Crescent Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “Relax,” I said. “She’s dead for good this time. Shot with silver, we think.”

  The woman slouched in her chair, shaking fingers pressed to her mouth. “Thank you.”

  “Wasn’t us.”

  “That doesn’t matter as long as she’s truly dead. She wasn’t Arianna anymore.”

  Remembering Mrs. Beasly’s sharp teeth and propensity for drooling, I had to agree.

  “What do you know of the loup-garou?” I asked.

  “Only the legend.”

  “You’ve never seen a werewolf?”

  She closed her eyes, took a breath, then opened them again. “We take care to bury certain bodies in certain ways so the dead don’t walk.”

  “What ways?”

  “If a person is killed by an animal, monkshood and a pentagram.”

  “Any animal?” I pressed. “Not just canine?”

  She stared at me over the tops of her glasses, and despite the murky cataracts, I could swear she saw right through me. “The wolf creates the werewolf. Other animals create other monsters.”

  Other monsters? Terrific.

  “One problem at a time,” Cassandra murmured.

  I must have been hyperventilating.

  “What else?” I asked.

  “If there is suspicion of vampirism, garlic and a cross. Salt for zombies. If you think their spirit may walk, bury the dead with Apache tears.”

  I glanced at Cassandra for clarification again.

  “Obsidian,” she said.

  Mrs. Favreau sniffed. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Do the methods usually work?”

  What I really wanted to know: Was there something special about Arianna Beasly that had made her rise despite the precautions? Or did all the bitten do so, but no one ever knew?

  “I never had occasion to try the practice until now.”

  “What about your friends?” Cassandra asked.

  “An acquaintance of mine was forced to bury her husband with garlic and a sixteenth-century crucifix made in Provence.”

  “And that worked?” I leaned forward in my chair. “Her husband stayed dead?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Could I speak with her?”

  “She fell off her balcony a few days later. Broke her neck.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Anyone else?”

  “A dear friend’s child was bitten by a rat.” Mrs. Favreau frowned. “My friend had a heart attack not long after.”

  Another nasty pattern. I had a sneaking suspicion that those who’d been the recipients of the “precautions” visited the ones who’d imposed them as soon as they became undead. Lucky for Mrs. Favreau her granddaughter had exploded in a burning ball of fire.

  Note to self—leave off the monkshood, garlic, salt, obsidian, and pentagrams. They didn’t work anyway. Silver, on the other hand, might be useful.

  “Mother.” Another tiny white-haired woman stood in the doorway. She bustled in, casting Cassandra and me a curious glance. “Isn't it time for your nap?”

  “I’ll be napping forever soon enough,” Mrs. Favreau grumbled. “I was just visiting with some friends of Arianna’s.”

  The newcomer’s face fell. “My little girl.”

  Though I knew Arianna Beasly had a mother, everyone did, it hadn’t occurred to me I’d meet her today. Although why it hadn’t, since I was speaking with Arianna’s grandmother, I wasn’t quite sure.

  To have three generations alive at the same time is achievement enough. To have them alive at this age was pretty darned amazing. Of course they weren’t all alive anymore.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I said, feeling keenly how useless those words were.

  “Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t look grateful. She looked a little pissed. “Now I have to get Mother some lunch and a nap. She isn’t as young as she used to be.”

  I wanted to ask how old she was, how old they both were, but I didn’t dare. Such questions would be considered rude even above the Mason-Dixon Line. Down here, I just might find myself drawn and quartered.

  “Don’t worry, Anne.” The older woman patted the younger on the hand. “Arianna is at peace.” She tottered toward the door, stopping in the entryway. “Someone shot her with silver. She went kaboom.”

  Silence settled over us as Mrs. Favreau disappeared down the hall. Uncertain of what to expect, I cast a cautious glance toward the other woman.

  “My mother-in-law’s a little—” She twirled one finger around her ear in the universal hand signal for nuts.

  “Really?” Cassandra asked.

  “She was telling you the werewolf story, right?”

  I stilled. “That’s not true?”

  Anne gave a short bark of laughter. “You believed her?”

  Cassandra made a staying motion with her hand when I would have spoken. “We shouldn’t have?”

  “This might be New Orleans, but that doesn’t mean we’re all lunatics. My daughter was not bitten by a werewolf.”

  “Okay,” Cassandra said. “Then why did you bury her so fast?”

  Anne’s laughter died and something flickered in her eyes before she turned and headed for the front door. We had little choice but to follow. I guess our welcome had run out.

  To my surprise, as we filed onto the porch she answered the question. “We buried Arianna so quickly because my mother-in-law insisted. She was hysterical. It was easier to do as she wanted.”

  The door closed behind us. Cassandra and I stood in the brutal afternoon sun until someone said, “Psst.”

  Marie Favreau beckoned from the corner of the house. “I did see a werewolf once,” she whispered as we joined her. “I was a child. My papa took me to Mardi Gras. We were coming home and down an alleyway I saw a man and his dog. My papa said the man had drunk too much wine, so he was resting, with his good friend Mr. Dog to watch over him.”

