Darkening Moon

by Gaja J. Kos

  “Well, fuck.”

  Couldn’t have put it better myself.

  Dishes and glass clanked in the background, along with low, idle chatter that filled our silence. I drank what little Paulaner I had left, then scanned for the waitress to order another round. She had her back to me, scribbling something on her pad, then crossing it out.

  Judging by the sharpness of her posture, the group clustered around the table weren’t exactly kind on her nerves. Or kind, period. Even from over here, I could smell the whole second-rate-citizen attitude they were throwing her way. Assholes.

  Why anybody believed their job or social standing automatically made them better than others had always been beyond me…

  Since the woman appeared to be holding her ground—undoubtedly thanks to such events being a repeat occurrence—I turned my attention back to Alec. Some of his anger seemed to have abated, although he did keep running his hand through his unruly hair. Noticing me, he dropped his arm into his lap and met my gaze.

  “Have they told you anything yet?”

  Not the question I was expecting.

  My breath caught in my throat, but I forced myself to exhale—to calm my heartbeat before Alec realized there was a whole lot more to the story than I was willing to tell him. I clasped my fingers together and rested my hands on the edge of the table.

  “They’re working on it. That’s all I know, Alec.” My teeth grazed my bottom lip. “But even if he were here, I’d still need to find a replacement coach. I can’t put being the CEO on hold. And while you being back makes things a whole lot easier, even between the two of us…” I sighed. “We can’t pull this off by ourselves.”

  “That explains what Melina was doing in your office,” he murmured, and I couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped from my lips.

  “I think coaching was the last thing on her mind in there.”

  “You could be right.” Mirth crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And I guess it’s just as well that I didn’t return from Australia empty-handed.”

  “Huh?”

  He nudged his chin towards a table set on the opposite side of the restaurant, forcing me to twist around until I was half straddling the chair.

  A blond, tanned vampire was sitting there. He smiled when he sensed Alec’s attention, snatched the glass of blood he had before him, and, to my surprise, strode over to us.

  While I continued to gawk, Alec stood to clasp the vamp’s hand, then lay a hand on his shoulder as he spun him to face me. It was then that any doubts I might have had fell away.

  It was him.

  “Lotte, meet—”

  “Jaxon Bailey.” I smiled and got up to offer my hand. “One of the best fucking coaches from Down Under.”

  “And”—Alec’s grin was nothing but pure brilliance—“now one of ours.”

  11

  I could hardly recall the last time I woke up on my own since I took over the Zentrum. Or feeling this content.

  Alec’s arms were wrapped around me, his leg draped over my thigh and his torso pressed close against my back. The warmth of him was only emphasized by the thick duvet we had snuggled under when the rush of sex had faded and morphed into that pleasant tiredness that eventually lulled us to sleep.

  It wasn’t that I forgot about the shit still festering all around me, but there was a glimpse of land now visible in the distance. Alec was back. And with Jaxon eager to join our team, the club had a chance at the future it deserved.

  As if he could sense the gratitude spreading through my chest, Alec’s arms tightened around me, but he didn’t wake. A good thing, too, since the digital alarm clock on the bedside table told me it was still early in the morning. Alec needed a few extra hours of sleep if he was to be of any use out on the court later this afternoon.

  I, on the other hand, needed to get moving.

  Carefully, I untangled myself from his embrace. Floorboards squeaked softly beneath my feet as I looked around for the cell phone that should have been on the nightstand, but wasn’t. Now that I thought about it, a hazy memory slipped into my mind.

  Alec and I had almost upended the small table during one of our more acrobatic moments.

  The alarm clock was sturdy enough to survive the jostling, but my cell obviously hadn’t been as lucky.

  After long seconds of unsuccessful searching, I located it in the narrow slip of space under the armoire. A few dust bunnies clung to the surface, but at least there were no visible dents or scratches.

  No more than there had been the previous day.

  Gadgets in pristine condition and me were a relationship not meant to last.

  Cleaning off the dust, I padded outside and silently closed the door behind me. A slight chill had crept into the apartment overnight, hardening my nipples and sending goose bumps rushing down my skin. Shit, at this rate, Munich was going to turn into an ice cube long before the festive season hit.

