Better safe than sorry. Call the SF if you suspect a werewolf, said the ad, followed by the number for the SF.
Carrie picked up the phone in the foyer.
She felt better now that she knew what she was supposed to be doing. She was still panicked over her parents’ dead bodies, and she still felt horribly sad, but it was better having something to accomplish. She needed to turn herself in. Then the SF would come and take her away. After a month or two, she’d go through training, and then she’d be allowed to come back to her life. And she wouldn’t have to worry about this ever happening again.
But her hands were shaking anyway.
She dialed the phone, trembling all over.
“What are you doing?” said a low voice, dark and velvet.
She dropped the phone, screaming. Someone was here with her?
He stepped in front of her, and then she remembered. The guy from the Ferris Wheel. He’d shown up at her house last night, right before the… the shift.
But now, the guy from the Ferris Wheel was naked, and he was all covered in blood too. There was blood on his face, staining his faint shadow of facial hair. Blood on the muscles in his chest. Blood on his stomach. Oh, his stomach was glorious. She’d never seen anything quite so rippled and perfect.
How could she be thinking that? Her parents were dead, and she’d done it, and, from the looks of it, this guy had helped, and this was not the time to find anyone sexy—not even Ferris Wheel guy, who was probably one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen. Even covered in blood.
She cringed.
He bent down and picked up the phone off the floor. “Were you going to call someone, little fael?”
“The SF,” she said. “I’m obviously a werewolf, so—”
“No,” he said.
“No?” She took a step back. “No, I’m not a werewolf?”
“Of course you’re a werewolf.” He looked annoyed. “But do not call the SF.”
“But I have to,” she said. “If I don’t call them, then I’ll shift again, and I’ll kill more people, just like I did to my… to my…” She crumpled into tears again.
Ferris Wheel guy’s arms were around her all of the sudden. “Oh, come on, now. Shh, it’s all right. You wanted to be free of them, did you not?”
He was holding onto her, and they were both naked. Naked and bloody and gross, true, but still naked. She’d never been naked in front of a guy. Never been naked in the arms of a naked man. She wasn’t sure whether she should pull away or—
But that was ridiculous. Of course, she should pull away. That was the right thing to do when a naked stranger embraced you, as near as she understood the common rules of etiquette. But part of her didn’t want to. Part of her liked being close to the naked Ferris Wheel guy, who was oh-so-gorgeous and calm and in control.
So she found herself crying into his chest, feeling his strong arms tighten around her, holding her body close against his.
He murmured into her hair. “You are confused, little fael. You are tired and frightened. Let’s clean you up.”
His arms came down under her knees, and he hoisted her into the air.
She couldn’t help but cling to his neck as he carried her up the stairs.
He took her into the bathroom at the top of the steps. He set her down, and he pulled aside the shower curtain.
Carrie felt numb. Every two seconds, she kept remembering her parents’ bodies and then remembering that she’d done it to them. But she couldn’t remember it. And she hadn’t meant to.
Who was this Ferris Wheel guy? Why did she feel like she could trust him? Why didn’t he want her to call the SF? Why had he come to her house last night? Why was he covered in blood too? Why had he said the thing about her wanting to be free of her parents? How had he known that?
Besides, it wasn’t true.
She might have wanted more freedom, but that didn’t mean she wanted her parents to be dead.
She loved her parents.
They were all she had in this world.
She looked at the Ferris Wheel guy, who was adjusting the temperature in the shower. She tried to gather all her questions and give them voice. She wanted to ask him to make all of this clear for her.
But nothing came out.
He turned to her. “I think the water is a good temperature now. Come.”
She couldn’t move.
He took her hands and pulled her forward.
“Who?” she blurted. “Who are you?”
“My name is Mick,” he said. “I’m here to take care of you.”
Mick. The name wasn’t familiar to her, but he was. Somehow. She felt… connected to him. Close to him. In a way she couldn’t explain.
He helped her into the shower.
The hot water hit her, and it felt amazingly good.
She shut her eyes, enjoying it.
And then opened her eyes right away. She shouldn’t be enjoying things. She’d just killed her parents, and she didn’t deserve happiness. Her parents would never have happiness again. She shouldn’t either.
She thought again of their bodies, bloody and broken, and fresh tears began to stream down her face.
She clutched at the sleek walls of the shower, but she couldn’t keep herself upright.
She slid down to the floor and sobbed. The shower head pumped water over her.
He pulled aside the shower curtain, sighing. “Little fael, you must not take on so.” He climbed into the shower behind her and pulled her to her feet.
She didn’t try to resist him. Everything was so confusing and so awful. She didn’t know where to go or what to do, and it was easy to surrender to him.
He picked up the soap and began to lather her all over. The bubbles turned pink as they swept the blood away from her skin. His hands explored her body, over all of her naked skin, even her most secret places.
