Crescent Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “You mean you haven’t been able to uncover that information with your superior detecting skills?” Cassandra asked.

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “What is your last name?” I asked.

  “I don’t need one. ‘Priestess Cassandra’ sets me apart. It isn’t as if there are two in town.”

  She didn’t want to tell me. How interesting. I never would have thought Cassandra had something to hide. Maybe everyone did.

  “Which one of you is Malone?” the deliveryman asked.

  “Me.” I took the clipboard he offered and signed next to my name.

  The stuff from Frank had arrived. Thank goodness. In less than a week the crescent moon would rise and I’d be ready.

  “What’s that?” Sullivan asked as the delivery guy unloaded a cart with a long, thin box atop two shorter fatter ones.

  “Cage, tree stands, tranquilizer gun.”

  “You got a permit for that?”

  I stopped in the middle of opening the box on the top. “I was told the gun laws in Louisiana are lenient.”

  “They are. But trapping an animal and transporting it across state lines is a different matter.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Luckily Frank had. On top of the dart gun lay documents, all made out and stamped nice and legal, signed by the governor and giving me the right to take pretty much anything anywhere I wanted to. Frank might be an annoying pain, but he was an organized, think-ahead, rich annoying pain with a lot of connections.

  I handed the papers to Sullivan. Frustration washed over his face. He handed them back to me with a scowl. “Did you ever tell Adam Ruelle I wanted to talk to him?”

  “We already had this conversation.”

  “He still hasn’t contacted me.”

  I shrugged. Adam wasn’t going to call the detective in this lifetime.

  “Why did you call me if it wasn’t about Ruelle?” he demanded.

  I’d forgotten about the call I’d placed, the message I’d left, but I remembered the question I’d had. “Did you ever identify the man who was strangled in the swamp?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that strange?” Cassandra asked. “Shouldn’t someone be searching for him?”

  “Eventually. Maybe.” Sullivan shrugged. “You’d be surprised how many John Does there are in the world. Especially around here. Speaking of which, we never found Charlie Wagner’s body.”

  I tried hard not to look at Cassandra. Probably as hard as she was trying not to look at me. The detective glanced back and forth between us.

  Before be could ask us questions we wouldn’t answer, I asked one of my own. “The St. Tammany police thought there was a rabies problem in the swamp.”

  “There’s something. My boss called in a specialist.”

  “What kind of specialist?”

  “There’s been a problem in several states with a new strain of rabies.”

  “Really?” Cassandra murmured. “Funny we didn’t hear about it.”

  “They try to keep information of that nature quiet. People panic.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” I said.

  “Guy should be here in a couple days. He’ll do his thing, and then we can concentrate on our other problems.”

  “Which are?”

  “Who strangled a stranger and who’s stealing dead bodies?” He squinted at Cassandra as he said the latter. She just rolled her eyes and turned away.

  “Maybe you should wait to do your trapping until our rabies expert is finished,” he said.

  “What if my wolf is the one with the rabies problem?” And I kind of thought he was—if you considered rabies was a euphemism for the curse of the crescent moon.

  “Then you’d definitely better back off. You don’t want rabies, Ms. Malone. Even with the new medicines, it isn’t pretty.”

  As I didn’t want to be baying at the moon, either, I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  “You’ll wait until I give the go-ahead before you move forward with… ?” Sullivan made a vague motion toward the cage and the dart gun.

  “Of course.”

  “Great. I’ll be in touch.” The detective climbed into his car and rumbled down the drive toward the highway.

  Cassandra cleared her throat. When I glanced at her, she lifted a dark brow. “You really plan to wait?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Chapter 29

  Cassandra left after I assured her I wasn’t going to set a trap in the swamp. What would be the point? There wasn’t a crescent moon tonight.

  However, I did want to scout the area and figure out the best location for the cage when the time was right. I should be safe in the sunshine, at least from a loup-garou. If there were rabid wild dogs, coyotes, or even a real wolf, I might be in trouble.

  Except I didn’t believe that. Not anymore.

  I loaded the tranquilizer gun before I took a walk. I also had the pistol Adam had given me, but the thing made me nervous. What if I shot someone accidentally? Heck, what if I shot them on purpose?

  As jumpy as I was, that could easily happen. There’d been enough death in the Honey Island Swamp. I preferred not to cause more. The tranquilizer gun would only put someone to sleep for a few hours instead of permanently.

  I was so close to proving what Simon had always known. Werewolves existed right under our very noses. How they managed to do so and not be found was a mystery. One I wanted to unravel.

  I understood now what had obsessed my husband. My guilt at not supporting him while he was alive returned, but I refused to let depression take hold. I could atone for my lack of foresight if I proved his theory. If I found a loup-garou and presented the beast to the world, Simon’s reputation would be saved. No one would ever dare speak his name and laugh again.

  I hadn’t realized in what direction I was walking until I reached the top of a small rise and saw Adam’s shack in the narrow valley below. I was not going in there. I was not talking to him again; I was definitely not going to get close enough for him to seduce me.

  I made a derisive sound. As if.

