Shadow on the Moon (6 page)

"It's because you resist your
new nature," Lily told him.

Morgan knew she was right and also
knew he wouldn’t change. He never wanted to surrender his last remnants of
humanity.

Never, he vowed. Never.

Finally he left her. She'd tried to
stop him, invoking Lupine Law.

"I am an alpha female, Morgan.
I've claimed you as my mate and you cannot refuse."

"Oh, but I can, Lily. I
can."

* *
*

He’d boarded a plane to New
York, ran from her as if his life depended on it.

Morgan's muzzle contracted into a
wolfish grin.
As if his life depended on it.

The last thing he needed worry
about. He'd acquired what most humans only dreamed of. A lifetime of several
hundred years. Heaven on earth, some would say.

If only they knew it was actually
hell.

The female sleeping inside his
cabin made his hell even worse. He'd relished touching her as he tended her
wounds, listening to her breathe, feeling the smooth texture of her skin. A
warm, living human woman from the race that once was his. A woman to redeem
him.

Dana Gibbs?

Such a common name for such an
uncommon woman. Although she appeared vulnerable and helpless, huddled on the
narrow bed, he knew differently. If ever an alpha female existed, she was Dana.
Passionate, opinionated, independent, fighting for her own. Her head surely
ached like hell when she first came out of her coma, but all she thought about
was protecting her wolves.

Wasn't that ironic?

Morgan looked up in despair,
wanting to pray to a God he no longer believed existed. The clouds had broken,
leaving fuzzy holes through which peeked a pale ghost moon. To unschooled eyes,
it would seem full. Yet it was not. Madness was still five days away. Time
enough? Perhaps. But then again .

Morgan howled in helpless protest.

The woman inside tossed beneath the
blankets.

For a little while longer, Morgan
watched her sleep, then changed to wolf form, whirled, and ran across the deep
snow into the forest.

* *
*

It wasn't long before Charlie
wished he had that Playboy himself. How much time did a man need to take a
dump? God, he wished they'd never sent him to this freaking mountain. He'd seen
one of those bodies, and whatever did that was—something else, that's what.
Maybe something the grandfathers spoke of.

An unpleasant vibration swept
through his body and Charlie picked up the speaker, trying to hail the base
camp again. He got no response.

The humming generator and buzzing
radio masked any outside sound. Charlie glanced out the windshield. Although
the moon was again tucked behind clouds, he could see that it still wasn't
snowing, and he desperately wanted to try to leave.

But where the hell was Deek?

Charlie waited another ten minutes
or so, afraid the snow would start again at any minute. Finally, and
reluctantly, he pulled on his parka and boots, grabbed another flashlight, and
opened the door on a night as cold as death. Animals scurried away in the wake
of his beam. His breath vaporized, then vanished into the black night. Wind
rushed in his ears.

He found a path framed by
snow-laden trees and moved forward, feeling as if he were stepping into some
dark mouth.

"Deek?" He searched for
his friend's telltale beam, saw no light except his own, so he kept on walking.
The night seemed eerily quiet. No sounds except the crunch of his feet on the
underbrush. When his flashlight on a sudden drop-off that ended the trail
stopped short.

Oh, Great Spirit!

What if Deek had fallen? Between
the wind and the noisy equipment in the van, Charlie wouldn't have heard him
scream. He moved forward cautiously and swept his beam beyond the rim. It fell
on a cluster of blackened stalagmite-like formations.

He leaned over the ledge and saw a
clearing about a hundred feet down. To his left was a narrow footpath. Surely
Deek wouldn't have climbed down there just to take a dump. He cupped his hands
over his mouth and called Deek's name. He was about to turn away when he saw a
narrow beam of light streaking along the rocky path below.

Deek's flashlight? Why hadn't that
damn fool just found himself a tree like normal folks? Sighing, and heart
pounding harder than he wanted to admit, Charlie headed toward the footpath.
Just as he'd taken his first step down, a scream cut through the silent night.

Charlie scuttled back, smacked into
a tangle of brush and fell. Ignoring the prickly thorns, he doused his
flashlight and scrambled deeper into the underbrush.

