Moonshadow

by Thea Harrison

  He didn’t appear to look uncomfortable at all, while Sophie was barely able to keep from blurting out the truth. She swallowed the impulse down. It wouldn’t do anybody any good, and the knowledge could possibly put them in more danger.

  Instead, she said, “I’m sorry for the people you lost tonight.”

  “It’s a hard blow,” Maggie said. “It’ll be hard for the whole town. They were good men just enjoying a bit of an after-hours card game, you see.”

  “I do see,” Sophie said gently.

  Maggie turned back to the shambles of her pub. As Sophie and Nikolas walked to the Mini, Sophie muttered between her teeth, “I want her dead for this.”

  Nikolas said, “As do I, and mine.”

  Chapter Eight

  When they reached the Mini, they discovered the puck, still in the form of a monkey, waiting inside.

  No doubt Robin found opposable thumbs more useful than dog paws. After setting the box and the luggage into the boot of the car, Nikolas stood back and watched Sophie drive away, then he walked down the side alley where he had parked his Porsche and followed.

  He didn’t like how she had looked. Underneath the thorough dousing of blood, her skin had turned chalky, the freckles standing out in stark contrast, and the shadows underneath her spectacular eyes were as dark as bruises. She didn’t complain, but she moved like she was in pain, stiffly and off-balance.

  He pulled into the property drive and parked beside the Mini. By the time he had switched off the engine, Sophie was already at the entrance of the cottage, unlocking the door by the light of her slim flashlight.

  He pulled his go-bag out of the car and retrieved her luggage from the Mini’s boot. When he stepped inside an aged but comfortable-looking kitchen, she had turned on all the lights and stuck her head into a cupboard.

  “There’s some way to turn on the water heater,” she said, her voice muffled. “The solicitor told me how to do it, but I don’t remember.”

  “Sit down,” Nikolas ordered.

  That made her emerge so she could glare at him. He could almost hear her say it: Thanks for asking, asshole.

  “Seriously, sit,” he told her impatiently. “I’ll take care of the water heater.”

  She must be feeling even worse than he thought, because she straightened to ease into one of the four chairs at the wooden, farm-style kitchen table.

  He moved quickly through the cottage, taking stock. The rest of the furnishings looked as aged and comfortable as the kitchen. There was a musty, unused smell in the place and a slightly damp feeling.

  The sitting room had a gas fire, and he paused to light it so it could chase the chill and the dampness out of the place. There was a minimally furnished bedroom with a bare mattress, a halfway-decent bath with a washer/dryer unit tucked in one corner, and the kitchen, which was actually the largest room in the cottage.

  The refrigerator needed to be plugged in. After doing so, he set the bottle of milk in it and checked the contents of the box that Maggie had given them. There were eggs as well as bread, an orange and an apple, a package of cheese, and sugar for the tea, along with a few packets of guest soaps.

  “You don’t have to stay,” she said.

  He glanced at her. She sat with her forehead propped in one hand, and she looked as weary as anyone he had ever seen. “Yes, I do,” he told her. “There may be more Hounds on the hunt. I won’t have you getting hurt or killed, not when you can be of use to me.”

  She laughed and immediately winced. “That’s breathtakingly callous, even for you.”

  “So it is.” He had also regretted it as soon as he had said it, but he didn’t bother to apologize. Not only was it true, but he also didn’t think she would believe him if he did. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, he found and filled a teakettle and set it to warm on the stove. “In a half an hour or so, you’ll be able to take a comfortable shower, but in the meantime, there’ll be warm water here in a few minutes to wash up at the kitchen sink.”

  “I don’t care,” she said as she rummaged through her toiletry bag to locate a small travel-sized bottle filled with liquid. Pushing to her feet, she moved to the sink, turned on the faucet, and stuck her head under the running water, swearing at the cold.

  He laughed silently. They had only been acquainted through the course of a very long evening, but she had already surprised him in a multitude of ways. The water ran dark pink as it whirled down the drain.

