by Connie Flynn
"Oh, that's cold," she complained as the dogs climbed to their feet and vied for possession of the bone. She scraped snow off the wristband of a glove, then looked up at Morgan, who was angled across her legs, grinning like crazy.
"You think that's funny?" With a giggle, Dana grabbed a wad of sow and shoved it in Morgan's face.
He raised his thick eyebrows and slowly wiped the snow away. "You shouldn't have done that. Big mistake Big."'
Dana lunged for his hands, but too late. He'd already armed himself, and pitched a huge snowball directly at her head. It bounced off, leaving crystal pebbles in her hair.
"Playing rough are you?" She dug out a two-handed scoop, shot it back.
Somehow Morgan had found an arsenal, and his fresh ball struck her just as her own weapon started to fly. She tried to roll and scoop an armful, but Morgan grabbed her legs. Their shrieks of laughter filled the air.
Morgan didn't know when he'd had a better time. He felt mortal again, alive and happy with the woman he loved. A momentary remembrance of what would come nibbled at his joy, but he successfully pushed it away. He'd have this day, if nothing else. This one day.
Dana wiggled in his arms, trying to escape, pelting him with snow. Still laughing, he moved his grip up. Now he had her around the waist.
Ice hit his neck. Melting rivulets immediately ran into the collar of his suit.
"No fair," he said in a fake whine. "I'm getting wet."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just—"
He shoved a snowball into her mouth. It crumbled, fell away from her lips.
"Oh," she squealed. "You brute. You cheated!"
She scrambled for more snow and Morgan slid further up her body, grabbing at her hands. Her bucking hips shoved repeatedly at his belly. Suddenly he felt a tightening of his jeans. He knew he should let her go before it was too late, but his joy was greater than his fear.
He had her wrist now, had pinned her down with his larger chest, could feel her soft breasts give beneath his weight. The thick suits between them felt like armor and he ached to strip them off.
He stopped laughing.
So did Dana.
He looked down, saw excited color in her cheeks, a sudden darkening of her green eyes. God, they glittered like emeralds, and her open lips were moist, inviting.
Still staring, he let go of her wrist. She touched her gloved hand against his cheek. It was cold, yet warm and thrilling, too. "Morgan?"
She arched her neck, brought her mouth closer to his.
He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't take this risk, but a plea was in her eyes and her body softened beneath him in subtle invitation.
With a groan of despair, Morgan claimed her lips. She opened her mouth for him eagerly, taking his tongue, holding it. He rose to his knees, slid his arms beneath her body, and lifted her from the ground.
And in the deep wood, a pair of dark eyes burned with jealousy as they watched Morgan stumble toward the cabin, never parting his lips from those of the woman in his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
"Move, move," the captain shouted. "Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!"
His officers dashed here, dashed there, throwing weapons in the backs of vans, heaving tents and cookware, heaters and lamps. All the while Schumacher bellowed orders, knowing every man jack of them would mutiny if they had it in them.
Damn! They were only hunting wolves, not Jack the Ripper. Why couldn't he get that through their heads. He despised the look of fear he saw on their faces, despised it thoroughly and wished he had a way to wipe it off.
But when the commander suggested they bivouac at the clearing where Kowalski met his maker, Schumacher knew his crew couldn't spend a single night in that godforsaken place without bolting. So, for their sakes, he'd convinced the commander that a meadow near the spot of the abandoned Fish and Game van was more accessible. They could go by road, then fan out in pairs and search that entire hellhole of a mountain, acre by acre.
"Do we really need the bazooka?" called out Rutherford, who was leaning against his already packed van, looking cool and composed.
"You read the M.E.'s report," retorted the captain.
"Seems to fall into the better safe than sorry' category, if you ask me."
"I didn't." Schumacher accompanied this with a baleful stare. In return, Rutherford grinned knowingly. The captain turned away.
"Move it, folks. We've got wolves to hunt down before sunset! Move it! Move it!" The loading went faster than he'd hoped, although slower than he'd demanded, and soon all was in readiness.
