Shadow on the Moon

by Connie Flynn

  "I think we should start without him," he advised the sergeant standing next to him, wishing like hell he hadn't said it.

  "Yes," replied the officer, who then marched to the front of the line, shouting, "Let's go! Let's go!"

  As the wilderness expert, Rutherford took a place beside the sergeant. From somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the motor of an approaching helicopter, but the faint sound grated on his nerves rather than soothing them. They had thousands of candle-watts of power, what with all the lanterns and flashlights, but it only served to darken the shadows, and make the towering pines look like hulking monsters. The bare-branched birches rattled ominously in the heightened wind.

  Still, a hiker was out there, apparently in mortal danger, not from some supernatural creature as Lonetree and the captain would insist, but most likely from some human monster he'd prefer to avoid. Rutherford took a step onto the trailhead and two dozen men and women began to move behind him. Would they make it in time? Judging by the deadly silence that now cloaked the night, he didn't think so.

  They set a pace that left Rutherford a bit winded. He was a hiker, not a runner. They moved quietly, with very little talking. Suddenly, the sergeant stopped.

  "Did you hear that?" he croaked.

  Rutherford only nodded, too terrorized to speak. The night was again alive with snarls and howls and yelps, sending the wilderness creatures into flight. He fervently wished he had the luxury of obeying those same instincts.

  Behind him rasped the labored breathing of the others; an occasional murmur traveled down the line.

  "Tell your people to ready their weapons," Rutherford finally said. Although he really didn't want to talk at all, they couldn't go unarmed into whatever carnage those wretched cries foretold.

  The sergeant's order echoed down the line. It was all Rutherford could do not to jump out of his skin as he heard cartridges clicking into place.

  Almost too soon, they were again creeping through the light fog wafting from the predawn ground. From their previous explorations, he knew they'd arrive at the scene of those horrible cries in less than ten minutes.

  Except for the screams, everything was deathly still.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The robe settled like a balm onto Morgan's pain-racked form. Soon he stopped jerking and twitching. He lifted his aching neck, keeping his eyes from the offending firelight, and struggled onto his paws.

  Something wasn't right, he sensed it keenly, but gruesome images still blurred his vision. Then he saw Dana stepping from the ring.

  "Don't!" The word came out in Lupinese.

  Yet she wouldn't have heard it. She walked toward Lily in a dream state, going to her death without a hint of fear. Passing through the circle of dogs, Lily reached out greedily. Morgan saw triumph shining in her eyes.

  He flew between them. Sprang with a menacing roar and sank his teeth into Lily's outstretched hand. She screamed in rage, and tried to tear away. Morgan's fangs went deeper; blood poured from the wound.

  At that moment, the dogs went wild.

  Fenris nipped at Lily's ankles, barking furiously. Aphrodite flew at her shoulder. She tried to shake them off, but screamed in pain as her hand remained in Morgan's clamped teeth.

  Dana still stood in a daze outside the circle. Morgan swung his flanks to nudge her back inside. An instant later, she called his name in a voice filled with alarm.

  In his concern for Dana, he'd eased his hold on Lily. Now she tore free, swinging both arms wildly. Aphrodite soared through the air. One swift kick sent Fenris ki-yi-yi-ing to his leader's side.

  "Back away!" Lily towered angrily over Morgan's lupine body. "I will not suffer that she-bitch to live one more night."

  "You must kill me first," he challenged in reply.

  Her eyes flickered between Morgan and Dana, who had now lifted her arms and resumed chanting. Warily Lily moved closer to the circle, reached out her fingers as if testing for heat, then immediately recoiled. Behind her, Morgan saw his dogs gathering.

  Odin flew up. Lily staggered into the circle's edge, shrieked and fell to her knees, clearly stunned. Zeus rushed in and tore at her arm. The rest of the pack followed. Persephone grabbed one of Lily's long toes and pulled, while Shakti nipped at her hindquarters. Aphrodite and Fenris returned, jumping repeatedly at Lily's shoulders. She batted at them like at a swarm of bees. Each time her flailing hand sent one soaring, it regrouped and attacked anew.

  With hackles fully raised, Zeus leapt at Lily's jugular.

