Shadow on the Moon (23 page)

"In the morning . . . "
she repeated with a hitch in her voice that sounded like a question.

"I promised, didn't I?"

Then he turned and carried her
clothing into his bedroom. As the door fell shut behind him, he thought that no
one deserved living in darkness more than he.

* *
*

Never forget, brave hunter, how
prodigious is the werewolf s psychic power. Nay, do not, and this point cannot
be emphasized too excessively, do not permit your eyes to meet the beast's. One
long gaze, and only one, will immediately draw you under its spell. Your feet
shall bond to the very ground beneath them. You shall be unable to lift your
arms. Only your dying scream will betray the fear still within you.

Dana was consoling herself by
indulging in what she'd come to think of as her secret vice. She couldn't truly
blame Morgan for getting angry when she'd offered up this nonsense to him. But
even as she ridiculed the words she read, she remembered her paralysis under
the eyes of her attacker. Twice, for a brief instant, she'd simply resigned
herself to death.

The chapter ended and she turned to
one entitled "The Nature of Man and Beast Revealed." The words
immediately drew her in.

Remember, dear hunter, that man
is not by necessity evil. Neither is the beast. Each in natural form has both
nobility and villainy. Each seeks to fulfill its instinct to survive. But
mingle the brutality of the wolf with the self-interested cunning of man and
here we have a creature more deadly than all others.

Slaughter is not the sole
methodology for defeating it. This abomination was made by ritual and by ritual
shall it be redeemed, albeit this is not a course for the faint of heart.

Now the pages went into a mass of
astrological lore that Dana barely comprehended, and the ache in her heart
returned. Morgan had said he loved her, had asked her to stay. Now she was
reading a book that inflamed the fear that caused her to refuse. Did she love
him, too? She thought she did.

But . . . from the first time she'd
set foot on the base of Ebony Mountain, she'd suffered tingles of apprehension
that only stopped when Morgan was around. Was she confusing security with love?

She didn't know. Fear and isolation
created strange bedfellows. What remained clear, however, was that nothing, not
even love, could persuade her to stay.

Would Morgan come with her? He'd
said this was his home with such depth of feeling that she felt certain he
would not. She put her hand over her heart, although it did little to ease the
ache, and returned to the pages, hoping to lose herself in them.

Her eyes stopped short when she hit
on a particularly dramatic passage in a book she already deemed to be full of
excessive drama.

When pure love of a kind that
transforms sour hearts and clears jaded eyes combines with the Shadow of Venus,
nothing can withstand its power. The beast's fangs dissolve, its claws withdraw
and soon the clear, untroubled face of a mortal stands revealed.

Do not scoff at such purity of
heart, dear hunter, for if you do, you shall surely perish in the fires of your
own blasphemy. The Shadow of Venus is your ally. Diligently search the skies
for it, although it comes but once these seven years. Pore over your ephemeris.
Search, dear hunter, search. Venus shall not, indeed cannot, disappoint you.

What on earth was an ephemeris?

Continued reading implied it was a
book that foretold planetary positions, and with every reference came new ones
to the Shadow of Venus. Holding a finger at her place, Dana turned to the table
of contents. Most of the chapters had stagy names such as "Beastly
Powers," "Loved One All," and "Nay, the Silver
Bullet," but the title she hunted for simply said "Shadow of
Venus."

Avidly, she leafed through the
volume, hunting for the designated page. When she got there, she let out a sigh
that contained all the pain she'd been ignoring.

The whole section had been pulled
from the binding.

This filled her with unaccountable
despair.

She put the book down, told herself
she'd been reading it too much. Morgan had insisted that Fenris stay in the pen
now that the weather had broken, and she missed him.

Getting up, she wandered to the
window, seeking a glimpse of the kennels. The sinking sun was casting brilliant
highlights on the thick woods outside. Soon it would again be black out there,
except for the moon. A night into which she'd never venture again.

Nothing seemed so bad in the
daylight, however, and with the sun to keep her company, she let herself again
question the improbable. What if there really were werewolves? How would one
know?
The Lycanthropy Reader
contained plenty of clues, some of which,
unfortunately, had already been borne out in reality.