He turned to his unit, ready to wax eloquent about duty, and saw leaden resignation in their eyes. For just an instant his voice failed him. A moment later he got it back.
"Get some steel in those backbones," he bellowed, hoping to wipe out their fears with the mere force of his words. "It's just a pack of dumb animals. Keep your chins up, your eyes sharp, your weapons loaded. Now, let's go!"
He tromped to his motor home, which traditionally led such a party, and started it. Sometimes being captain was a burden, but it was his job and he would do it.
With quivering hand, he engaged the gears and started leading his convoy up the mountain.
* * *
Dana shivered violently inside the fire-warmed cabin, her skin a mass of goosebumps. But not from cold. No, not from cold. Her blood boiled from a lust she'd never known, a heat that coursed between her legs.
Morgan pressed his body so tightly to hers that even air couldn't pass between them, but still he wasn't close enough. Eyes shut, she arched her neck, ran her hands across the smooth, steely muscles of his arms and shoulders. Quickly at first, then slowly, languorously, wanting to feel each ridge of his biceps. They seemed to swell beneath her touch in the same way his deep groans swelled in her ears.
She'd never known such hunger. There was a need inside her that demanded fulfilling She took his lips, nibbled upon the fullness of the lower, thrust her tongue inside and tasted him.
Passion flowed between them like the milk and honey of Nirvana. His teeth were sharp against her tongue; one careless bite could—
Danger! Oh, yes, so dangerous. And thrilling! To open her moist secret place, pull him in and tighten around his hot erection, let him probe and thrust above her weak and willing body.
This was the most thrilling of all.
Although reluctant to cause even a small separation between their bodies, she was eager to remove their clothing. Still holding his lips, she reached between them and tugged at the fastenings of his jeans.
Morgan moaned, both from pain and from delight. Alchemization had started. His bones felt torn apart, his joints burned, made worse by his attempts to hold it back. This was not how he'd intended to reveal himself, and his fear for Dana curled within his passion, creating intensely mixed and pleasurable sensations.
She trembled like a frightened lamb, yet he knew she did not fear him. Her need seeped into the small spaces her hands were creating between their bodies, spaces that cried to be filled. But his bones were alchemizing faster now. Soon his teeth would change and hair would grow, covering him completely. This was not the time, not here in broad daylight where he'd be revealed in all his horror. He must pull away, pull away pull away.
With a jerk, he grabbed her hands.
"We need to talk, Dana."
"Talk?" she asked, with a breathless giggle. "Now?"
"Yes, now." It pained him terribly, but he rolled away, brought his feet around and put them on the floor. His back was to Dana, but he heard her heavy breath, tried to block it out. With weak legs, he rose and padded barefoot to the fireplace, where he added a log to the flames.
The cabin was uncustomarily filled with dogs. Zeus and Odin were sniffing at the pantry shelves. Persephone lolled under the dining table, while Fenris and Aphrodite tussled quietly beside the fireplace. Through the cabin door, which they'd left ajar in their haste, Morgan could see Shakti and Freya milling around.
Garments lay strewn all
over the cabin's wood floor. A dingy gray wad of nylon here, another there. Boots and socks and gloves. The red and green of plaid flannel, the soft blue of Dana's camp shirt.
Even as he glanced at the results of their passion, his body changes began to ebb. It pained his soul, but he'd made the right decision.
"Why?" Her voice trembled. Morgan turned, almost afraid to look at her.
She was gazing up from beneath her dark lashes, and a sudden shock electrified Morgan's body. Could she see into his heart with those torrid and discerning eyes? Did she recognize the beast inside him?
Dana's mind whirled in confusion as she met Morgan's suddenly widened eyes. He stood, legs spread, in front of the hearth, the poker still in his hand. Without his shirt, she saw he was slimmer and more sinuous than his lumberjack clothing had suggested; but had he been less than that, she wouldn't have found his body any less glorious.
Was she only imagining than regret she saw? And if he felt it, why had he stopped? A million jumbled questions filled her mind, but somehow she felt at a loss for words.