  A loud, deep howl rose from her throat, and Jorje tore into the fray. Gripping Zeus by the scruff, he threw him aside like a used food wrapper. But Zeus landed upright. He whirled and charged again. Jorje lifted a massive foot, prepared to stomp it on the dog's back.

  Enraged, Morgan lowered his head and rammed him in the stomach. With an outburst of air, Jorje crashed to the ground. Morgan climbed on top of him. the dogs came forward, surrounded then, snarling, then darting forth to nip.

  Lily cried at them to stop. Dana continued chanting.

  Jorje's teeth dug into Morgan's leg, tearing hair, splitting skin. Clawed hands scraped at his twisting, struggling body, taking patches of hide. He felt a painful tear just above his eye.

  Beneath him, Jorje wasn't faring any better. One of Morgan's bites had taken half his ear. The wound poured blood, and Morgan's powerful legs were digging into his soft underbelly, ripping skin. The relentless dogs took their own toll.

  The wolfling started changing into the more agile wolf form, his body wavering in front of Morgan's eyes. With a last effort-filled cry, Jorje succeeded in his transformation. He twisted under Morgan, broke free, and whirled to a four-pawed landing. Morgan tottered, struggled to stay on his paws. He was losing blood at an alarming rate, growing weaker.

  "Yealanay, cawfanay, nayfanay, may . . . ” came Dana's voice, bringing new strength to Morgan's heart. Fire returned to his eyes.

  With lowered heads and bristling guard hairs, the two wolves faced off. Morgan crouched and crept forward. Jorje did the same.

  Then he heard a pitiful cry. His head swung around involuntarily.

  Lily had scattered the dogs, and now she bit into Fenris's ear, shaking him viciously. Then, screeching with rage, she grabbed one of the runt's legs and spun him around and around. When she let go, he sailed through the air and struck an obelisk. With one final whimper, he collapsed on the ground in a motionless heap.

  That diversion was all Jorje needed. The next thing Morgan knew, the wolfling had flipped him on his back and had his forelegs firmly entrenched in Morgan's belly. His gaping jaw was poised hungrily above him.

  Like all feral creatures, Morgan stopped struggling and awaited his final moment.

  "Stop!" Lily's voice so thoroughly split the air that even the dogs cowered. Jorje jerked his head up.

  "Lily ." he whimpered pleadingly. "It is an honest kill."

  "One of our own?" she asked in horrified outrage. "You would kill one of our own? Have I taught you nothing?"

  "Oh, yes; yes, you have." Jorje twisted his face into a mean snarl. "You've taught me you'll do anything to bring this unworthy one to your side, while I, your faithful companion, get only the leavings of your affection."

  Still glaring defiantly at Lily, he let out a protesting howl. "No more!" he cried into its echoes. "I claim this outcast as my rightful rival."

  With that, his teeth closed in on Morgan's throat.

  A second later, Morgan was free. He flopped weakly to his side, saw Jorje hanging from Lily's hands. The wolfling gave out one faint yelp before those hands closed and broke his neck with a single twist. Shuddering slightly, she tossed his limp body into the forest.

  She came to stand above Morgan.

  "See how much you mean to me," she said sadly, then looked up at the brightening sky. "The moon retreats, taking Venus with her. Your ceremony has failed."

  Morgan's gaze turned to Dana, who was still chanting. He saw her frightened eyes widen. Th
e sounds of crunching underbrush and tromping boots vaguely reached his ears, but Lily seemed unaware of them.

  "Soon the woman will be mine, dear Morgan."

  His body felt leaden. He couldn't move a paw or lift his head. He tried to protest, but only a sigh escaped. And when her toe touched his battered form, he couldn't move away. "Then you, too, will be mine," she said. "Your flight from me has ended."

  He was losing consciousness. Spots swirled before his eyes, mercifully blocking Lily from his sight. From far away, he heard dogs whining with grief. A bird called out mournfully. A huge machine whirred somewhere above his head.

  An unnatural light filled the sky. He was sinking into a dark chasm, never to return.

  "Morgan!" Dana's voice shocked him back. Somehow he managed to lift his head, saw a blur of pure white.