  “If you can stand it for long enough, I’ll help you wash the blood out of your hair.”

  “Please,” she said through gritted teeth. “But hurry.”

  She thrust the small bottle at him blindly, and he took it to squirt some of the liquid into the palm of one hand. Working the shampoo quickly through her hair, he massaged her scalp until there was a thick lather. The water ran cold enough to make the bones of his hands ache, and he could feel her body shaking.

  “Hold on,” he said. Twisting, he grabbed the full teakettle. It hadn’t had a chance to get very warm, but it had to be better than sticking her head under the tap again. Carefully he rinsed the dark stream of wet hair, marveling at how the curls sprang up when he ran his fingers through the long strands. As he worked, she scrubbed at her face and hands.

  The act of helping her to wash her hair seemed inappropriately intimate. It was as velvety soft as it looked. He wondered what her skin would taste like at the nape of her neck. He wondered what she would say or do if he bent to find out.

  But no, he didn’t have to wonder very much at that.

  Thanks for asking, asshole!

  Biting back another smile, he found he was reluctant to draw the task to its end, but then the kettle was empty and there was no reason to keep her hanging over the sink any longer.

  “Thank you,” she told him, turning her head to one side to squeeze the excess water out of her hair. “My clothes feel vile enough, but somehow it was worse having blood all over my head and in my hair.”

  “Stay put. I’ll get you a towel.” Down the short hall, he found the linen cupboard and brought back a towel for her to wrap her hair in.

  When she stood, her face was no longer pale but a deep, pleasing pink, although the shadows under her eyes were still too dark. “If any more of those werewolves crash in here, I’m not going to be much help,” she said. “I’m jet-lagged and exhausted, and I pulled something deep on my bad side.”

  He nodded to himself. It was pretty much what he had thought. “I’m going outside to lay some aversion spells around the area. If we’re lucky, the rest of the night will be quiet.”

  “Quiet would be good.” Her face tightened. “Those things hardly paused when Arran shot them.”

  “He probably didn’t have silver in his bullets,” Nikolas told her. “Most gun owners don’t. The bullets are expensive, and a lycanthrope running wild is pretty rare. Most of them are disturbed by the change, and they’re all too happy to cage themselves during full moons.”

  Her expression lit with interest. “Silver bullets affect them?”

  “Yes.” He paused, reluctant to look away from her mesmerizing eyes. “They’re still tough to kill, but if you put a silver bullet between their eyes, it’ll kill them well enough. Also, they can’t heal at a magical rate from wounds inflicted with silver bullets or weapons.”

  “Good to know.” She clenched her hands. “I’m never going to be able to get a gun legally here, am I?”

  “As you’re not a UK citizen, it’s highly doubtful. You would only warrant one if you needed it in some official capacity, and the government approved of that reason. Some demesne leaders and their entourages are granted firearm certificates.” He cocked his head. “Why, do you want one?”

  “Oh my gods, yes. Like I told you, my spells are only useful in close quarters.” With an explosive sigh, she said, “The water has got to be at least bearable by now, don’t you think? I’m going to finish cleaning up.”

  She had gone head-to-head with monsters that were over
twice her size and weight, and she had done it without hesitating. He had seen her race alone toward the pub. It was one of the bravest things he had ever seen anybody do.

  As she turned away from him, he caught her by the arm. “What you did back there—”

  “Jesus, don’t touch me there!” she cried, yanking away from his hold. They stared at each other. She whispered, “I had one active spell left.”

  He clenched. She grabbed his hand and turned it over, stroking his fingers and palm and turning it over. After a moment, she sagged and looked up at him again with relief brimming in her eyes.

  She said, “Thank God. The spell didn’t recognize you as an enemy.”

  He gave in to his impulse at last and cupped her chin, stepping close so that he could feel the heat from her body. It was a subtle warmth that touched him in places he didn’t understand and had long denied existed. “That’s because I’m not your enemy, Sophie.”