She stopped sobbing. She gasped.
The water ran over her, washing away the soap suds, washing away the blood.
Mick was wet too, sopping long hair in his face.
Their bodies collided, and she felt him hard against her body. She looked down to see the thick length of him. She sucked in breath, something inside her tensing in the most pleasant of ways. Just at the sight of him there. He was such a beautiful man, and his arousal did something to her. She’d never experienced anything quite so intense.
But he pushed her away, shaking his head. “That’s not for you, little fael. Never for you. That is not the way of things between us.”
She furrowed her brow. What was he saying?
* * *
Later, Carrie sat in a chair in the den, wrapped in a warm robe. Her hair was wet. She tucked her ankles under her knees, huddled into her robe.
Mick paced in front of her, only wearing a pair of jeans. His feet were bare. His chest was bare. His skin was the color of toffee, and there were pale blue strands of fabric dangling from the back of his jeans. He stepped on them with his heels, and he never seemed to notice.
“You must promise never to call the SF,” he said.
“But why?” she said.
He turned his sharp green eyes on her. “You don’t know? But your parents were not supposed to raise you to think of the SF as anything other than what it is.”
“And what is it?” she said.
“It’s a prison,” said Mick. “It takes wolves and twists them against their nature. You must never surrender yourself to people like that. Promise me.”
“I… I can’t promise you anything. I don’t even know who you are.” She was a mess of warring emotions. Grief. Guilt. Attraction. Fear. “You need to answer some questions first.”
He continued to pace. “No, there is no need for your questions. I will tell you everything that you need to know. But first you must promise me.”
She shook her head. “Have you always worked at that carnival? Is that really where I met you before?”
He chuckled softly. “You don’t remember meeting
me?”
“So I did meet you. When I was a little girl, right?”
He didn’t answer. He looked up at the ceiling and continued walking back and forth over the hard wood floor.
“Did you bite me or something?”
“When you were a little girl?”
“Well, no, because then I would have been a werewolf back then, and it obviously just happened right now.”
“Did it?” He caught her gaze, raising an eyebrow.
She was so confused.
“You must make the promise, little fael.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“It is an Irish word for wolf,” he said, smiling. “I think it suits you.”
“Did you make me into a werewolf?”
“Promise that you will never subject yourself to the Sullivan Foundation,” he insisted. “Swear it to me.”
She sighed. He wasn’t going to let that go, was he? Well, how binding could a promise like that really be? If she changed her mind later, then she’d simply have to break it. “Fine. I promise.”
He stopped pacing. He faced her. “Good.” He wandered over to the edge of the room. A bookshelf lined the wall. He ran his fingers over the spines of the books. “You do not know about yourself, Carrie.”
What was that supposed to mean? “I know about myself.”
“You didn’t know you were a wolf.”
“I wasn’t before,” she said. “I swear to God, I’ve never changed before. I would remember if the full moon had ever done that to me.”
“The shift is not the only thing that makes one a wolf.”
“But… I was never bitten by a werewolf. I don’t remember it. And I’m a virgin, so it’s not like I got it from sex or anything. I don’t understand how this happened to me.”
He turned back from the bookshelf. “You were born a wolf, little fael.”
No. That couldn’t be true. “I never shifted before.”
He narrowed his green, green eyes. “And so you never knew. No one ever told you. You were kept ignorant of your heritage and your true self. Those self-righteous jailers you called parents did it to you. You are lucky now that they are gone.”
She grimaced. “You can’t say things like that.” Her voice was tight in pain and shock.
He stalked across the room and put both of his hands on either armrest on her chair, trapping her there. “They lied to you. They were selected to give you sanctuary and to help you grow up safe and strong. But they were never meant to deny you what you were. And you are a werewolf, Carrie. Both of your parents were werewolves, and you have been one since the moment you were conceived.”
A lump was growing in her throat. She shut her eyes and shuddered, wanted to shut out his face and his voice. He was so close, leaning over her, his nose inches from her nose. She didn’t want what he was saying to be true. She didn’t want to have been born a werewolf. It was bad enough to think that she’d caught it somehow. But it was worse to think that it had been part of her all along. If she’d been bitten and given the lupine virus, she was a victim. But if she’d been born to it, then she was… alien.
She knew that werewolves were monsters. Everyone was afraid of them. No one associated with werewolves knowingly. Supposedly, they were safe enough after they went through training at the SF, but no one ever wanted to take a chance. There were groups of people lobbying the government to allow the names of all werewolves to be publicly published, so that everyone would know if their neighbors were furries.
She was a furry.
And if what Mick was saying was true, then she’d been born that way. She shook her head. “No.”
“No?” He released the arm rests, straightening up.
She looked up at him. “I would have known that I was a wolf, but I didn’t know. I can’t have been born that way.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I think you did know. I think deep down you always knew. I think something inside you knows it now.”