  "Come to me," she called. "Come into the ring."

  Although a warning pealed inside his head—he mustn't endanger his sweet Dana—he felt powerless to resist. He rolled onto his battered, aching stomach, began slowly crawling, oh, so slowly, to her.

  Then Dana's gentle hands were on his forelegs, urging him, pulling him on. Her voice sang sweet words, almost wiping out the foul curses pouring from Lily's mouth. Soon he lay across her lap, his head limply hanging from one of her knees. When he smelled her blood, heard her racing pulse, his hunger rose powerfully inside him.

  Like the rabid dog that will not bite its master, he began ripping at his own battered flesh. He heard Dana begging him to stop, felt her tears falling hot and sweet upon his coat. And soon she started to sing again.

  "Oh, spirits of transcendent love arise and heed my cry."

  Her voice hitched, fresh tears fell on his nose, and all the while she stroked his blood-soaked coat. "We need your light to vanquish those dark foes who curse this man. Let she who loves him plead for grace this night."

  Morgan's terrible hunger faded. His pain ebbed. Soon his muscles softened and shifted, melting, transmuting.

  "Show mercy, please, oh, Venus," Dana passionately begged. "Restore my love’s humanity. Erase his fangs, his claws, his wolfish strength."

  Alchemizing.

  "Oh, make him pure again.'

  Humanizing.

  "Fast, fast, fast, sweet powers of love. Speed, speed, speed, oh, bliss of love. The Lady rolls on, time grows short. Join us in haste. Join us in haste. Time grows short, join us in haste."'

  Someone wailed and wept in the distance, but Morgan barely heard it. He only knew it wasn't Dana, because her voice filled his ears, strong and sweet and joyous.

  "Yealanay, cawfanay, nayfanay, may. Yealanay, cawfanay, nayfanay, may."

  The sun rose in a burst of light that seemed, to Morgan, to come from an angel. He heard the gentle flap of wings. A soft cloak fell about his body. .Except for muted faraway sobs, the clearing grew reverently silent.

  "The power of love triumphs this day," cried Dana.

  Daylight bathed his healthy human form. Nestled in the folds of Dana's pure white gown, Morgan fell into a deep and healing sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "Not a mark on him." the uniformed woman stooped over a nude male body whose brown skin contrasted sharply with the snow. Except for the awkward position of his head, the man appeared to be sleeping.

  The clearing was alive with people dressed in tan. White Hawk observed them from an intersection of the canyon walls and the forest. Many clutched assault rifles nervously to their bellies and swung them back and forth, seeming ready to shoot at anything that moved. Deciding it would be unwise to be discovered, White Hawk moved deeper into the shadows.

  From there, he saw a man who had a sergeant's patch on his jacket kneel and put his fingers on the fallen man's neck, as if checking for a pulse.

  "Dead."

  The woman nodded sagely.

  "Stone cold dead, and not a mark on him." The woman nodded again. "That's what I see."

  "His neck appears to be broken," offered a man dressed differently from the others. He wore glasses, which he continually pushed back up the bridge of his nose. "Not long, though. Rigor mortis hasn't set in."

  "Hmm." The sergeant slipped his hand under the corpse's neck. The head rolled loosely in the other direction, and all three observers gave a start. "Yeah. Broken, all right."

  "Seen many murder victims?" the man asked, again shoving back his slipping glasses.

  "Never. Not till we hit this ridge." The sergeant got up, wiped his hands on his uniform with a shudder.

  For a time, they all just stood talking among themselves. One of them asked if someone called Schumacher had shown up. Another said he hadn't. After a short pause, the sergeant chuckled, then said, "Probably pissed his pants."

  They all laughed, and White Hawk wondered why. He also wondered when they'd hear the woman. She'd been whimpering in the brush for quite some time. He shook his head impatiently.

  Obviously, these officials needed help. The woman must survive and face her sins.

  He took no care to be silent. Civilized man made so much noise. Between the roaring helicopters, the shouting, and the stomping around, it was a miracle they heard each other. But the woman heard him, and she lifted her head at his approach. Her eyes darted wildly back and forth, then she scooted deeper into the shelter of a bush. All her slick sophistication was gone. Her silver hair was matted, filled, with damp leaves. Mud caked her naked body, and the unmistakable blue of impending frostbite streaked her toes and fingertips.