  I wasn’t going to jump into bed with a man who didn’t think I was fit to share airspace with his son.

  “Asshole.” There. I felt better now.

  So why didn’t I leave? I stood on the ridge and stared at the shack, watching a shadow move beyond the window. I remembered what we’d shared there.

  I glanced at the yard. And there. Not to mention several other places.

  My sigh was pathetic. I forced myself to turn away. It wasn’t as if I’d loved him. I’d wanted him. I’d had him. We were done. Then why did I feel as if I’d buried my best friend?

  Because you did. You just forgot about him while you were boning a stranger.

  “Nice,” I murmured. “With a conscience like that, who needs enemies?”

  Still, my conscience was right. I’d let myself be distracted by bulging biceps, rippling abs, and an excellent dick. Which just might be an oxymoron.

  While I was having this conversation with myself I’d kept walking and managed to get all turned around. The swamp was tricky; a section could appear similar or very different depending on the time of day, the direction of the sun, the slant of the shadows.

  I nearly slipped into a tributary that was far too wide to cross without an airboat, even without the alligators bobbing in the center. One splashed at the edge of the water and slunk onto the bank. I patted my pocket, relieved to find the gris-gris still there.

  Pulling the bag free, I rolled it in my hand, as much for courage as magic. My heart rate returned to normal when the gator did an about-face and slid noiselessly into the water.

  Backtracking to a familiar path, I glanced at the sky, then took off down the trail double time. The sun was fading fast. I heard a rustle, then the thud of pursuit—something that possessed more feet than two.

  I would not glance over my shoulder. How many times has the idiot heroine in a horror movie tried to catch a glimpse of what was
chasing her? Then she trips over her feet, goes to her knees, and we’ve got snarling and screaming and blood. Basically, she’s too stupid to live, so she’s dead.

  Not me. I heard the pitter-patter of multiple feet and I ran. I’d thought I was within shouting distance of the mansion, not that there was anyone to shout to. Minutes later I still hadn’t burst out of the tall grass and into the overgrown yard. I wished like hell I hadn’t run. I’d have been better off facing the predator than making myself the prey. Although I had a feeling I’d been the prey since that fire iris had made an appearance on my bed.

  A body hit me between the shoulder blades and I fell. My hands took the brunt of the impact, but still my forehead banged into the ground, and I saw stars. Whatever had knocked me down ran right over my back and kept going.

  Definitely not a person—a little too quadrupedal.

  I lifted my head as the tip of a tail disappeared into the foliage. With a groan I rolled onto my back and stared at the night sky. Three-quarters of the way up, a full moon shone. How could the loup-garou be out now?

  According to legend, it couldn’t. However, according to legend, and Mrs. Favreau, wolves made wolves. Which explained the howls I’d heard in the night. I thought about Charlie, Mrs. Beasly, the other missing persons, and the missing bodies.

  There might not be wolves in New Orleans, but if there were werewolves, there were probably a lot of them.

  I dragged myself to my feet, sore and scraped but thrilled to be alive. My dart gun had flown into the weeds when I’d fallen, and I bent stiffly to pick it up.

  The only person who’d been of any use in this mystery was Marie Favreau. Well, Arianna Beasly had been helpful, too, but she was dead. Twice. If I ever got back to the mansion, I’d call Mrs. Favreau and ask if she knew anything else worth knowing.

  I continued down the path, skittering into a semi-run when the howl of a wolf from the east was answered by another from the west. Then a whole chorus began, making the hair on my arms stand up almost as high as that on the back of my neck.

  When the howls died away, I could have sworn the grass swished in my direction, from several locations. I tried not to run, but it was hard. I wanted to be inside the mansion, right now. Why hadn’t I stayed there in the first place?

  After what seemed hours, I caught a glimpse of the Ruelle residence between the dripping branches of the cypress trees. I hesitated at the edge of the swamp, concerned any number of beasts could be waiting for me once I left the cover of the greenery.

  More howls commenced, much farther away, and I stepped into the yard. Nothing attacked me.

  I popped the trunk of the car and retrieved Adam’s pistol; then I went into the house and shut the door, not bothering with the lock, since all the windows were broken anyway.

  There was no way I was sleeping here tonight, but first things first I called information and moments later the phone was picked up in the French Quarter. “Hello?”

  I recognized Anne’s voice and considered hanging up, but that would be childish. “Is Marie there?”

  Silence came over the line. I didn’t like the sound of that silence.

  “Who is this?”

  “Diana Malone. I visited the other day.”

  “She’s dead,” Anne said flatly.

  My fingers tightened on the phone. “How?”

  “She was old. Heart attack.”

  I frowned. “Didn’t Arianna have a heart attack?”

  “This wasn’t the same.”

  “How was it different?”

  “Mother wasn’t attacked. She just... died.”

  “Where?”

  I didn’t much care for the way people were dropping like flies not long after I talked with them.

  “In the garden. She likes to sit outside and watch the stars.”

  And the moon, too, I’d bet.

  “There weren’t any bite marks?”

  “She’s gone.” Anne made a disgusted sound. “Can’t she rest in peace?”