  As he watched, she licked her lips. Watching her tongue slide over the plush, pink curve of her lower lip caused him to harden and woke a hunger he hadn’t felt for anyone in years.

  Years.

  What the hell was happening to him? He jerked away and stalked toward the door. He snapped, “I’m going to lay down those spells while you shower.”

  “Right,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll make it quick, so there should be some warm water left for you.”

  He didn’t bother to answer that. Instead, he stalked out the door, breathing hard in the cool, damp night air. He had no business feeling any kind of desire for her. She was someone who was possibly of some use to him, nothing more.

  She chose to stay when she shouldn’t have. Earlier, she had chosen to engage with the Hounds—and she shouldn’t have. She was also choosing to defend the puck, and by gods, she had already been warned multiple times she shouldn’t have done that.

  And he had his mission. There was nothing more critical, more important, than making sure he did everything he possibly could to keep his men alive, to try to find a way back to Lyonesse, and to take down Isabeau and Morgan any way he could.

  He had no interest, and no time, for anything else.

  After a few minutes, the unwelcome tightening in his groin eased.

  He got down to business and set a series of aversion spells around the property, grimly ignoring the ghosts in his head and the ancient memories of the battle that tried to resurface. Whether or not the aversion spells would be useful was anybody’s guess.

  The effect of an aversion spell could be directly measured against the intelligence and determination of the creature that encountered it. At least if something tripped a spell, Nikolas would feel it, so he would have advance warning before anything got too close to the cottage.

  Also, there were no direct scent trails to lead any questing Hounds to this location. The only way the Hounds could possibly learn to come here would be if they spent some time in human form, questioning people in town. Nikolas and Sophie were probably safe from attack for one night. Possibly not for any longer, but he felt fairly confident about tonight.

  Finally he felt like he had done what he could. Only then did he pause to text Gawain. Hounds attacked the pub. Sophie, Robin, and I have moved to a different location.

  Gawain replied almost immediately. Damn. Was anyone hurt?

  Four casualties. We’re fine. Nikolas paused, then typed more slowly. Sophie ran into the pub to help before I could stop her. She saved lives. She’s a brave fighter.

  He paused and then, choosing not to overthink it, hit send.

  Gawain’s reply was a few minutes in coming. I’m glad she’s okay. I filled the others in earlier, after I left. We’re all moving into position so that none of us are too far away. Call us for backup if you need to.

  I will.

  The conversation finished, Nikolas pocketed his phone. He paused to consider the shadowed manor house sprawling over the shattered land magic. It was an ugly, useless building, sitting on a cursed location. The gods only knew what Sophie saw in it.

  Turning his back on the manor house, he strode back to the cottage.

  Inside, everything was quiet. Sophie’s luggage had disappeared, while his go-bag still rested in the corner nearest the door. The puck was nowhere to be seen. Walking through the small place, he saw that the bedroom was darkened and the door half shut.

  Gently he pushed the door open wider to look inside. As it creaked on its hinges, Sophie’s weary voice said, “I don’t recall inviting you in here.”

  Thanks for asking, asshole.

  Neither of them had to say it.

  She had taken a blanket from the linen cupboard and curled up on the bed wrapped in it, atop the bare mattress.

  “Too tired to make the bed, I see,” he said quietly.

  “I’m clean, dry, warm, and horizontal. And alive. It’ll do for tonight.” She shifted under the blanket and grunted. “The bed can get made tomorrow.”

  He had spent far too many nights with much the same reduced survival list, and he almost turned to go, but that quiet sound of pain, and the memory of how stiffly she had been moving after the pub battle stopped him.

  Slowly he said, “I know you’re still in pain. I can help you and give you the chance to get some real rest.”

  For a long moment he thought she might ignore him. Then she sighed, and the curled knot under the blanket unfurled. “Come in.”

