Shadow on the Moon

by Connie Flynn

  Slaughter is not the sole methodology for defeating it. This abomination was made by ritual and by ritual shall it be redeemed, albeit this is not a course for the faint of heart.

  Now the pages went into a mass of astrological lore that Dana barely comprehended, and the ache in her heart returned. Morgan had said he loved her, had asked her to stay. Now she was reading a book that inflamed the fear that caused her to refuse. Did she love him, too? She thought she did.

  But . . . from the first time she'd set foot on the base of Ebony Mountain, she'd suffered tingles of apprehension that only stopped when Morgan was around. Was she confusing security with love?

  She didn't know. Fear and isolation created strange bedfellows. What remained clear, however, was that nothing, not even love, could persuade her to stay.

  Would Morgan come with her? He'd said this was his home with such depth of feeling that she felt certain he would not. She put her hand over her heart, although it did little to ease the ache, and returned to the pages, hoping to lose herself in them.

  Her eyes stopped short when she hit on a particularly dramatic passage in a book she already deemed to be full of excessive drama.

  When pure love of a kind that transforms sour hearts and clears jaded eyes combines with the Shadow of Venus, nothing can withstand its power. The beast's fangs dissolve, its claws withdraw and soon the clear, untroubled face of a mortal stands revealed.

  Do not scoff at such purity of heart, dear hunter, for if you do, you shall surely perish in the fires of your own blasphemy. The Shadow of Venus is your ally. Diligently search the skies for it, although it comes but once these seven years. Pore over your ephemeris. Search, dear hunter, search. Venus shall not, indeed cannot, disappoint you.

  What on earth was an ephemeris?

  Continued reading implied it was a book that foretold planetary positions, and with every reference came new ones to the Shadow of Venus. Holding a finger at her place, Dana turned to the table of contents. Most of the chapters had stagy names such as "Beastly Powers," "Loved One All," and "Nay, the Silver Bullet," but the title she hunted for simply said "Shadow of Venus."

  Avidly, she leafed through the volume, hunting for the designated page. When she got there, she let out a sigh that contained all the pain she'd been ignoring.

  The whole section had been pulled from the binding.

  This filled her with unaccountable despair.

  She put the book down, told herself she'd been reading it too much. Morgan had insisted that Fenris stay in the pen now that the weather had broken, and she missed him.

  Getting up, she wandered to the window, seeking a glimpse of the kennels. The sinking sun was casting brilliant highlights on the thick woods outside. Soon it would again be black out there, except for the moon. A night into which she'd never venture again.

  Nothing seemed so bad in the daylight, however, and with the sun to keep her company, she let herself again question the improbable. What if there really were werewolves? How would one know? The Lycanthropy Reader contained plenty of clues, some of which, unfortunately, had already been borne out in reality.

  She recalled Morgan's miraculously healed feet, the here one minute, gone the next scratch on his cheek, the horrid cries seeping from his room, which now seemed chillingly reminiscent of those described in The Lycanthropy Reader.

  How about Lily and Jorje's sudden appearance in the midst of the blizzard? That thought brought a brief flash of the beast's white fur, a shade eerily similar to Lily's hair color.

  Even Morgan's explanations seemed suspect. Miracle salve provided by Tony? And she doubted even the strongest dog team could travel through that fierce storm.

  With a shudder, she recalled the inhuman sounds of the specters as they quarreled above her. Their noises appeared to have a meaning they both understood. Had they been speaking in the Lupinese language the book mentioned?

  Once more, she tried to convince herself she'd only seen men wearing animal pelts. When this failed, she considered the possibility it had been a bear, as Morgan suggested. She even dabbled in the notion that a twisted cult of devil-worshipers ran amok down there, performing brutal sacrifices.

  Whichever way she went, she found herself torn between the wildly incredible evidence of her own eyes and the natural logic of her mind. A fictional character—Sherlock Holmes, she believed—had said that once you eliminated all possibilities, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the logical conclusion.

  Yet this conclusion told her that Lily was a werewolf. That Morgan was one also.