  I shivered as I fished through the clothes scattered all over the living room, separating mine from Alec’s. Normally, I wouldn’t mind strolling around the apartment naked, but with the press of winter overpowering the low heat seeping from the radiators, bundling up sounded like the better alternative.

  Once I was dressed in everything I’d worn the previous day, right down to my polka-dot patterned socks, I veered into the bathroom. Alec’s smell clung to me, and while I made it a habit not to go to work with traces of my nights right there for any werewolf to smell, I decided to break the rule for once and skipped the shower. One little comfort I could indulge in.

  After I finger-combed my hair and wiped the excess mascara from underneath my eyes, I strode back outside. Briefly, I contemplated calling a cab since Alec drove last night, but once I saw the dainty snowflakes brightening the dark skies, I opted for something I hadn’t done in a while.

  A walk in the dreaded snow.

  Thankful that I had my winter boots, I slipped them on and zipped up my jacket. I pulled a black knit hat from one of the pockets, then patted down the others to make sure I had everything on me. Keys. More keys. Cell phone. Wallet. All set and ready to go.

  Since it was still early out, the traffic was light and the scents of Munich mostly untainted. The essence of the city filled my lungs, the cold breeze caressing my cheeks and ruffling the strands of hair that escaped from under my cap. Instead of turning away, I leaned my face into the whispers of winter, calling on that primal, wolf part of me that was built for this weather far better than my human body ever could be.

  Without the excessive humidity, the touch of winter actually felt…nice. Huh.

  Maybe there wasn’t a missing thread in my genes, fueling my aversion to cold. Just our fucked-up climate.

  Riding the wave of unexpected pleasure, I crossed the street and followed the scent of freshly brewed dark roast all the way to the small bakery I’d visited a couple of times before. I purchased a sandwich and their largest mug of the delicious brew, then strode back out into Munich’s embrace and towards the Zentrum.

  I didn’t rush my steps as I sipped my coffee and began the long trek towards Olympiapark. Instead, I strolled around like a tourist, wincing at the uglier districts and ogling the buildings in those where the essence of the old world was echoed in the elegant architecture.

  When the Olympiaturm came into view in the distance, its tip piercing the overcast skies, I phoned Greta.

  “Gods, Lotte, do you know what time it is?” she grumbled after the seventh ring.

  In all honesty, I didn’t. I knew that I’d woken up before the break of dawn, but not how long—or short, given Greta’s snarl—my walk was.

  “I thought you ICRA agents have that always prepared, always alert policy.”

  “Yeah.” She snorted. “When we’re actually on duty.”

  I let out a low laugh. “You’re on my case, aren’t you?”

  Scanning the traffic, I ignored the red light and darted across the street.

  Someone honked from afar, but by the time they br
eezed past, I was already well on the other side.

  “Oh, I’ll be on your case, all right.” Her words were a string of growls, but there was an undertone of mischief there. “At least Morozov doesn’t call me in the middle of the fucking night for a report.”

  My eyebrows rose. “But he does call you in the middle of the night for something else?”

  “No.”

  Ah. That could be the cause of her lovely grouchiness. Even if Greta wasn’t exactly the kind of person to let something like an uninterested prospective mate get her down, she wasn’t immune to the finer touches of pent-up sexual frustration.

  I continued my trek down a snow-crusted path branching off the main road.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Alec’s back.” I brushed my gaze across the Olympiaturm standing sentry over the park like a solitary guard. “And that he doesn’t know anything beyond the fact that Voit’s missing and ICRA’s leading the investigation.”

  “It’s never easy,” Greta’s reply came, her tone delicately warm. “But sometimes it’s best to protect the people you love by keeping them out of the loop. Even if it feels like lying.”

  That it definitely did.

  “How do you do it?” I skirted around a mound of shoveled snow. “How can you look someone in the eye and pretend there isn’t a whole acid lake of shit lurking beneath the surface?”

  “Easy,” Greta said, but there was an edge of bitterness to the word. “You know that if it’s you carrying all that, the others get a chance at a normal life.”

