(Moon 1) - Killing Moon

by Rebecca York

  The wolf regarded her with a stare that seemed to penetrate to the depths of her soul. Then his lips pulled back over sharp white teeth.

  She waited for him to spring, braced for the impact of his body slamming against hers, knocking her to the ground. Instead some emotion she couldn't read gathered in his face. For heartbeats she and the creature of the night stood facing each other. Then, as if he'd changed his mind about tearing her limb from limb, he turned abruptly and trotted into the woods, disappearing into the darkness under the trees.

  Released from his spell, she sagged back against the wall of the house, breathing in jagged gasps, feeling as if she'd made a miraculous escape. Not just from physical danger. From something more basic that she was helpless to name.

  Pushing herself up straighter, she made an effort to collect her scattered thoughts—then suddenly remembered why she had come out here in the first place.

  "Ross! For God's sake, Ross," she croaked, her voice barely carrying above the sound of the wind.

  She had come looking for him. But she was too terrified to continue now. When he didn't answer, she turned and dashed for safety, slamming the door behind her.

  Closing her eyes against the sudden light, she leaned against the solid barrier of the closed door, trying to stop shaking.

  When she was able to move again, she ran back to the bedroom, staring at the empty bed, the open window.

  "Ross!" she called once more, her voice high and desperate.

  She pushed the window closed far enough so that she was sure a wolf couldn't slither through. Then she dragged the heavy easy chair partway to the window and sat, staring out into the night, her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness under the trees.

  But the wolf had vanished. And now that she was alone and safe in the house, she wasn't even sure whether she had imagined the whole strange incident.

  She cursed Ross for going outside into the night. Cursed her own cowardice. Her only comfort was what he'd told her earlier. He was at home in the woods. He craved the outdoors. And maybe he and the animal out there had reached some kind of accommodation.

  He must know it lived in his woods. He wouldn't have left the house if it was a danger to him.

  Her numbed mind tried to go back over the conversation they'd had earlier in the day. Had he been warning her that he was going out? Preparing her without raising an alarm? Asking her not to worry? She clutched at that, telling herself that he would be back soon. And if he wasn't, it would eventually be light and she'd go looking for him.

  Because there was simply no way she could go out into the darkness again and face the creature with the yellow eyes and the sharp teeth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  « ^ »

  THE WOLF WAS as shaken by the midnight encounter as the woman. In the shadows under the trees, he stood with blood roaring in his ears.

  Trying to cope with the human and animal emotions clashing inside him, he finally turned away from the house and prowled deeper into the woods. When he caught the scent of another rabbit, he gave chase, bringing down the creature and eating like a starving cur. He was starving—for protein. Raw and as close to its natural state as possible. His system demanded fresh meat to heal itself. One more wolf trait he was powerless to deny.

  But even the urgency of the hunt couldn't stop his mind from circling back and back, frantically turning one way and then the other like a wounded animal trying to outrun its pain.

  When he'd seen Megan come out of the house, a Shockwave had rolled through him as he pictured the scene as she must—a wolf tearing his prey apart. The horror of it had seized him by the throat—even as he made the decision to stand his ground, to let her see what he really was. Then the fear in her eyes had slashed through him, the pain as hot and intense as the bullet that had mutilated his flesh.

  Long after he was dizzy with fatigue, he stayed away from the house, afraid of what he would find when he went inside. Afraid to put a name to the emotions roiling inside him.

  But finally there was nowhere else to go but home to Díthreabh. His refuge, until the woman with the silky blond hair and the wide blue eyes had stolen it from him.

  When he saw her car still in the driveway, relief surged through him. It was followed quickly by regret. If she'd only taken his warning to heart and cleared out, he'd be free of her by now.

  Still in the shadow of the woods, he changed back into human form, then propped his shoulders against a tree, gathering the strength to limp across the stretch of grass between the woods and the house. When he discovered the front door was locked, he retrieved the spare house key hidden under a rock and slipped back inside.

  An almost frantic need grabbed him as he stepped across the threshold. Where was she? How was she?

  On shaky legs, he made his way down the hall and found her slumped in a chair by the window—no doubt exhausted by the silent confrontation with the wolf and by the toll the past few days had taken on her. He wanted to go to her. Hunker down beside her. Touch her. Wake her. But he turned away lest she see the blood on his face and hands.

  After grabbing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the laundry room, he stepped into a hot shower, washing away the evidence of the night's activities. Afterward, too exhausted for anything besides sleep, he went into the great room and collapsed on the sofa.

  The first rays of the sun striking the windowpanes woke him. For long minutes, he lay with his eyes closed, his thoughts focused on the woman who had driven him from his bedroom.

  Dreading what might come next, yet helpless to stop himself, he tiptoed down the hall, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg.

  Megan was still sleeping, sprawled against the corduroy chair cushions. On bare feet, he moved closer, stopping eight feet away, caught and held by the delicious scent of her body. Soap and woman and something personal that he couldn't name. But he would always know it was her scent, always react.