A sickening gurgle, much like that
of a clogged drain, followed the scream. Charlie folded against the earth,
clapped his hands against the sides of his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead
and formed into icy crystals that stung his skin. Fighting a wave of nausea and
the nearly overwhelming need to urinate, he forced himself to sit up.

Where was Deek?

Berating himself for cowardice, he
urged his quaking body on and crawled from his hiding place. When he rose, he
drew his sidearm.

Just a hawk killing a rabbit, he
told, himself over the blood drumming in his ears.

But rabbits were nocturnal.

A mouse, then.

 
Must be a helluva mouse to scream that loud.
Charlie's blood raced faster, pounding his eardrums.

A giant killer mouse, waiting to
have him for dinner.

A maniacal laugh bubbled in his
throat and he cut it off sharply, terrified of being heard by who-knew-what. He
couldn't see the hands in front of his face, it was so dark. Maybe he'd just
hightail it back to the van. It was just a dying mouse; Deek was fine, would
return any second. No question about it. But this was all his fault. If he
hadn't insisted on Deek going outdoors . . .

Christ, he never knew a man's
breath could be so loud! He forced himself to calm down. Soon he became aware
of other sounds around him, sounds not his own. The trees moved overhead,
humming like living entities. The Winged Ones and Four-leggeds hooted,
scurried, whistled, and crept among the Stone People. Damn the grandfathers for
filling his mind with supernatural nonsense.

He forced one rigid foot forward,
then another, and marched like a wooden soldier back to the footpath. Unwilling
to risk using his flashlight, he followed the narrow beam of light on the path
and prayed the moon would reappear. When he reached the clearing, he hesitated,
swinging his pistol in front of him.

"Deek?" His call came out
as a squeak.

A single step would take him out in
the open, unprotected. Coiled with tension, he squeezed the handle of his
pistol hard, ready to pull the trigger, shoot at anything that moved.

Then the thunderhead slid off the
moon. Large and close, it flooded the clearing with silvery light. But soon it
would hide again, and that knowledge impelled Charlie to action.

He entered the clearing and scanned
it quickly. Large and circular, it was dotted with black Stone People and
bordered on two sides by high granite walls. Clusters of frost-deadened weeds
shimmered silver in the wind, and stands of whispering trees surrounded the
remaining sides.

At the center of a wide, barren
ring that appeared man-made was a stone fire pit with logs and kindling
scattered haphazardly around it. A place for picnics, thought Charlie. For
playing baseball and romping with children and dogs.

At ten thousand feet? Few would
hike this far for a family outing.

Maybe Deek had stumbled on the
clearing and decided to check it out. That was just like the bastard, to
explore a new campsite during a break in the worst storm in a decade. The
thought comforted Charlie and he found the courage to call his friend's name
again.

The flashlight didn't move.

"Stop horsing around,
Deek."

A sudden wind gust swept the
clearing, sparking a flickering tongue of white-orange inside the pit. The fire
burst to life, filling the shadows with light.

Charlie's stomach lurched. A low
moan escaped his throat.

"Deek?" he whimpered,
trying to tear his eyes away from what he saw.

What he'd thought to be logs were

Body parts. An arm, a leg, another
leg. Dark stains, colorless in the weak light, smeared the earth.

Charlie's weapon slipped away. His
legs collapsed. He fell forward with arms outstretched, flattening his palms
against the earth like a pagan paying homage to the moon. Spasms tore his body
and he dumped out the remains of his supper, idiotically grateful he hadn't
eaten any Cheetos. Wave after retching wave swept through him, and he clutched
the brittle grass, vainly attempting to control himself.

Eventually, the spasms passed.
Charlie lay very quiet. The acrid, dying smell of winter filled his lungs. He
felt the dry texture of lifeless grass against his wind-chilled cheek.

Finally he became acutely aware of
his own danger. He lifted his head, seeking his fallen weapon, saw it at the
edge of the fire ring. Feeling safer and suddenly angry, he sat up, swiped a fist
across his mouth before planting it on the ground to lever himself up.

What was he hanging on to? He
slowly uncurled his fist, saw a fabric scrap crushed in his hand. Dully, he
turned the scrap over, unsurprised when he saw an Arizona state seal with the
words Fish and Game Department embroidered in the center.