  She passed a frail, shaking hand over her eyes, as if she were seeing it all again. “Then Mr. Dog began to eat the man’s face. I screamed and the animal glanced up. He was not a dog.”

  “A wolf.”

  “Yes. But that’s not why I screamed and screamed as my papa scooped me into his arms and ran with me all the way home.”

  “Mother!” Anne’s voice came from the rear of the house. “Where are you?”

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Wait.” I reached out, and she tilted her head expectantly. “Why did you scream?”

  “The eyes.”

  A chill went over me, which was downright amazing considering the blistering heat of the sun.

  “Though the form may be that of a wolf, a werewolf always retains its human eyes.”

  Chapter 24

  I saw again the wolf at the window—the wolf that had possessed Adam’s eyes.

  “Diana?” Cassandra grabbed my forearm as Marie scurried away to intercept her daughter-in-law and squeezed hard.

  “I’m okay.”

  I wasn’t. Not really. I wanted to sit down, maybe lie down, or stand up, maybe throw up. What I did was drag Cassandra away from the Favreaus’ and back to her place. Luckily, it wasn’t a long trip.

  Once inside the cool, shadowed interior, I sat at her kitchen table and put my head between my knees.

  “Don’t faint on me.”

  “I do not faint.”

  “You’re doing a damn good imitation.” She sat, too. “The wolf at the window?”

  I lifted my head and nodded. I’d told her my dream, that I’d seen a wolf with human eyes, but I hadn’t mentioned whose eyes they were. From the expression on her face, she already knew.

  “When you saw the wolf, where was Adam?”

  “In bed with me.” I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Must have been a dream after all.”

  “Or a premonition.”

  “I don’t have premonitions.”

  Cassandra went silent. Still a little woozy, I was having a hard time assimilating the information, having no luck at a
ll interpreting it.

  “You dreamed of a wolf with human eyes before we knew that werewolves have them.”

  “Probably just a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence is running into someone right after you thought about them. What you described to me is not a coincidence.”

  ‘What is it then?” I asked.

  “No clue.”

  “Damm, you’re helpful.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait. Why I was baiting her, I wasn’t sure. Right now, she was the only friend I had, the only person I trusted. I tried to make amends by making excuses.

  “Maybe I read something about werewolves in the past and my subconscious remembered. I read a lot of bizzaro stuff.”

  “Could be.”

  “My husband never mentioned the human eyes, though.”

  Cassandra cast me a sharp glance. “He saw one?”

  “So he said.”

  Out on the moors, D-baby. A man became a wolf and then ran beneath the full moon.

  “I’m thinking he didn’t get close enough to see the eyes.” Until that last night anyway.

  “There’s one thing that bugs me,” Cassandra said. “Why is it a wolf?”

  “Huh?”

  “Or maybe I should ask, how is it a wolf?”

  “Cassandra, what are you talking about?”

  “Marie Favreau said wolves make wolves.”

  “If we can believe her. If she isn’t crazy.”

  “Do you think she is?”

  “If she is, I am.” I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t feel crazy.”

  “Crazy people never do.”

  “Har-har. Could we get back to the topic at hand, which I’m still not clear on?”

  “If it takes a wolf to make a wolf, where did the first wolf come from?”

  “Is that a riddle?”

  Cassandra ignored me again. She was getting very good at it. “No wolves in Louisiana. That’s what got you here in the first place.”

  “There were wolves once. Red wolves.”

  “Is this a red wolf?”

  “Too big, too black, too timber wolfy.”

  “Which brings us back to the curse.”

  “According to you,” I murmured, “man became beast with no biting involved.”

  “But why a wolf? Why not an alligator, or a snake, or a leopard for that matter?”

  Yeah, why?

  Without asking permission, I headed for Cassandra’s office, started clicking away on her computer before she even got there.

  “What are you thinking, Diana?”

  “Names have power.” Seconds later I saw how much. “ ‘Ruelle,’” I read. “French for “famous wolf.” ’ That’s why the curse created a wolf.”

  “We don’t know for sure—”

  “Maybe not.” I started for the door. “But I plan to find out.”

  No wonder he’d said there wasn’t a loup-garou. No wonder he’d volunteered to be my guide. No wonder he’d distracted me with the sex of a lifetime. What better way to make sure I never found what I’d come to find? If I was dazzled, I wasn’t seeing what was right under me—had been right under me more than a few times.

  “Wait,” Cassandra called. “You need a weapon.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any silver bullets handy.”

  “No, but—” She hurried into the shop, murmuring to Lazarus when he hissed. As I stepped through the beads hanging in the doorway, she slapped her knife into my palm. “Silver, through and through.”

  The idea of shoving a knife into Adam—

  “I can’t”

  “Believe me, Diana, if he grows fangs and a tail, you can.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” I glanced at the window. “It’s daytime.”

  “Touch him with the thing. See if he smokes.”

  “He’s going to think I’m insane.”

  “Good. If this is insane, then he isn’t the loup-garou.”

  And we had a whole new set of problems. Because if Adam wasn’t, who was?

  Cassandra bit her lip. “Maybe I should go, too.”

  “So he can kill both of us?”

  “He isn’t going to kill you.”

  “No?”

  “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

  “Great.”