She recalled Morgan's miraculously
healed feet, the here one minute, gone the next scratch on his cheek, the
horrid cries seeping from his room, which now seemed chillingly reminiscent of
those described in
The Lycanthropy Reader
.

How about Lily and Jorje's sudden
appearance in the midst of the blizzard? That thought brought a brief flash of
the beast's white fur, a shade eerily similar to Lily's hair color.

Even Morgan's explanations seemed
suspect. Miracle salve provided by Tony? And she doubted even the strongest dog
team could travel through that fierce storm.

With a shudder, she recalled the
inhuman sounds of the specters as they quarreled above her. Their noises
appeared to have a meaning they both understood. Had they been speaking in the
Lupinese language the book mentioned?

Once more, she tried to convince
herself she'd only seen men wearing animal pelts. When this failed, she
considered the possibility it had been a bear, as Morgan suggested. She even
dabbled in the notion that a twisted cult of devil-worshipers ran amok down
there, performing brutal sacrifices.

Whichever way she went, she found
herself torn between the wildly incredible evidence of her own eyes and the
natural logic of her mind. A fictional character—Sherlock Holmes, she
believed—had said that once you eliminated all possibilities, whatever is left,
no matter how improbable, must be the logical conclusion.

Yet this conclusion told her that
Lily was a werewolf. That Morgan was one also.

Dana stepped closer to the window,
let the sun warm her face. She wanted to laugh, and wasn't sure if the urge
came from amusement or hysteria.

Morgan a werewolf?

If so, why was she still alive?
She'd been his unwilling guest for nearly four days now, plenty of time for him
to destroy her. Yet it had been the white one who'd seemed bent on killing her.
The other, so much darker and larger, had come to her defense. Should that be
true, why had he defended her? Was he keeping her for some other reason?

Slowly, she turned from the window
and stared across the room at the open book lying face down on the bed.
"The Shadow of Venus." Was that it?

Her thoughts turned into a baffled
whirl. None of it made sense. But, something evil did live in that murky night.
Frightened Indians, frightful cultists, or fearsome monsters? She didn't even
want to know.

In her bones, she felt the canyon
was cursed. She also knew that Morgan would break his promise, would never let
her leave until she'd served his purposes, whatever they might be. It was up to
her to escape.

She turned her gaze to his closed
door. He'd left it unlocked that morning. It was probably too much to hope that
he might do it again. But as soon as he went out that night—and she knew he
would—she had to try. It was her last hope.

Chapter Nineteen

Night had fallen. Although he was
in his already dark room, Morgan knew it by the need that curled within him,
the approaching signs of change he couldn't ignore. He heard the nocturnal
forest rousing from its slumber, smelled the distinctive perfume of the
midnight hours.

When his torturous alchemization
had finished, he gathered up his enormous jumpsuit, built large enough for a
fullback, and put it on. He wore it only when he expected to encounter mortals.
The clothing bound his limbs unnaturally, but if his looking more human than
monster eased Dana's terror, it was a small price to pay.

With one more glance—for with his
werewolf eyes, the room was alive with light—he checked to be sure he hadn't
inadvertently locked his door. Reassured, he opened the outer one. Slowly, very
slowly, making sure it squeaked more loudly than usual.

Even as he left the cabin, drums
pounded on his eardrums, the flute sounded painfully shrill. Maybe the tribe
would put out another sheep. He needed a kill tonight, not just to satisfy his
need, but to keep him from dwelling on his indecision.

If all went as hoped, in a few
hours Dana would agree to play her role in the fearsome ritual. The Book had
sworn she would, even though he was forbidden to use his hypnotic powers to
persuade her. His fear about her birth time still haunted him. Many people
thought they knew when they were born, then later learned they'd been
misinformed.

Without Venus's protection, she'd
never last the night.

He wouldn't think of it. He'd hunt
for a while, give Dana time to build the courage to try his door again. He had
to trust The Book, trust the planets, and even more, he had to trust her love.