  Dana stepped closer to the window, let the sun warm her face. She wanted to laugh, and wasn't sure if the urge came from amusement or hysteria.

  Morgan a werewolf?

  If so, why was she still alive? She'd been his unwilling guest for nearly four days now, plenty of time for him to destroy her. Yet it had been the white one who'd seemed bent on killing her. The other, so much darker and larger, had come to her defense. Should that be true, why had he defended her? Was he keeping her for some other reason?

  Slowly, she turned from the window and stared across the room at the open book lying face down on the bed. "The Shadow of Venus." Was that it?

  Her thoughts turned into a baffled whirl. None of it made sense. But, something evil did live in that murky night. Frightened Indians, frightful cultists, or fearsome monsters? She didn't even want to know.

  In her bones, she felt the canyon was cursed. She also knew that Morgan would break his promise, would never let her leave until she'd served his purposes, whatever they might be. It was up to her to escape.

  She turned her gaze to his closed door. He'd left it unlocked that morning. It was probably too much to hope that he might do it again. But as soon as he went out that night—and she knew he would—she had to try. It was her last hope.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Night had fallen. Although he was in his already dark room, Morgan knew it by the need that curled within him, the approaching signs of change he couldn't ignore. He heard the nocturnal forest rousing from its slumber, smelled the distinctive perfume of the midnight hours.

  When his torturous alchemization had finished, he gathered up his enormous jumpsuit, built large enough for a fullback, and put it on. He wore it only when he expected to encounter mortals. The clothing bound his limbs unnaturally, but if his looking more human than monster eased Dana's terror, it was a small price to pay.

  With one more glance—for with his werewolf eyes, the room was alive with light—he checked to be sure he hadn't inadvertently locked his door. Reassured, he opened the outer one. Slowly, very slowly, making sure it squeaked more loudly than usual.

  Even as he left the cabin, drums pounded on his eardrums, the flute sounded painfully shrill. Maybe the tribe would put out another sheep. He needed a kill tonight, not just to satisfy his need, but to keep him from dwelling on his indecision.

  If all went as hoped, in a few hours Dana would agree to play her role in the fearsome ritual. The Book had sworn she would, even though he was forbidden to use his hypnotic powers to persuade her. His fear about her birth time still haunted him. Many people thought they knew when they were born, then later learned they'd been misinformed.

  Without Venus's protection, she'd never last the night.

  He wouldn't think of it. He'd hunt for a while, give Dana time to build the courage to try his door again. He had to trust The Book, trust the planets, and even more, he had to trust her love.

  Dana gave a small gasp of surprise when the door actually opened. For several hours she'd kept a sharp ear, cringing only mildly when Morgan's music started, and listening carefully for the click of the outer door. As soon as it closed, she'd shot to her feet.

  Now that her hopes had been realized, she grabbed a chair and shoved it between the door and the jamb, then slipped inside.

  It seemed darker than she remembered, and she waited a few minutes until her vision adjusted before hurrying to the wardrobe.


  The items were scattered on the floor where she'd left them, and she knelt, quickly rummaged through them, and came out with her parka, gloves, and boots, all of which she tossed through the open door. Then she groped for a jumpsuit. Her hand finally contacted slippery nylon, and she pulled to free the garment from the rest of the pile. Feathers flew from the tear at the shoulder, tickling her nose. She waited for a sneeze that didn't come, then threw the heavy down-filled garment over her shoulder and headed for the door.

  As she tried to climb over the chair, it got in her way, so she dropped the suit on the seat and went into the main room for the items she'd thrown out of the bedroom.

  These she shoved under the daybed. Unless Morgan crawled on the floor, he'd never see them.

  With that thought, she sadly wondered when she'd begun to consider him the enemy. For a while there, she'd almost convinced herself he was a werewolf. Then she shook her head impatiently. After she got back to civilization, she'd decide what to do. How she could go on without him, she didn't quite know, but it wasn't as if he were going anywhere. She knew where to find him when she made up her mind.

