Changeling Moon

by Dani Harper

  Connor tried again to call his wolf. Again, the Change wouldn’t come, and this time he recalled Jessie’s warning. There were residual effects to wearing such a powerful amulet. It might be a day or two, maybe more, before he could run as a wolf.

  Which didn’t do him one damn bit of good as Zoey watched him with folded arms and raised eyebrows.

  “I’m waiting,” she said, as if he didn’t already feel like a complete idiot.

  “I was wearing a charm. I didn’t want to Change by accident around you,” he said.

  “A charm. Is that as in magic?”

  This day couldn’t get any worse. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “I see.” It was obvious she didn’t. Zoey turned to leave and Connor grabbed her arm.

  “Whether or not you believe it, you’re going to Change on the full moon. And whether you like it or not, you need my help.”

  “I need you to let go of me. I need you to stay away from me. I need you to get some help for yourself. You’re out of your fucking mind, Connor Macleod.”

  She yanked her arm and he released it, watched helplessly as she stalked to her truck and drove away. Connor stood with his hands jammed into his pockets as Zoey’s vehicle disappeared from sight. He continued to glare out at the gravel road until the dust had settled and there was no sign she had ever been there. The wolf within him clawed wildly for release, to no avail. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs and his insides felt as if they were being pulled in different directions, but the Change would not come, thanks to the damn amulet that lay somewhere in the yard where he’d thrown it.

  “Stop it now!” he ordered his alter ego in a voice that allowed no argument. For once, his inner wolf appeared to listen and settled uneasily, waiting. Connor stalked into the house and grabbed the rest of his clothes. Called the North Star Animal Hospital, told them he wasn’t coming in and instructed them to send emergencies to the clinic over in Spirit River.

  Lastly, he went to the gun case in the spare room. He might be stuck in human form, but not having fangs and claws didn’t stop humans from being the deadliest creatures on the planet. He passed over the lighter rifles that would take down ordinary game and instead selected a .375 and loaded it, stuffing spare shells into his jacket pocket. The H&H magnum rifle had enough shocking power to stop a charging grizzly—or a very powerful Changeling. Connor stowed the weapon behind the seat of his pickup and drove to town.

  Zoey might not want him within a hundred yards of her but whether she liked it or not, she was getting a bodyguard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Doug Peters and Greg Simmons had been at Al Menzie’s farm since six A.M. The Fish and Wildlife officers had scoured the dry ground for prints, and the bloody carcasses of twenty cows for tooth marks, evidence of bite pressure, the whole nine yards. Tipped off by the police scanner in his van, Tad Helfren made sure he showed up just after eight with doughnuts and coffee.

  The three of them leaned against the government truck, coffee in hand, waiting for Horizon Dead Livestock Removal to show up and haul away the ravaged remains.

  “God, what a mess,” said Helfren, pretending to be a little squeamish. In truth, he found the carnage exciting. It was evidence that he was getting closer to his own quarry. The thrill of the hunt, boys and girls. “I don’t know why you guys aren’t sick. Anyone find the owner yet?”

  Peters shook his head. “Jeff Maguire, the hired man, came home from the bar last night and found the cattle like this. Nobody home at Al’s. Maguire figures his boss went early to a farm auction. There are three of them out by Spirit River today and tomorrow, and they tend to go dawn to dusk.”

  “Al’s sure gonna be pissed when he finds out these heifers are dead,” added Simmons. “They were purebred Murray Grays. He just got them a month ago at a dispersal sale, bred to an expensive bull to boot. It’s a huge loss.”

  “Surely there’s insurance on something like this, right?” Helfren already knew the answer yet played the men along. He knew there was no glamour attached to their job, and it was likely that no one bothered to ask their opinion about much of anything. It was a safe bet that they’d be glad to share everything they knew with an appreciative audience. And he knew how to be appreciative.

  “Most farmers don’t carry insurance on livestock,” explained Simmons, biting into a chocolate cream doughnut. “Costs way too much.”