  He stood in the early morning light, cataloguing physical details. Her legs were drawn up, her hair like spun gold was spread out around her face, and her head was tipped back. Her slightly parted lips gave her the look of a child who had begged to stay up late on New Year's Eve and had fallen asleep before the magic stroke of midnight.

  But she was no child. He had learned over the past few days that she was a very resourceful, very stubborn, very appealing woman. Testing his reaction to her, he let his gaze slide over her face—the brows several shades darker than her hair, the high cheekbones, the small chin. From there it was a natural drop to the slender column of her throat, then lower to her breasts—small but tempting mounds, high and firm-looking, hidden by the barrier of her T-shirt.

  She was wearing a shirt with a picture of the Baltimore Orioles mascot. And he caught himself watching the bird's beak move back and forth across the tip of one nipple as her chest rose and fell with each breath. It wasn't difficult to picture his finger there instead of the bird's rigid beak, caressing that delicate peak, bringing it to arousal with his touch. Tightening his jaw, he forbade his body to react. He reminded himself that he had been close to death two days ago. He was still weak. Yet it was impossible not to respond to her.

  He told himself it was because he hadn't had a woman in a long time. Only half believing it, he clenched his teeth against the physiological response. When he found he had no control over the hot blood pooling in the lower part of his body, he whirled—welcoming the stab of pain in his injured leg as he strode back down the hall to the bathroom.

  Naked, aroused, he turned on the water, adjusted the temperature to cold this time, and stepped into the shower enclosure. The needle-sharp spray cooled his hot skin.

  He stayed there for a long time, leaning against the shower wall to steady his still-weakened leg. Cutting off the water, he shook droplets from his dark hair, then reached for the towel.

  After shaving off four days' growth of beard, he pulled on his jeans and black T-shirt.

  Finally, when he could no longer postpone the co
nfrontation, he opened the door and started for his room, trying not to limp. He'd left Megan sleeping. Now she was staring fixedly toward the hallway, apparently having heard him approaching.

  "You're awake," he said, feeling his voice clog. Remaining in the doorway where he could prop his weight on his good leg, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he watched her eyes flash with a mixture of anger and something else. Relief?

  Would she tell him about the wolf? What would she say? What would he answer? He waited, his breath shallow in his chest. He could force the issue, here and now. Tell her he was the animal she had seen outside. Send her screaming from the house.

  Because there were only two possibilities he could imagine. She would understand that he was a monster, and leave. Or she would think that he was a dangerous lunatic—and leave.

  He found he could face neither of those. So he stood very still, waiting.

  She raised her chin. "What are you? Self-destructive? Going outside in your condition… I came in to check on you yesterday evening. You weren't in your bed. You weren't anywhere in the house. You think you're in shape to go tramping off into the woods?"

  He had never been in quite this situation, and he wasn't sure what he was going to say until words came from his lips. "I'm not used to explaining my thinking… or my actions." By an effort of will, he kept the hands in his pockets from clenching. "But, okay, I'll give you a little pertinent background. My ancestors were Druid priests. For me, going into the woods—making myself one with nature—is part of the healing process," he said, managing to keep a straight face as he mouthed the touchy-feely explanation.

  "You need to go outside in the dark, naked—"

  "To revive my body and my spirit, yes," he finished calmly, omitting the part about needing to hunt for fresh meat.

  He would have liked to stay where he was—twelve feet from the woman in the chair. A safe distance. But he didn't have the energy to stay on his feet much longer, so he moved into the room and lowered himself to the edge of the bed.

  She looked torn between telling him that his explanation was bullshit and respecting his pagan beliefs.

  "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

  She sucked in a sharp breath and let it out in a rush. "I saw a… a big dog out there. It threatened me. It could have attacked you."

  "That's not going to happen."

  "How do you know?"

  He pretended utter innocence. "Are you sure of what you saw?"

  "I…" She looked uncertain, then lowered her gaze to the hands clasped in her lap. "I don't know."

  "Are you sure it was a dog?"

  "I… don't know," she said again, this time more uncertain.

  "Well then," he answered mildly.

  The wolf had confronted her, intent on burning the encounter into her brain—and chasing her away. But she was still here. And the man was thankful that she wasn't ready to cope with the implications of the late-night meeting. He might have been surprised by her morning-after reality check, but he'd seen the phenomenon before. Human eyes saw a large menacing animal where no animal should be. And the mind behind those eyes turned away from the evidence because it was too disturbing to be real.

  He helped along the process of denial—gave her a couple of other alternatives. "I take it you were pretty upset. Maybe you saw… what did you call them? Animal shapes in the leaves? Or maybe it was just a bad dream. A very vivid dream—brought on by the stress of the last few days."

  He saw her swallow. "Maybe," she said in a doubtful voice. "But why would stress make me see a wolf?"

  "A wolf? I thought you said you saw a large dog."

  She closed her eyes for a moment, pressed her hand against her mouth. "I… don't think there are any wolves in Maryland. But it looked like a wolf."