  When she stood up to go for the jumpsuit, her eyes fell on The Lycanthropy Reader. She paused. The missing chapter

  Could it be in Morgan's room? She wanted to read it with an urgency she hardly understood. He hadn't been gone long. His excursions usually lasted most of the night. Surely she had time to look.

  Purposefully, she walked toward his room and climbed cautiously over the chair and jumpsuit. As her feet hit the inside floor, she teetered slightly and steadied herself against the wall. Something brushed her arms. She gave a small jump, then looked up.

  A garment hung from a hook on the wall. It appeared to be a robe of some sort, or maybe a woman's dress. Dana touched it. Soft, rather like gauze, but silkier, more pleasing to the fingers. Curious, she took it off the hook.

  This was far too small for Morgan.

  Did the gown belong to that woman? Dana experienced a rush of pure jealousy, which quickly drowned in a wave of sorrow. What did it matter? She couldn't continue kidding herself. Once she left Ebony Canyon, she'd never be back. If Morgan had some kind of relationship with that obviously sick woman, she had no right to resent it.

  But she did. Her sorrow mingled with malice and turned into a push-pull of emotions. Heart aching, she hugged the soft fabric, felt it caress her cheek, smelled a faint scent of lavender.

  Thus absorbed, she failed to heed a warning creak until a stream of moonlight cast an enormous silhouette on the floor.

  Foggily, she looked up.

  A scream swelled in her throat and she opened her mouth, emitting only a pitiful squeak. Something pinned her feet to the floor. She couldn't move.

  The silhouette ducked its enormous head under the doorframe and slowly moved closer, one furred and long-fingered hand extended. Light glistened off the pointed claws.

  Terrifying memories of the white beast flashed through her mind. Don't look into its eyes, screamed a voice deep within her, and she ducked her chin into her shoulder. But she couldn't keep from looking. Mesmerized, horrified, still unable to move, she was fascinated nonetheless.

  Her senses heightened. Each strand of the fabric in her hands felt separate from the next. She heard every subtle sigh of floorboards sagging beneath the monster's weight. She saw the long woolen jacket falling from shoulder to knee, the shiny nylon covering its legs, but though it wore human clothing, it wasn't a man.

  This was a werewolf.

  Her mind grew strangely clear and calm, and she found herself observing it with a clinical detachment and thinking it was actually quite handsome. Highlights gleamed off the bared parts of its sleek dark coat, and its narrow wolflike face was nearly human. A swath of full hair swept from its jutting brow down to its neck, and its eyes sparkled gold.

  It would kill her, of course, and she was helpless to prevent it. Had she not been so terrified and awestruck, she might have laughed at the irony. In seconds she would become prey to a version of the animal she'd worked so hard to protect.

  Now it was close. So close she could feel its breath, hear the faint sounds as it inhaled and exhaled. She licked her lips, tasted tears she hadn't known were flowing, and backed against the wall. Metal hit her injured shoulder. She flinched, heard a clank, jerked her head.

  Omigod! Chains. They were touching her, falling across her shoulders. Huge mawing manacles dangled just inches from her arms. She hugged the gown more tightly, wondering if the thing would hang her from the wall and torture her into insensibility.

  A hand reached out; silky fur grazed her cheek.

  "Please," said the creature with incredible gentleness.

  The imploring word broke Dana's paralysis. Strength returned to her legs. Her scream erupted, high and shrill. She dropped the gown and spun away from the thing, diving for the propped-open door.

  A hand gripped her arm, then slipped away. Dana tumbled. Time dragged as the floor rushed up to meet her. She felt every whirl of her flailing arms, every lurch of her airborne legs, and she reached for the chair, hoping to halt her fall.

  Her hand came upon a wad of spongy nylon, closed around it as if it alone could save her. A shoulder crashed into a chair leg, struck the floor. She felt her wound tear open; something trickled down her skin. Rolling, she ignored the spark of pain. The chair wobbled, then fell and clattered on the floor of the other room.

  The inner door swung shut, leaving only the moon to light the room. The creature loomed above her, blocking even that.