  “But isn’t it a crime for a neighbor’s dogs to kill your cows? I mean, there must be some sort of victim’s compensation or something,” Helfren persisted.

  Peters and Simmons exchanged glances. “No dogs did this,” said Simmons. “Had to be a big animal, maybe a bear attacked these cattle.”

  “I say it was wolves,” declared Peters.

  Yes! Inside, Helfren did a touchdown dance. On the outside, however, he kept up the act. “Really? But wolves don’t actually attack things, do they? I heard that was a myth.”

  Simmons shrugged. “They go after livestock once in a while, but they’d focus on one and then eat it, leave the rest alone. Wolves don’t go on a killing spree. And none of these animals has been eaten. I say it was a grizzly.”

  “Grizzlies don’t kill everything in sight either,” retorted Peters.

  “Maybe this one did. We didn’t find all the cows. Twenty dollars says a griz dragged one off and cached it, buried it under leaves and dirt for later.”

  The officers argued. More coffee was consumed. Over the next hour, the officers showed Helfren every piece of evidence they’d found. Tooth marks on bone, stray hairs—everything that fairly shouted to the practiced eye of the paranormal investigator that this wasn’t the work of wild dogs. Or bears. Or anything else belonging to the natural world. Too bad, though, that the ground was so frustratingly dry—there wasn’t a print anywhere. Still, Helfren took careful notes and shot photos, even getting the men to pose in front of their truck.

  Finally the livestock removal truck lumbered into sight and the officers went to talk to the driver. Helfren strolled around the farmyard alone, looking for anything he might have missed. Dead cattle were scattered like discarded toys. He was standing by one that had been killed near an outbuilding, when he spotted the telltale buzz and swirl of flies over tall grass down by a creek. One more cow, but he ought to check it for clues just the same.

  It was no cow.

  For a long moment, Helfren stared at the dead man, taking in the position of the body, the open staring eyes, the terror permanently etched in the lines of the face, the throat below it almost completely missing. Shouldn’t there be more blood? He’d seen bodies before, but the sight chilled him nonetheless. Gunshot victims were one thing. But this. . . . Slowly he moved forward, circling the body carefully, scanning the ground. And hit pay dirt. Three bloody footprints, faint but distinct. Unmistakably wolf yet larger than any wolf had a right to be.

  Grinning, he lifted his camera. It would be a great lead-in to the best story of his life. Capped with a few shots of that long-legged editor changing into a beast from hell, his reputation—and better yet, his fortune—would be assured. He shot several dozen frames from all angles, double-checked the digital screen to make sure he had what he needed, then carefully backed away from the sordid scene. A glance at the officers on the other side of the yard showed them busily directing the livestock removal. They hadn’t noticed where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Good. It was best if no one knew he possessed photos of the victim. How many great stories had been spoiled by a court ban on publication, or worse, by confiscation of camera equipment in the name of evidence? Never his stories of course—he was much too careful.

  Helfren ambled casually back to where the trucks were parked. He helped himself to a jelly doughnut with powdered sugar and took his time savoring it, then checked his watch. He imagined it would be thirty or forty minutes before either the livestock removal crew or the Fish and Wildlife officers worked their way over to that last cow near the stream—and stumbled over the farmer’s body. />
  He called out a good-bye to the men, got an answering wave and headed to his van, humming a little as he tossed around captions in his head. This was going to be the best damned edition of the OtherWorld News in its thirty-three-year history. And with plenty left over for his book.

  He still had to get his hands on Little Miss Editor of course. But not yet. No point in rushing things. She wasn’t going to be useful until much, much closer to the full moon.

  And then she’d be gold.

  Bernie was exultant. Giggling laughter bubbled up in him as he sat atop the tallest standing stone in the circle at Elk Point. The formation was said to be the meeting place of the gods and revered for centuries as a hallowed spot by various native peoples. Now it was mostly forgotten, hidden by tall trees and unknown except to the occasional hiker or hunter . . . and Changelings. They could feel the energy of the place and the Pack held it to be sacred.