  “I hope so. Did you happen to stuff her mouth with wolfsbane and draw a pentagram on her chest? Maybe shoot her with silver, just to be sure?”

  Anne slammed down the phone hard enough to damage my eardrum. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  Marie’s death disturbed me. The old woman’s heart might have given out. Then again, she could have been confronted by a werewolf and gotten a little help.

  The way people were dying around here they’d be dubbing me Typhoid Diana soon. I was tempted to call Cassandra, make sure she had no plans to stand outside and stare at the moon. Ask if she owned any silver jewelry. Tell her to put some on and save a piece for me. Maybe I’d just tell her in person.

  I began to gather my things, but a soft footfall on the porch made me lift the pistol. The door slid open, creaking loudly. I had an instant to think, Wolves can’t open doors, before a figure darted inside.

  A figure too small to be a man and too human to be a wolf.

  Chapter 30

  Luc Ruelle blinked at the gun. I shifted the weapon away. This was why I didn’t like to use them. More often than not, the wrong person got shot.

  “Guns are dangerous,” he said solemnly.

  “Damn straight.”

  “Curse word.”

  “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Heard it before.”

  I bet he had.

  “Just not from a lady.”

  He still hadn’t but I wasn’t going to point that out.

  “What are you doing here?” I craned my neck. “Did your dad bring you?”

  I heard the hope in my voice and wanted to curse again. If Adam had brought Luc, then maybe he’d changed his mind about me seeing the boy. And if Adam had changed his mind about that then what?

  He’d buy me an engagement ring, fix up the mansion, we’d move in and start playing Ozzie and Harriet?

  Doubtful.

  At any rate, I needed a reference a little more up-to- date. Was there an example of a happily married couple on TV these days? For the life of me, I couldn’t think of one.

  “My dad doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said before I could stop myself.

  Luc Drew his toe across the floor in an “aw shucks” gesture. Only then did I realize he was barefoot. On closer examination, his shirt was inside out and his shorts weren’t zipped.

  “Were you in a big hurry to leave?” I asked.

  “Huh?” He stared at me with innocent Adam-eyes.

  “Your... um—” I waved vaguely. “Barn door.”

  He glanced down, then presented me with his back. “I forgot to X-Y-Z.” The sound of the zipper being zipped punctuated his words.

  “What’s X-Y-Z?”

  “Examine your zipper. Duh.”

  As I said, I knew nothing about kids, particularly male ones, having never been one myself. I felt pretty “duh” all around.

  “I should call your dad,” I said.

  “No phone.”

  “No phone?”

  “Don’t need one.”

  Everyone needed a phone. Didn’t they?

  Luc wandered around the mansion, glancing at my stuff, peering into corners, then staring upstairs.

  He saw me watching him and shrugged. “Never been here.”

  This was the family home—despite its disarray. Why hadn’t Adam brought him?

  I hate that place. I wish it would rot, but the damn thing never will.

  Oh, yeah.

  “I cut through the swamp,” Luc said. “Wasn’t far.”

  “Do you walk around the swamp a lot?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. He was so little, the things out there so big. Or at least they’d seemed big while chasing me.

  “Did you see anything strange?” I asked.

  “No.”

  That was informative.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Trees, gators, water, snakes. Critters.”

 
“What kind of critters?”

  “I didn’t really see any. Just heard ’em scratchin’ around.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go in the swamp for a while.”

  His face creased into a mulish expression that resembled a dried-apple doll. “I’ve been playing in the swamp since I could walk.”

  “And your dad doesn’t care?”

  “He says I need to know how to survive there. Someday I might have to.”

  What a bizarre thing to say to a child.

  The two of us stared at each other. I smiled uneasily. What was I going to do with him until Adam showed up? He would show up. Wouldn’t he?

  I’d wait a half an hour, then I’d take Luc back myself and head into town as I’d planned.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  I smiled. “I’ve got crackers.”

  “That’s not food.”

  “Cookies?”

  “Okay.”

  I dug out the package, handed it over.

  “How many can I have?” he asked.

  “Go nuts.”

  Which was probably the wrong thing to say to a kid, but he wasn’t my kid, and Adam had made it clear he never would be. If Luc went home on a sugar high, that was no more than the man deserved. What kind of father allowed a child to roam the swamp?

  What did I know about it? Maybe down here, or anywhere for that matter, a four-year-old was plenty old to swamp-wander.

  I eyed Luc’s size, then thought of his speech, his behavior. Maybe he was older than four. Regardless, he wasn’t twenty-four. Which is how old I thought he should be before he went into the swamp alone again.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “How old are you?”

  “It isn’t polite to ask a woman her age.”

  “How come? Don’t you know?”

  God, he was cute.

  “I’m thirty.”

  ‘That’s old.”

  “Is not.”

  “You’re older than my dad.”

  Well, wasn’t that special?

  “How much older?”

  “A year.”

  In my opinion, that didn’t count.

  “Okay, your turn.”

  I took a cookie myself, earning a scowl of reproof from Luc. Did he plan to eat them all? From the way he was wolfing them down—stupid question.