She thought of the full, fat moon and the way it seemed to tug on her last night. The way she always found the moon so beautiful and bright. Was it true? Had she always been a wolf? She rubbed her forehead. “Why didn’t I ever shift?”
“You were born a werewolf, little fael, but you lost your true parents when you were very young. You were given to these adoptive parents who promised to raise you close to your own heritage, so that you would be proud of your wolf. The SF treats werewolves as if they are diseased. But being a wolf is not a sickness.”
It sure seemed like one. It seemed as if she’d gone crazy and hurt her own parents. Sure, she’d always known that she was adopted, but that had never bothered her. She’d never been one of those children who feels the need to seek out her birth parents. Possibly that was because she’d been told her birth parents were dead. She chewed on her lip. “When you say I lost my true parents…?”
“They are gone,” said Mick. “Dead, I’m afraid.”
Well, that was what she’d always thought. But now she was doubly an orphan. She thought of her dead parents downstairs, their bodies bleeding and destroyed. Her lower lip started to tremble.
“You see,” said Mick, “all wolves that are born are born into a pack. Every pack has an alpha. Your parents were killed, and they were your alphas, because that is the natural order of things. When they died, you lost your alpha. So I was sent to fill that position.”
She furrowed her brow. “What?”
“Yes,” said Mick. “I am your alpha. I came to you when you were ten years old, and I made you part of my pack.”
She sat up straighter. “You have a pack? Do they work at the carnival too?”
He shook his head. “No, no. You and I, we are the pack. I am the alpha. You are the beta. That is all.”
That confused her even more. “I didn’t think two people made a pack.”
“We do not have the most natural of packs, it’s true.” He resumed his pacing. “You see, most packs are formed when two wolves mate and become bonded to each other. They become the male and female alphas of their own pack. Their offspring will be their beta wolves. But in your case, the bond we have was something you accepted from me, not something natural. Still, it is a strong bond. I have sensed you all these years, little fael. I have felt you across the distances. And when I can, I have come back over the years to look in on you. This time, I didn’t find you happy.” He stopped pacing and surveyed her. “I want you to be happy, Carrie.”
“How can I be happy?” she said. “My parents are dead.”
“You wanted them out of your life. I heard you tell your friend so.”
“Heard me? When?”
“On the Ferris Wheel.”
“But you were too far away.”
He tapped his ear. “I’ll teach you to hone your wolf senses as well.”
Carrie swallowed. If he’d heard that, then… “Did I kill my parents or did you do it?”
“We did it together. It was what you wanted deep down.”
“It was not.” She was horrified.
“This is better,” he said. “You were being repressed. They wouldn’t let you be your wolf.”
Carrie stood up. “I don’t want to be my wolf.”
“That’s not true. Your wolf is your deepest, truest self.”
She hugged herself. “What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything, little fael. You have done this yourself.”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t want this. You forced me to do this. I didn’t want it.” And then she hurried out of the room. She ran up the steps and into her bedroom.
Mick was behind her. “Wait, Carrie.”
She slammed the door to her bedroom in his face. She leaned against it. For the umpteenth time that morning, she started to cry.
* * *
She wasn’t sure how long she cried for, only that it didn’t seem nearly long enough this time either. At first, Mick was pounding on the door, begging to be let in, but af
ter a while, he seemed to give up and leave her alone.
She lay down on her bed, curled into a ball.
And then she fell asleep.
She hadn’t expected to sleep. She didn’t even think that she could. She’d only been awake for a few hours, and it didn’t seem time for a nap. But apparently, all the crying she’d been doing was tiring. She wasn’t sure how long she slept, but when she woke up, it seemed to be late morning.
Upon waking, she tried to convince herself that everything else had simply been a terrible dream. She’d mixed up the man from the carnival with the moon and her anger at her parents’ overprotectiveness. But she couldn’t have really shifted into a werewolf and killed them. That was crazy.
She went into their bedroom to look for them, but they weren’t there, and the bed wasn’t made. Which was odd. Her mother always made the bed.
It really happened, she murmured to herself.
“No,” she said aloud.
She scrambled down the steps and went into the living room, where she’d found their bodies.
The bodies weren’t there.
She let out a slow breath.
Had it really been a dream?
She walked further into the living room. As she got closer to the fireplace, she realized that the usual rug was gone, and that there was a wide, red-brown stain over the whole floor.
Blood.
She could smell it. Something inside her stirred and panted. It liked the smell.
She shuddered and tore out of the room, only to collide with Mick’s hard chest.
She backed away from him. “Where… where are the bodies?”
He was dirty. She could see that now. His face was smeared with dirt, and there was a fine dust of earth clinging to the skin of his bare chest. “I buried them in the woods.”
“But…” She sank her hands into her hair. “What about calling the police?”
Child of the Moon Page 3