  Sacred, my ass. Bernie swung his feet, his entire body abuzz with sensation. There were lines of invisible energy flowing deep within the earth and this spot was an intersection of sorts. He’d never been able to tap into it before, but now it energized him almost as much as Al Menzie’s blood had hours earlier. Normally a Changeling could assume wolfen form only once or twice a day at most because it required massive amounts of energy. Three times was dangerous and nearly unheard of. Four times would be fatal. Bernie had Changed not once but several times in the night, simply because he could. And he wasn’t tired in the least. Menzie, you really recharged my batteries. Who’d have thought a dried up little runt like you would have so much juice?

  But Menzie couldn’t hold a candle to that red-haired newcomer. Bernie had gotten only a single bite, yet that one taste of the woman’s blood had revealed she was fairly bursting with power, a strange and pure power that eclipsed that of any human he’d killed to date. The energy had shot through his system like the most potent drug, surprising and distracting him. Then the woman had surprised him further, daring to defy him, to fight back. Cut my face.

  He’d have killed the stupid bitch, of course, killed and drunk every last drop of her blood as she lay in the street. He’d finally have had the power he craved, the means to get everything he’d ever wanted—except Connor Macleod had showed up and interrupted everything. Bernie leapt to the ground effortlessly, crouched as if in wolfen form. Fury blinded him, nearly choked him. I found her! She was mine, her blood was mine! He howled long and loud in frustration, the sound all the more chilling as it erupted from his human form.

  Damn the Macleods! They were always ruining things for him. They’d done it again when he’d livened up that party in the Watson’s backyard. He’d meant only to stir the pot, provide a little footage for Helfren, a sample of things to come. Bernie hadn’t known the red-haired woman would be at Watson’s like an inviting snack just begging to be nibbled. But his hopes for another energizing bite were dashed by Connor Macleod. Who’d have thought the bastard would risk Changing in the middle of all those humans?

  Bernie automatically bared his stained teeth in a snarl. Those interfering Macleods wouldn’t be so high and mighty once Helfren revealed them to the world. Instead, they’d be freaks. Freaks! The entire clan would be hauled off to some secret government lab and studied for the rest of their unnatural lives. Or hunted down and shot dead. Either way worked for him.

  In the meantime, the Pack was onto him, watching for him, even hunting him. They’d never be able to trail him of course. His new power had provided some unexpected benefits. This old dog has learned new tricks. Thanks to the network of waterways that connected the entire region, he had an innovative way of getting around that other Changelings would never even think of, never mind detect.

  But it was the principle of the thing—the Pack would pay for daring to hunt him, starting with the Watson bitch who led them. He’d be the one doing the hunting soon—but first he had to get to that red-haired woman and her incredible blood. He had no idea why it possessed such potency, and he didn’t care. The problem was how to reach her with the Pack’s eyes everywhere. . . . A member of the Pack was even in charge of the fucking cops. Bernie refused to risk having the Macleods or anyone else interfere in his plans again.

  His rage disappeared abruptly as an idea popped to the surface of his chaotic brain. He didn’t need to waste time stalking the woman. He was her sire, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he given her the wolf? Wouldn’t she Change at his command? Normally it couldn’t work at such a distance—after all, he couldn’t see the stupid bitch from here and she couldn’t hear him—but he was so much stronger now. Much more powerful. She would Change. And she would come to him.

  It was damn fucking perfect.

  Bernie rubbed his crotch, indulging the unexpected erection there. He felt virile, young, and oh-so-potent. Maybe he could have a little fun with that red-haired woman before he killed her. After all, he could tell her to do whatever he wanted and she’d have to do it. Have to. He’d tell her to peel her clothes off for starters. He’d like a good, long look at her rack. She’d turn those strange gold eyes on him, those hawklike eyes, and they’d be full of hate, but she wouldn’t be able to do a fucking thing about it. Not a thing.

  And then he’d tell her to give him head. Oh yeah. He got even harder just thinking about it. A new Changeling had no choice but to obey the one who sired them, and he could make her do anything he wanted for as long as he wanted. As long as he enjoyed her. And when he got tired of her, he would simply drain her dry, lap up every last drop of her luscious blood until he was damn well invincible.