  Madness filled her eyes.

  She lifted her lips in an ineffectual snarl. A guttural stream of sounds rushed from her mouth.

  White Hawk kept moving. When his hand touched her chilled shoulder, she snapped at him. He pulled back, watched as she scrambled onto hands and knees and tried to crawl further into the brush. Calmly, he leaned and grabbed her ankle. She fell onto her belly, rolled to face him, all the while screaming unintelligibly.

  Exclamations immediately arose from the clearing. Boots stomped on the forest floor, crushing branches, snapping twigs.

  Continuing to scream and babble, the woman clawed at his hand, but her ragged fingernails failed to scratch his skin. White Hawk reached in, caught her arm, pulled her roughly to her feet. She tried to spit at him, but he twirled her in the opposite direction, sent her stumbling toward the approaching people.

  "Your victims shall become your oppressors," White Hawk forewarned, then disappeared into the brush as the man wearing glasses came through a copse of trees.

  The woman nearly fell into Rutherford's arms, which he instinctively wrapped around her. She pawed and snapped at him, spewed out angry-sounding foreign words.

  "What the hell!" he sputtered, fending off her blows the best he could. "Hey, hey, hey. We're here to help."

  "My God, she must be freezing!" someone cried.

  Someone else shoved a blanket at him, and Rutherford tried to wrap it around the shivering, fighting woman. She resisted at first, but then warmth fell on her flailing arms. She stopped screaming and clutched the blanket's edge. With frantic, jerky movements she pulled it around her body, held it at her neck, and pressed into the crook of his arm.

  "Let's get her into the helicopter," said the sergeant.

  With a nod, Rutherford picked her up, mildly surprised when she meekly settled against his chest. Seeking his heat, he supposed. As they started back, the others fell in behind him and talked among themselves.

  "Wonder what she saw," asked a bull of a man, who carried one of the weapons.

  "Stark naked," said another. "Where are her clothes?"

  "She's acting nuts, if you ask me," said the female officer.

  To enter the clearing, they had to pass the body, which hadn't yet been covered. Again the woman came alive. With a powerful twist Rutherford wouldn't have thought possible for someone so small, she flew from his arms and fell on the corpse.

  Her blanket dropped away. The blazing morning sun revealed deep scratches on her mud-caked back and legs; white tear
marks streaked her dirty face.

  "Jorje!" she wailed, running frenzied hands across the man's limp shoulders, apparently unaware she was wallowing knee-deep in snow. When the man didn't respond, she patted his cheeks briskly, like someone trying to revive a patient from a faint. His neck flopped lifelessly back and forth. She whimpered, bent over his head.

  When she began licking his tawny face, still murmuring something that sounded like a name, Rutherford stared in astonishment. Then he joined the others in trying to pull her away. She fought them for a time like the wild thing she appeared to be, her screams almost drowning out the instructions they called to one another.

  Finally, the bull of a man yanked her up and shoved her into Rutherford's arms. She shuddered there a second, then threw back her head and let out a keen.

  "S-spooky," said the breathless sergeant, who was now standing at Rutherford's elbow.

  "Absolutely," he replied, staring in bewilderment at the tiny madwoman howling like a wolf inside the shelter of his arms. "Absofuckinglutely."

  Later, when they finally loaded the trembling woman into the helicopter to be evacuated, and Rutherford stared up at the retreating speck, he wondered exactly what madness they were unleashing on society.

  * * *

  Tony White Hawk had a way of turning up when needed, and that morning wasn't any different.

  "Thanks." Dana said, taking the miscreant in hand.

  "Don't pet her Dana," Morgan said, staring sternly down at Aphrodite, who didn't yet know the wrath her earlier escape had caused. Still, Dana suspected Morgan would go easy on her, considering she was pretty battle worn.

  "Where did you find her?" she said to Tony.

  "Down at . . ." Tony turned his head away. "In the Clearing of the Black Hands. I also found this."