Dana gave a small gasp of surprise
when the door actually opened. For several hours she'd kept a sharp ear,
cringing only mildly when Morgan's music started, and listening carefully for
the click of the outer door. As soon as it closed, she'd shot to her feet.

Now that her hopes had been
realized, she grabbed a chair and shoved it between the door and the jamb, then
slipped inside.

It seemed darker than she
remembered, and she waited a few minutes until her vision adjusted before
hurrying to the wardrobe.

The items were scattered on the
floor where she'd left them, and she knelt, quickly rummaged through them, and
came out with her parka, gloves, and boots, all of which she tossed through the
open door. Then she groped for a jumpsuit. Her hand finally contacted slippery
nylon, and she pulled to free the garment from the rest of the pile. Feathers
flew from the tear at the shoulder, tickling her nose. She waited for a sneeze that
didn't come, then threw the heavy down-filled garment over her shoulder and
headed for the door.

As she tried to climb over the
chair, it got in her way, so she dropped the suit on the seat and went into the
main room for the items she'd thrown out of the bedroom.

These she shoved under the daybed.
Unless Morgan crawled on the floor, he'd never see them.

With that thought, she sadly
wondered when she'd begun to consider him the enemy. For a while there, she'd
almost convinced herself he was a werewolf. Then she shook her head
impatiently. After she got back to civilization, she'd decide what to do. How
she could go on without him, she didn't quite know, but it wasn't as if he were
going anywhere. She knew where to find him when she made up her mind.

 
When she stood up to go for the jumpsuit, her
eyes fell on
The Lycanthropy Reader
. She paused. The missing chapter

Could it be in Morgan's room? She wanted
to read it with an urgency she hardly understood. He hadn't been gone long. His
excursions usually lasted most of the night. Surely she had time to look.

Purposefully, she walked toward his
room and climbed cautiously over the chair and jumpsuit. As her feet hit the
inside floor, she teetered slightly and steadied herself against the wall.
Something brushed her arms. She gave a small jump, then looked up.

A garment hung from a hook on the
wall. It appeared to be a robe of some sort, or maybe a woman's dress. Dana
touched it. Soft, rather like gauze, but silkier, more pleasing to the fingers.
Curious, she took it off the hook.

This was far too small for Morgan.

Did the gown belong to that woman?
Dana experienced a rush of pure jealousy, which quickly drowned in a wave of
sorrow. What did it matter? She couldn't continue kidding herself. Once she
left Ebony Canyon, she'd never be back. If Morgan had some kind of relationship
with that obviously sick woman, she had no right to resent it.

But she did. Her sorrow mingled
with malice and turned into a push-pull of emotions. Heart aching, she hugged
the soft fabric, felt it caress her cheek, smelled a faint scent of lavender.

Thus absorbed, she failed to heed a
warning creak until a stream of moonlight cast an enormous silhouette on the
floor.

Foggily, she looked up.

A scream swelled in her throat and
she opened her mouth, emitting only a pitiful squeak. Something pinned her feet
to the floor. She couldn't move.

The silhouette ducked its enormous
head under the doorframe and slowly moved closer, one furred and long-fingered
hand extended. Light glistened off the pointed claws.

Terrifying memories of the white
beast flashed through her mind. Don't look into its eyes, screamed a voice deep
within her, and she ducked her chin into her shoulder. But she couldn't keep
from looking. Mesmerized, horrified, still unable to move, she was fascinated
nonetheless.

Her senses heightened. Each strand
of the fabric in her hands felt separate from the next. She heard every subtle
sigh of floorboards sagging beneath the monster's weight. She saw the long
woolen jacket falling from shoulder to knee, the shiny nylon covering its legs,
but though it wore human clothing, it wasn't a man.

This was a werewolf.

Her mind grew strangely clear and
calm, and she found herself observing it with a clinical detachment and
thinking it was actually quite handsome. Highlights gleamed off the bared parts
of its sleek dark coat, and its narrow wolflike face was nearly human. A swath
of full hair swept from its jutting brow down to its neck, and its eyes
sparkled gold.