way. Like pack. The realization did strange things to his insides. “No, not that.”

When she scowled, he leaned toward her. “I am here because you are in danger.” His thumb ran over the delicate skin of her fingers. He didn’t know why holding her hand should feel any better than holding another woman’s hand, but it did. “For whatever reason, this wolf is attracted to that scent, and believe me, if a wolf latches on to a particular smell, he won’t easily let it go.”

Her eyes went wide and glimmering as she searched his face, but her voice stayed calm. “If my perfume is what attracts this beast, surely if I cease to wear it, the beast won’t bother.”

“You understand scents,” he said. “You have to know it doesn’t work that way. I could smell that perfume on you the other night, even after your bath. You might cease to use it, have your maids clean your clothing, or order new garments. But it will take time for the scent to fully leave your person, at least to the level at which a
were
would no longer detect it. Time in which this beast might come for you.”

He had said as much to Archer and Miranda after the autopsy. They hadn’t been pleased.

Neither was Daisy. She drew herself up and away from him. “Then I’ll go to Miranda and Archer.”

He caught her hand again. “You’ll be staying with me,” he all but growled.

“You? Don’t be absurd.”

Miranda had said the same thing. Rather, she’d said, “Over my dead body.” Which was, unfortunately, a possibility given the speed and strength of a mad werewolf. The only way he’d been able to convince Miranda of his plan was to point out that the
were
was likely carrying a contagious disease, something Miranda, for all her firepower, had no defense against. After that, Archer had been adamantly in favor of Ian taking care of Daisy’s safety. Smart man.

Daisy, however, did not appear as convinced. “Why on earth do you think you can protect me?”

And here was the moment he had dreaded. For she was going to run. And he would chase her.

Ian tightened his grip on her hand, securing her to him. “Because, luv, he is the darkest version of my future.”

H
is words hung between them as Daisy’s gaze darted over his face, trying to understand. “Your future?”

The last human he’d willingly revealed his true self to had been Archer. Of course, Archer hadn’t been precisely normal himself, which made it easier. But if Ian was to properly guard Daisy, she needed to know the truth. Even so, the words were hard to utter.

“The same sort of beast resides inside me.” On a silent sigh, he let his inner wolf show through his eyes, knowing she would see the inhumanness and the way they now appeared utterly lupine.

He was prepared when she reared back. “Calm down,” he said as she yanked at her hand. Her chair screeched as he hauled her close.

A few men glanced their way, and Ian gave them a sharp look of warning before leaning into Daisy. “Hold, lass,” he whispered.

Her breath blew hot and scented with fear against his face. “You… you’re a werewolf,” she hissed. Daisy’s
pulse beat a wild tattoo against his fingertips. He fought the urge to stroke it.

“No,” he said in a low tone. “But I could become one.”

“Am I to understand the difference?”

“There is a great difference. And I’ll tell you if you can calm yourself.”

The tang of human sweat and beer was thick in the air. He could hear her heart pounding within her breast. But she stopped struggling. For that he was grateful. When her pulse slowed, he looked her over. “Are you calm then?”

She glared but nodded shortly.

“You won’t run?”

Daisy made a noise. “Just get on with it, Northrup.”

Lovely woman. He moved closer so that only she could hear him. “What you have to understand is that a lycan—”

“Lycan? What is that?”

“If you’d let me get a word in—”

“It is a pertinent question.”

One. Two. Three. He opened his eyes and focused on the little furrow between her brows.

“Lycan is the name we use. It hails from the Greek lycos, which means ‘wolf,’ and the myth of Lycaon, the Arcadian king who served Zeus the flesh of man disguised as a roast. An angered Zeus turned him into a wolf as retribution.”

“How very gruesome,” Daisy murmured with a moue of disgust.

He couldn’t contain the smile that tugged at his lips. “Quite.”

“But why not simply call yourselves werewolves?” she asked, folding her arms on the table to provide a lovely bed for her breasts.

No. Do not look.

“Because there is a difference. A lycan,” he said, raising his voice, for the blasted woman had opened her mouth again—as curious as a pup, this one—“has control. He turns at will.”

“So stories of the full moon and all of that…”

He laughed shortly. “Doesn’t turn us. Mother Moon does, however, intensify our strength. The brighter she glows in the night, the stronger we are. And we are weakest on the new moon, when the sky is utterly devoid of her silver rays.”

“Why? What is it about the moon’s rays that give you strength?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned the way a child might, as though put out for not getting the answer she wanted, and a strange, aching sensation spread within his chest.

Damn if she didn’t remind Ian of himself. Before he had lost heart. When he had tackled life with lusty abandon, and frank curiosity. But there was a look that clouded her eyes, as if something was killing her natural vivaciousness, like a frost creeping along tender spring grass. As if she too were slowly giving up the struggle. He found himself wanting to banish that look, perhaps save in her what he couldn’t save in himself.

He almost laughed. Ian was no one’s savior, and no one wanted him to be. He shook himself out of such fanciful thoughts and gave her his best schoolmaster expression.

“Look, we don’t know how we started, why we live this endless life, or from where we came. It’s all speculation. But the closest our elders can figure, it has to do with reincarnation. Once we were wolves. Over several lifetimes, our spirits evolved and we became men, but the wolf spirit lived on as well. Think of it as a soul divided.”

“Two souls in one body?”

“Precisely. So wolf and man are at odds.” He spread his hands out in supplication. “Man wants to be in control and so does the wolf. A lycan is a being in which the man’s soul is in control but the wolf’s soul alters his makeup to create an immortal capable of using the strengths of both. Man may call upon the wolf, shift into a hybrid of wolf and man, gaining extra strength and speed, but man is always in control.”

She sat back with a little huff. “Seems hardly fair to the wolf trapped inside of you. Surely, he wants his time in the sun?”

His beast whined, agreeing, and Ian pushed against it. Discomfort and irritation coiled within. “Had the wolf his way, the wolf would remain so, the man’s body shifting fully to wolf and his soul fading into the background, never to return.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because,” he hissed, “it has always been so. Have you any idea how many of my brethren I’ve seen lost to the wolf? None came back.”

“Perhaps it is because the wolf has had to fight for his right to be free. Perhaps if it were given a turn…” His wolf paced within him, making his bones ache, surely lighting his eyes if Daisy’s paling expression were any indication. She closed her mouth abruptly.

He took a sip of her ale and felt the fangs that had threatened to grow recede. “D’ye think any man wants to risk his soul to test the generosity of his wolf by fully shifting?”

“No.” She trailed her nail along a groove in the wood. “I suppose not.”

“I give him what I can,” Ian said. “I let him run far and
long each night.” His conscience and his wolf chided that this was not precisely true but was a recent occurrence. Ian swallowed down his guilt. “It is essential that I keep control.”

She didn’t seem frightened anymore but curious. “And if you fully lose control, that is the werewolf of which you speak?”

“Yes. The wolf is in control but he is not a normal wolf. He is bigger, much bigger, his head at the height of my shoulder.”

Daisy’s blue eyes went as round as saucers. “Yes, exactly.”

“And he is damaged. Rage and unpredictability rule him. A
were
often kills because it feels compelled.” At this, Ian lowered his head. “It isn’t the wolf but the man, yearning to return, that prompts this, I’m afraid to say. Murder is man’s specialty. Wolves do not kill for sport. Only for food or dominance within the pack. A werewolf is an unstable beast, and it is a lycan’s responsibility to put him down, which is not easy as a werewolf has the full strength of the wolf while the lycan must retain some of his human frailties.”