  Hell, he was already strong enough to take on the whole stinking Pack. He knew it, could feel it. He growled low, drawing his lips back from teeth that had suddenly gone long and sharp, crowded grotesquely in a mouth that wasn’t designed for them. I’ll show you. All of you. Every damn one of you.

  Suddenly Bernie giggled and shook himself. The teeth retracted, became human again. First things first. He had a little call to make.

  A routine investigation by Fish and Wildlife into the deaths of twenty-two purebred heifers took an ugly turn Sunday morning when the body of Allan Ralph Menzie, 76, was discovered on his farm.

  The dead livestock had been reported earlier that morning amid speculation that a large grizzly bear or possibly a cougar was responsible. Acting coroner, Dr. Lowen Miller, has not yet confirmed the cause of Mr. Menzie’s death. . . .

  Zoey leaned back from the keyboard and sighed. Nothing like being right back where she’d started. She’d left the city, thinking she could leave the violence, the death, and more importantly, her own psychic visions, far behind. Ha. Maybe that’s what they—whoever they were—meant when they said you can run but you can’t hide.

  She had no hope of hiding from the ghastly images in her head, those remnants of the horrible dream that had proved all too true. A man was dead. Officials weren’t saying the word wolf. At least not yet. But in her heart she knew without doubt that it wasn’t a bear that killed Al Menzie and his cattle. The creature that had attacked her, whose bite she still bore on her leg, was still at large and very, very dangerous.

  Yet until the police could confirm the animal’s identity, she couldn’t tell anyone. Oh, she could, she supposed. But who would believe her? Zoey knotted both hands in her hair in frustration. Her family claimed that her psychic ability was a precious gift. Connor seemed to consider it a gift too. All her life she’d wished she could give the useless talent back, but never more than right now. Of course, reporting the news was a mere formality in a small community. News traveled faster on the grapevine than by any other means, and, by Monday morning, it was unlikely that there was anybody left in town who hadn’t heard about the death of Al Menzie. The Dunvegan Herald Weekly had been a zoo all day. Reporters from surrounding communities hung out in the coffee room, making it impossible for staff to get a break from the constant questioning. The phone seemed to ring without stopping. Local residents stopped by too. Some people were merely curious, wanting t
o know if the newspaper staff “had heard anything yet.” Others had theories to offer, some sound, some bizarre. Ted Biegel had bodily removed the seventh or eighth person who had the temerity to bring up the word werewolf.

  Zoey had decided against going to the Menzie farm herself. The RCMP had it cordoned off anyway. Instead, she assigned the sports reporter to drive out and take a basic shot of the farm site from the road. That was all that a tasteful small town newspaper had any business publishing anyway. There was no hope for an interview with officials either, not yet. The RCMP was being closemouthed until they concluded their initial investigation into “an unattended death.” Fish and Game might think it was an animal attack, but the last word would come from Lowen Miller. She wondered what it would be like for the gruff doctor to step into a coroner’s role again. Would he feel as frustrated as she did? Had he and Bev also been trying to leave the big city violence behind them? Or would it simply be like putting on a familiar pair of shoes?

  Maybe she could visit the Millers, ask them about it sometime. And while she was at it, maybe she could ask them about lycanthropy. That was the word she’d come up with after researching half the day on the Internet in between poring over financial papers in preparation for the Village Council’s budget meeting that night. Although she’d be surprised if the councilors got around to discussing the budget at all. At the request of the mayor, the RCMP had promised to stop by and report what they could on the Menzie issue.

  Lycanthropy. The belief that one can become a wolf. Zoey had heard the word but hadn’t known it was a medically-recognized condition, treatable with antipsychotic drugs. And it certainly seemed to fit Connor’s wild story to a tee. Except that he had no other apparent symptoms, appearing to be a perfectly normal specimen of the human male in every other way. And an exceptional specimen in many ways. . . . For the hundredth time, Zoey’s mind wandered happily to that subject until she yanked it back in angry frustration.