"What is so important we have to talk now?" she finally asked, plucking at the waffled fabric of her twisted undershirt.
He put down the poker and walked back to the daybed, sitting down beside her. She leaned against his shoulder, and felt his muscles quiver beneath her cheek.
"What?" she breathed insistently.
He kissed her forehead, easing her painful feelings of rejection.
"Would you stay here with me, Dana?"
The question sent her bolting upright. Swinging her legs, she brought her feet to the floor, leaned forward, and grabbed the metal frame of the bed with both hands.
"Here?" She looked around wildly, heart suddenly pounding as she faced an unbearable choice. "Here?" she squeaked again.
Morgan sighed and lowered his head to his hands. "I guess you've given your answer."
"Oh, Morgan. I don't– Something . . ." She stroked the bare skin above the line of his beard, wishing she felt differently. "Something's not right up here. I can't explain it, but I feel it." She tapped her heart.
"This is my home," he said sadly, lifting his head back up. "You love the wilderness. Why isn't this place as good as any where else?"
The pain that so touched her heart had returned to his eyes. Suddenly feeling chilled, she got up and went to retrieve her camp shirt. As she put it on, The Lycanthropy Reader came into her line of vision. She walked over to the bedside table, picked it up, and clutched it to her breasts.
"Do you believe in werewolves, Morgan?"
"Werewolves!" A startled expression crossed his face. "Isn't that a bit of a non sequitur?"
"This book is yours, isn't it?"
"A kooky friend gave it to me." He glanced away momentarily. Then, in a faraway tone, he added, "A long time ago."
"Yeah," she said. "Well, it's beginning to seem pretty current to me."
Abruptly, she sat beside him, looked earnestly into his eyes, all the while tapping the book's cover. "The thing that attacked me I know this sounds nutty, but, Morgan, it looked just like the creature this book describes."
"Come on, Dana," he said, after a brief hesitation. "Your imagination's running away with you. You had a run-in with a bear—or possibly it was an angry Indian. But a werewolf?"
"I know, I know." So many things were still unexplained. And for the first time, she realized that Morgan had never displayed any deep alarm about her attack. Oh, he'd been concerned enough about her injury, but had never once suggested tracking down her assailant or reporting it to the authorities. Was it possible that Morgan was part of it all?
She shook her head hard, trying to knock the cobwebs loose. It ached dully, and their snowball fight had aggravated her shoulder, which now throbbed like the devil.
"Evil," she whispered, half afraid the very word would summon whatever attacked her.
"What did you say?"
"Something evil lives in Ebony Canyon." This time she spoke more firmly. Then she knew what her next words would be, and even thinking about them broke her heart into a thousand pieces. "I don't understand it, but I do know I can't stay here any longer."
Morgan shot to his feet and glowered down at her.
"First you're sure there are wolves here. Of course, they haven't killed anyone. Then, because you saw some Indians with a sheep, you think maybe they are killing people. Or maybe the Indians themselves are doing it. Now it's werewolves. What's going on? You know better. For Christ's sake, you're a biologist!"
Dana looked at Morgan in dismay, knowing his reaction stemmed more from hurt than from anger. She also knew he asked the impossible. Stay in Ebony Canyon?
She couldn't.
Something clanked in the kitchen. Morgan turned and saw Aphrodite with her paws on the stove, nosing the stewpot. He felt a huge wave of relief at the interruption, and when he ordered the dog to get down his voice held more praise than reprimand.
"I, uh, I'll take the dogs back to the kennel," he said. "They're already getting into mischief." As if to illustrate his point, one of the dogs yelped. Immediately afterward, the shovel fell across the open doorway and clattered onto the porch.
Dana nodded, her eyes containing the same relief Morgan had felt about the opportunity to delay this conversation for just a little longer.
He dressed quickly, called the dogs together, and led them back to the kennels. During the trip his mind was consumed with his dilemma.
Should he tell Dana the truth?