Deek's uniform patch. Ripped away,
neat and clean.

Charlie welcomed the numbness that
fell upon him as he stared. Now he felt only a basic instinct to survive. His
senses heightened, he became keenly alert.

Something was coming

The fire sputtered, flared,
sputtered again, sending up spirals of smoke as it died. The moon slithered
quietly into a bank of clouds. A low, steady rustle came from the woods.

The hair on Charlie's body
bristled. He froze in place, listening with fear-honed ears as the noise
intensified like notes in a terrible symphony.

"Oh, Grandfather Sky,"
Charlie whispered. "Send all our relations—"

Suddenly the notes crescendoed with
a cymballike crash. Brush and branches rattled, hapless rodents squealed, birds
flew off with a clatter. The sound grew louder and closer, louder and closer,
until it roared like an approaching freight train.

"—the Stone People, the
Standing People, the Four-leggeds and Winged Ones."

The forest wall exploded and the
night grew quiet again, save for the thuds of running feet. "Call them to
aid me now in my time of

 
Charlie dove for his gun, scrambled up and
streaked for cover at the base of the footpath. "Help me, Grandfather
Sky."

He whirled, dropped to one knee,
fired at the dark, amorphous shape—was it man or animal? Then, like the
Four-leggeds he'd invoked, he crawled up the rocky path. At a sharp turn, he
spun and fired again.

A wail—half yelp, half
howl—followed the crack of the pistol.

Nearly mad with terror, Charlie
lurched to his feet and ran, fighting the force of gravity, stumbling as loose
rock slipped beneath his feet. The savage roar behind forced him on.

Then his foot hit empty air.
Brambles tore at his coat, nicked his face. Pebbles rained down. An owl
screeched in warning; a wolf howled its rage.

Charlie's scream mingled with their
cries and echoed over the treetops in a baleful death song.

Chapter Five

Unlike its dark relative the
vampyre, the wer-wolf is not immortal. Indeed, he is long-lived, several
lifetimes by human standards, yet he can be slain. Does the hunter need silver
bullets? This author laughs. Nay. A simple shotgun. An ax. A knife. Any of
these tools may suffice
.

Dear God, Dana thought. With this
kind of nonsense being written, no wonder people once feared wolves. Still, she
found it hard to tear her eyes from the page.

The stout-hearted hunter must
assure that the beast expires while the wolf curse is upon it. To shoot or hack
or stab the heathen as it alchemizes will not do. No! Once the purity of the
human soul begins returning
—

"Humph," scoffed Dana.

—once the purity of the human
soul begins returning, the wounds heal as if by magic hand. Nay, stout hunter,
nay. Slay the beast as wolf, not as man.

Dana's eyes raced over the page.
For a moment, she got caught up in the dramatic language, the passionate belief
of the author.

Then cut off its ears and paws,
pry loose its devil fangs, bury the remains in hallowed ground.

Enough!

Dana slammed down the book and
climbed off the bed. Her short nap had refreshed her, but she had no idea what
time it was. Why didn't Morgan have any clocks? She glanced at the watch on her
wrist, hoping it too had revived. But behind its shattered crystal, the hands
were still stopped at the moment of the accident. For all she knew, it could be
daytime behind the storm-dark sky.

Storm? She listened for sounds and
heard the low hum of the wind. Underneath was a repetitive sound that reminded
her of drums beating.

Thunder, she decided, rumbling far
away. But the eaves no longer groaned and the fire was strong and straight
inside the hearth. She dashed to the window and looked out to see a cloud of
snow billowing in the moonlight.

She glanced at Morgan's door. His
music had stopped while she was asleep, and by now he'd undoubtedly nodded off.

She hesitated. He'd asked little of
her, just that she stay inside at night. Not an unreasonable request,
considering that half a dozen people had been killed in this area in the past
few months. But Morgan seemed to know nothing about that, so his dire warnings
and reluctance to let her leave were puzzling. Of course, he also didn't
understand how important her work was, and she couldn't blame him for not
wanting to take her out in such violent weather.