  Dana curled her fingers into the downy nylon and encountered a small, hard cylinder. At the most visceral level, she knew she had little chance of surviving, but she wasn't going easily. She scooted back, strained into a sitting position, and dug frantically for what she knew was in the pocket.

  She came out with the paper vial just as her back hit the wall. Snapping it open, she threw it, then brought the jumpsuit to her face.

  The beast gasped and choked, then fell back with a shudder, but didn't attempt to bat the capsule away. It fell to floor, filling the room with its acrid scent.

  Just as it had happened with the white beast, this one's fur melted in front of Dana's eyes. In seconds, the jutting brow receded, the golden eyes grew closer. Height diminished. Soon, Dana saw a beard, thick dark eyebrows with a deepening crease between them.

  "Morgan?" She hardly realized she'd called his name.

  He inclined his head gravely, picked up the broken capsule, and threw it out the door. Even as he turned back, his height increased, fur returned, eyes receded. All the while he groaned, nearly doubling up, as if in great pain.

  Shielding herself behind the jumpsuit, Dana stared up and pulled her legs to her chest

  Someone whimpered. Something roared like a river. She heard it clearly, but it came from so far away. Then she knew. Her own cries. Her own racing pulse.

  Oh, to die at Morgan's hand. The greatest irony of all.

  Then his groans ceased. He straightened, and Dana saw the full extent of his size. His head almost touched the ceiling. A squeeze of one clawed hand would crush her skull.

  Now he was above her, gazing down, head tilted. Something reflected in the moonlight beneath his eyes.

  He was crying.

  Dana looked into his sorrowful eyes and knew then, with absolute clarity, that no matter what he did, she did love him and would continue to do so for eternity. A huge sob gathered in her chest and burst forth into soul-racking tears.

  He bent over. Dana prepared herself to die.

  The blow didn't come. Instead, a powerful arm slipped beneath her knees. Another moved behind her back. The floor receded and she felt herself pulled against a scratchy wool-covered chest. The rough fabric felt oddly normal, and Dana huddled against it, heard his strong heart thrumming in her ears.

  He took her to the bed, laid her gently down, then went to close the door.

  Night-blind now and totally without defense, Dana wrapped
into a rigid ball. Soft footfalls approached the bed, and she sensed his presence just above her. Fabric rustled against fabric.

  "Perhaps," he said in a pained voice, "you won't find me as repulsive in the dark."

  One of Dana's hands slipped off her knees; the tension in her body eased a bit.

  Repulsive?

  Terrible and beautiful, yes. Majestically fearsome. A being like no other, combining qualities of both the species she adored. But never, not once through this entire nightmare, had she thought him repulsive.

  But all she could do was stutter, "N-n-no."

  * * *

  For Morgan, the room had plentiful light. It seeped under the doors, fell from minute cracks in the ceiling. And in that light, he gazed upon Dana and wondered exactly what she meant.

  He wished he could see into her soul as clearly as he saw her trembling body. According to Lily, this was a werewolf's shining moment, when at last a human cringed in fear below him. Sweet and fulfilling, she had promised. But he now knew that wasn't true.

  And he wished with all his heart that he hadn't learned it by terrorizing Dana. Carefully, he lowered himself to the bed. His weight was a dangerous thing. If he sat too quickly, he might throw Dana onto the floor.

  "Do you?" he asked.

  "W-w-hat?"

  "Think I'm repulsive."

  The silence lay heavy in the dark room and nearly broke his heart. He felt a whimper roil in his throat, swallowed it.

  "You . . . you frighten me."

  "If I'd intended to hurt you . . ." Mindful of his sharp claws, he ran a hand along her rigid shoulder. Her shudder caused another hurtful stab. "Relax, Dana," he crooned, giving his heartache no attention. "You're safe with me, always safe."

  She started sobbing again.

  With all the tenderness he possessed, Morgan took her hand and pulled it to his body.

  "Stroke me, Dana." He knew she had no idea of the courage he'd drawn on to make that request.

  Dana tugged futilely against his hold. Although he didn't force her closer, he also didn't release his grip. Soon she stopped struggling, put a tentative hand on his thigh. Morgan sighed.