His response had been pure knee-jerk, he knew that. But the subject of werewolves had come out of the blue, was so unexpected, he'd had no time to reflect.
Should he tell her?
He wanted to turn around now, take her in his arms, and spill out the whole horrible truth. But what if she viewed his confession the same way she viewed the canyon?
Evil, she'd said. Evil.
Wasn't that also true of him?
* * *
Dana was still sitting, turning The Lycanthropy Reader over and over in her hands, when Morgan reentered the cabin. He stood in the open door a minute, regarding her intently, then turned and began moving about the clothes-littered room. First he picked up the jumpsuits, then her boots and gloves.
It wasn't until Morgan's hand was poised above the doorknob of his room that Dana realized what he was doing. She felt the shock to the soles of her cold, bare feet.
"Are you going to lock up my things again?" she asked, over a faint tremor in her lower lip.
In typical Morgan fashion, he didn't answer right away.
"Well! Are you?"
He nodded slowly, sending a strand of hair into his eyes. "For your own good."
"For my—my own good!" Oh God, her voice was trembling. She took a deep breath. "Who the hell are you to decide what's good for me?"
"The man who loves you."
"You love me?" Dana felt a burst of joy that was immediately smothered by the reality of the moment. "But you're keeping me a prisoner. That's not love."
Her accusation sent a spear right into Morgan's heart. This, he thought, was a new and deeper experience of pain. Was this what love meant? Exposing oneself to agonies so intense you might never recover? He'd survived all the other barbs from fate, had almost found peace with his curse, had even learned to deal with Lily. But love?
Could he survive that?
"I thought . . ." He faltered for a second. "I thought after . . . Well, I'd hoped you would stay. I see now you can't, and I'm afraid you'll leave impulsively. That's too dangerous, Dana."
Her shimmering eyes widened. "Does that mean you aren't taking me down in the morning?"
The spear went deeper. Morgan swallowed a pained sigh. "You still want to go, even knowing I love you?"
"Please try to understand."
"You'll come back?"
She nodded furiously, but he saw doubt in her eyes.
He'd hoped, prayed, that his declaration of love would evoke a similar one from her, and had h
eld on to that hope on his walk back from the kennels. But it hadn't.
Now he knew he couldn't risk telling the truth. She might flee in terror, and as much as he wanted to believe he was thinking only of her safety, he couldn't deceive himself. If she left before the full moon, she'd take his only chance for redemption with her. He couldn't let her go.
A stifled sob hiccupped in her chest, broke loose. A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Don't cry, Dana." Morgan moved to her, reached out and blotted off the tear. Another followed and spilled over his thumb. "Please . . . I'll take you in the morning. Soon as the sun rises. I promise."
He gazed into her eyes, saw disbelief, and knew it was deserved. When the sun rose, he'd find another justification for delay.
"In the morning . . . " she repeated with a hitch in her voice that sounded like a question.
"I promised, didn't I?"
Then he turned and carried her clothing into his bedroom. As the door fell shut behind him, he thought that no one deserved living in darkness more than he.
* * *
Never forget, brave hunter, how prodigious is the werewolf s psychic power. Nay, do not, and this point cannot be emphasized too excessively, do not permit your eyes to meet the beast's. One long gaze, and only one, will immediately draw you under its spell. Your feet shall bond to the very ground beneath them. You shall be unable to lift your arms. Only your dying scream will betray the fear still within you.
Dana was consoling herself by indulging in what she'd come to think of as her secret vice. She couldn't truly blame Morgan for getting angry when she'd offered up this nonsense to him. But even as she ridiculed the words she read, she remembered her paralysis under the eyes of her attacker. Twice, for a brief instant, she'd simply resigned herself to death.
The chapter ended and she turned to one entitled "The Nature of Man and Beast Revealed." The words immediately drew her in.
Remember, dear hunter, that man is not by necessity evil. Neither is the beast. Each in natural form has both nobility and villainy. Each seeks to fulfill its instinct to survive. But mingle the brutality of the wolf with the self-interested cunning of man and here we have a creature more deadly than all others.