  "Have you ever seen one before?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Well, all the more reason why it must have been a dream." Before she could take away control of the conversation, he said, "You came here to get a blood sample. You can do it now."

  She looked startled, as if she'd forgotten all about the original purpose of her visit. Then she rallied. "Yes. Right. But first I'm going to take a shower and brush my teeth, if you don't mind."

  Ross was left staring at the swaying rear end of his uninvited guest. He'd thought he could get her out of the house immediately. But she'd just worked her way around his resolve. Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself off the bed and winced as his foot hit the floor. Still, he walked rapidly past the closed bathroom door so he didn't have to imagine any intimate details as he heard the water come on in the shower.

  In the kitchen, he pulled one of his expensive shrink-wrapped steaks out of the freezer. After sticking the package in a pan of tepid water to thaw, he propped his hips against the counter and looked down the hall toward the bathroom, where he could hear water running.

  MEGAN turned up the hot water a notch, tipping her face into the shower spray, then let it play over the tense muscles of her back and shoulders while she tried to sort through her memories of the night before.

  What exactly had happened last night?

  For starters, she had panicked when she'd found Ross's door locked. She'd torn through the house looking for him. And when she'd satisfied herself that he was absent, she'd gone outside.

  That's what she remembered. Until Ross had questioned her memory.

  Her jaw started to tremble. Gritting her teeth, she directed her mind back to the conversation they'd just had. When she'd confronted Ross, he hadn't denied going outside. So that made the first part real.

  Didn't it?

  Sometime during the night, she'd fallen asleep in the chair. She knew that much for sure. At least that was where she'd woken up when she'd heard the shower running this morning.

  But the rest of it… Could it have been a dream?

  As she stood under the water, clenching and unclenching her hands, a long-forgotten memory came surging back.

  When she'd been a powerless little girl, afraid of Daddy, she'd invented a magic bear who would growl at her father when he got too mean.

  That bear had been very real to her—a necessary ingredient in her young existence. She'd named him Mergatroid. He'd been her protector and her friend. And she'd fallen asleep every night, imagining he was crouched beside her bed as she whispered to him in the dark, telling him about her hopes and fears.

  The memory had been buried for a long time. Now it was so vivid that she could clearly picture the large brown animal dressed in the checked vest he always wore. Back then when she'd needed emotional support, she might have mixed up dreams and reality, she silently conceded.

  What if it was happening again?

  What if she'd gone outside, seen something frightening that she couldn't explain—something so disturbing that she couldn't cope with it—and translated it into the scene with the wolf?

  Another memory bobbed to the surface. This time it was from a book she'd read in her abnormal psychology class in college, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. It was written by a former mental patient, a woman who had invented an imaginary land where she took refuge from the things in the world that disturbed and frightened her. At first her private refuge had been inhabited by friendly people, but gradually the land had taken on a life beyond her control. The population had turned nasty and started to dominate her—and she'd been helpless to escape. Finally she'd ended up in a mental hospital where a psychiatrist had helped her sort through fantasy and reality.

  Was that happening now? Megan wondered with a shudder. To her? God, after two days and nights of private nursing duty, was she losing her mind?

  The hot water turned gradually cold, and she started to shiver. Not just from the temperature—from her unwanted thoughts. Reluctantly she turned off the shower and reached for a towel, rubbing briskly. But the cold went deeper than her skin.

  She'd told herself from the first that she should get out of Ross Marshall's house as fast as
she could. Then he'd warned her to leave. Too bad she hadn't taken either her own or his advice.

  With a grimace she looked at the clothes she'd worn the day before—and then slept in. And too bad she hadn't thought about borrowing Marshall's washer and dryer. Just another example of how she wasn't thinking too clearly—on a lot of fronts.

  ROSS had slapped the steak onto the stove-top grill when Megan came into the kitchen, her hair towel-dried but still damp.

  He didn't look directly at her as he pretended to contemplate the meat. She seemed shaken, more fragile than she had been at any time since she'd arrived, even when he'd pulled that stunt with the wolf—and then given her reasons to question whether the whole episode had been a bad dream.

  At the moment he was regretting his impulses. He wanted to apologize for frightening her and making her doubt her own senses. He wanted to reach out and catch her shoulder, pull her toward him and fold his arms around her, knowing the comfort would be as much for him as for her. But he sternly clamped down on the desire because he knew that touching her was a bad idea. For both of them.

  She seemed to be working at control as much as he. Her pale lips were pressed together, and the skin around her eyes looked pinched. When she briskly filled the kettle at the sink and set it on a burner, he relaxed a fraction.

  As she turned on the gas flame, she said in a slightly breathy voice, "I couldn't find any coffee yesterday."

  "I don't drink it."

  "Do you mind if I fix some instant I picked up at the grocery when I filled your prescription?"

  Caffeine had always made him sick. Just the smell of coffee was enough to make him a little queasy, which was probably a good thing today since he was trying to keep his hands off the woman standing five feet away. So he shrugged and got down two mugs.

  For himself, he also pulled out a packet of wild berry tea.