  He pushed the door open the rest of the way and prowled in. That was when he saw the puck. Robin had been perched on the headboard. His dark eyes glistened in the shadows. What was he thinking?

  As Nikolas approached, Robin slipped down off the headboard and disappeared into another part of the cottage. With a frown, he watched the puck leave. He would never understand Robin, no matter how long either of them lived.

  Then he stood by the bed, looking down at Sophie. Even in a shadowed room as dark as this, her eyes gathered every particle of light and magnified them, gleaming like stars. He could see she was uncomfortable with him standing over her, so he nudged her thigh. As she shifted, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “Watch yourself,” he said. Reaching over to shade her eyes, he turned on the bedside lamp. Underneath his palm, he saw her wince.

  “Is the light really necessary?” she said grumpily.

  “I don’t know.” He removed his hand and watched her squint.

  “How did you not get splashed with blood?” she muttered, eyeing his shirt with resentment. “I almost drowned in it.”

  “I was moving fast, while you were on the floor. I got some splashed on my legs.” He angled his head. “Show me where you hurt.”

  She grimaced. “Just assume if it’s between the top of my head and the bottom of my feet, it hurts.”

  “You said you pulled something in your side. Was that the place you got shot?”

  With a sigh, she replied, “One of them.”

  She had been shot multiple times. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he absorbed the news. When he was confident that he could sound calm and steady, he urged her, “Show me.”

  She sighed again, this time impatiently, and flung back one corner of the blanket. Underneath, she wore a spaghetti strap tank top and matching shorts that were very short. They showed off the long line of her slender, muscled legs. She pulled up one corner of the tank, and he saw the scar.

  It was a skewed starburst of ridged, livid flesh under the right side of her rib cage, still new enough that the redness hadn’t had a chance to fade. Not questioning his impulse—not thinking about anything other than reacting to the visual evidence of how her life had been in jeopardy—he touched the ridged scar lightly with the tips of his fingers.

  Watching him, she said nothing, did nothing, although he could tell by her clenched tension that something about revealing the injury was difficult for her.

  “Where else were you shot?” he murmured.

  “Right thigh, left shoulder.” She clipped out the wo
rds.

  Now that she had mentioned it, he could see the edge of the scar peeking out from the tank top, in the flesh of her shoulder, just over her right breast. So her body had been strained on both sides tonight.

  He could also see large bruises and contusions on her legs and arms. No doubt she had them on her back as well. She had hit the floor hard, and the Hound had landed its full, considerable weight on top of her.

  This time, without asking, he took the edge of the blanket and lifted it farther to reveal the jagged slash on her leg. The scar was a violation of that beautiful, creamy cinnamon-speckled skin. She would have needed surgery on all three wounds. He had known she was still recovering somehow, but this was more, and far worse, than he had imagined.

  With gentle firmness, he laid one hand flat on her abdomen, covering the scar. With his right hand, he covered the scar on her shoulder. She took hold of his wrists but didn’t try to force him away.

  Then in his native tongue he said the invocation for healing, and Power flowed into her until her body glowed with it. Connected to her as he was, he could sense her pain lessen. Torn, inflamed muscles eased, and the massive bruises faded. They didn’t disappear totally and still showed like faint shadows of mortality darkening her skin. But the deep, livid red was gone.

  When he was finished, he didn’t lift his hands from her body. Instead, carefully pressing down, he leaned over her and met her wide, questioning eyes, his expression hard.

  “You had no business running into that pub, Sophie Ross,” he said, quietly stern. “No business, especially with serious injuries that are still so fresh.”

  She said in a steady voice, “Fuck you, Nikolas whatever-the-fuck your last fucking name is. I was going to say thank you, but then you ruined the fucking moment.”

  “Sevigny,” he said.

  He could see in her expression that, exhausted or not, she had clearly meant to rip into him some more for his high-handed attitude, but at that, she paused, thrown off stride.

  “It’s my last fucking name,” he told her. “Sevigny. And you say ‘fuck’ too often.”