  “You could take Detective Sullivan along. He wants to talk to Ruelle anyway.”

  I considered the notion, then put it away. “Adam isn’t going to tell me the truth if I bring a cop. He hasn’t hurt me. He might hurt Sullivan.”

  “You have to let me know you’re all right. Tell me what happened, what he said.”

  “Okay.”

  “By—” She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Tonight!”

  “No. Morning.”

  If I was wrong about Adam, I might have to make it up to him. Considering the accusation, that could take a while.

  Chapter 25

  Deciding to confront Adam Ruelle and actually finding him were two different things. He wasn’t conveniently waiting for me in the living room of my rented abode. Of course, as previously noted, it was daytime.

  I headed into the swamp, reversing the map he’d once drawn to lead me from shack to mansion. He wasn’t there, either. Where did he go when the sun shone?

  I was tempted to use his shower. Never had gotten to check out Cassandra’s. But the idea of Adam arriving while I was naked and streaming wet stopped me, despite the grimy-grainy feeling of my skin and hair. How could I confront him with any sort of bravado fresh from a shower?

  I couldn’t. So I wandered around his three-room shack, knife in hand, as I searched for clues. They weren’t any more available than he was.

  Food, soap, clothes—the essentials—but there wasn’t a single scrap of the paraphernalia of daily life. No books. No papers. No bills, no checks, no MasterCard. If he lived here, where was his stuff?

  The more I looked around, the more annoyed I became. There had to be something that would mark this as Adam Ruelle’s place.

  Though I knew it was wrong, I went through everything. Every drawer, every shelf, every closet, even the medicine cabinet. I found nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a stray doggie biscuit or a bill from the local veterinarian.

  I lost track of time, or maybe the sun faded more quickly in the swamp, because when I pulled my head from under the sink, dusk had descended. Outside, a long, low howl began in the distance. Just one. But one was enough to make me want to run all the way home.

  To Boston.

  “Wuss,” I muttered. “You promised Simon you’d prove him right but the first time you actually have a chance to discover something out of this world, you want to run home to Mommy.”

  As if Katherine O’ Malley would ever answer to such a crass moniker as Mommy. I’d been instructed to call her Kate the instant I’d grown a half an inch taller than her. Being me, I’d continued to refer to her as Ma whenever the opportunity arose.

  I crept to the front window and peered at the steadily falling night. The cypress trees blotted out the last of the sun. The sky was both bright blue and blood red—stunning and scary in one. Just like Adam.

  My fingers curled around the knife. Staring at it, I frowned. I couldn’t kill him. I needed him alive. Which might be tough.

  “Maybe I should—”

  “What?”

  My head went up. He was already inside the room. Fully clothed in loose dark pants, boots, and a black T-shirt, so at least I didn’t have to deal with the mind- numbing sight of too much bare, bronzed skin.

  What I’d been going to say was wait for the cage and the tranquilizer gun. Glad I hadn’t mentioned those out loud.

  “Go,” I finished on a whisper.

  His lips turned up just a little. “Stay instead, cher.”

  He was so damn gorgeous, he couldn’t be human.

  I slid the hand that held the knife behind my thigh as he crossed the room. I let him
get close, put his arm around my waist, press that great body and beautiful mouth against mine. We even did the tongue tango for several seconds. If I had to kill him, I should at least make sure he died happy.

  I yanked off his shirt. Then, while he was nuzzling my neck and stroking my breasts, growing hard against my stomach, making me almost forget one little problem, I brought the knife up fast.

  I couldn’t stab him. I didn’t have it in me. Instead, I pressed the silver against his skin.

  He shoved me away with a hiss, and my heart seemed to stop. I stared at his arm, expecting smoke, finding none. Hell, I was going to have to try again.

  I tightened my grip, and he kicked my hand. I didn’t even see it coming. The knife flew. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back.

  “What the hell?” he growled. “You crazy?”

  “Are you the loup-garou?”

  He released me so fast, I fell to my knees, peering at him through the tangle of my hair. He stared back with no expression whatsoever. “I am not.”

  “I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

  “You asked. I answered.”

  “The knife was silver. You flinched.”

  “It was a knife, Diana. You think I’d let you stick me and see if I exploded?”

  My eyes narrowed. “How did you know silver makes a werewolf explode?”

  He swore in French, then stalked to where the knife had fallen, picked it up, and pressed the blade against his bare chest.

  Nothing happened.

  He flipped the thing into the air, caught the sharp end, and offered me the handle. Climbing to my feet I took the weapon but set it on a table.

  “Everyone knows silver and werewolves do not mix,” he said.

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone around here.”

  I fidgeted, uncertain what to do or say next.

  “You have more questions. Ask.”

  “Is your family cursed?”

  He shrugged. “Some say we are.”

  “Was your ancestor cursed to run as a wolf under the crescent moon?”

  Adam’s blue eyes, the eyes of the wolf in my dream, my premonition, my harsh parting from reality, met mine. “No.”

  I tried to determine if he was telling me the truth, but I couldn’t. I might have shared more with this man than I’d shared with any other except my husband, but I didn’t know him. I couldn’t trust him.