  Greta’s words still resonated in my mind long after we hung up.

  I was supposed to be the one with the “normal life.” The one who escaped the clutches of violence, territorialism, and the fuckload of supe conflicts the packs had taken care of before the War and now fell under police and ICRA jurisdiction. How did I end up so firmly on this side of the line?

  I was never much for introspection, so when I entered the always fragrant air of Olympiapark in full, I let my mind run free. It wasn’t the same absence of constraints my wolf form offered, but held a close enough resemblance that I felt myself become a part of my surroundings, attuned to its vibrations, scents, and sounds.

  A few joggers in winter gear whisked past me as I took the long way around the park, eager to drink in every moment before facing the ungodly amount of paperwork.

  Globs of snow fell off the bare branches whenever a touch of wind snaked through the air. I kept to the tracks someone must have plowed in the early hours, only a thin film of footprint-patterned white coating the asphalt.

  Gradually, the near-deathly silence of the park faded and the pulse of life grew, beating in echo to the morning rush that had swept over the city. More joggers in black or colorful gear broke up the seemingly endless expanse of snow, including the occasional cyclist or two, all bundled up and navigating the terrain with far less caution than was probably advisable.

  Not wanting a collision, I crossed one of the smaller bridges, then followed the bank skirting beneath the Olympiaturm where foot traffic was almost nonexistent.

  Just as I walked past the Biergarten I liked to frequent—the same one Rosalie and I had shared one of our last beers together—a sense of wrongness rubbed against my senses.

  Stopping, I closed my eyes and tried to lock down the source.

  The scent had seeped into the air and spread, which suggested that whatever it was, it had been here for several hours at least. My nostrils flared as I breathed deeper, isolating the thread that lay at the very core.

  I frowned, then looked at the lake.

  Its murky water revealed nothing, but I knew it—whatever it was—waited there.

  For a second, I contemplated walking away. At the rate the smell was creating a downright cloud of stink, even a human nose wouldn’t be able to miss it.

  Someone else could deal with it.

  Yet curiosity made it impossible to leave.

  The sensation of wrongness grew worse as I knelt down next to the dark, rippling surface. Snow bit into my pants, reaching all the way to my skin.

  I cast a quick look around. It seemed the park had reached that lull when the joggers had left to get ready for work and it was still too early in the day for those on a break to crawl outside.

  Shit. It was almost a shame there were no interruptions. At least that way, I’d have an excuse to not go through with what I had in mind.

  I grimaced, then before doubt sent me running in the other direction, shrugged off my jacket and folded it atop a rock I quickly cleared with a brush of my hand. The boots came next. I placed them aside, well out of any potential splash zone, then waded into the lake.

  I sucked in a sharp breath when the frigid water hit my stomach and chest, then gagged. The unpleasant feeling crawled across my skin, the scent of wrongness overwhelming even when the source lay somewhere deep beneath. Or maybe not that deep.

  Using my arms to hold my body vertically, I felt under the surface with my foot—and tapped something solid. But for the life of me, I couldn’t lift it up.

  Not without my hands.

  Cursing under my breath, I took a deep inhale, then dunked my head beneath the surface.

  My stomach recoiled at the thought of being submerged in the filthy water, but faster than I anticipated, I grasped something that felt eerily like a corpse. Kicking with all my strength, I propelled myself up until the brisk air washed across my face once more.

  I swam to the bank, not daring as much as a look at what I was dragging along. The instant my feet hit dry ground, I shifted into wolf form. My clothes more than likely wouldn’t survive the shift, but I honestly didn’t care.

  After this swim, I was pretty inclined to burn them anyway.

  I shook my wolfish body from head to tail, pieces of torn fabric falling from my form until there was nothing containing my fur any longer. Vile little droplets of the wretched lake splashed in every direction, but by the time I was done, the dampness became bearable.

  The scent, unfortunately, didn’t.

  A growl trickled from my lips, my hackles rising as I sniffed at the corpse.

  Manfred Weber wasn’t missing.

  The football star was here, his chest torn open, and milky eyes staring blankly at the overcast sky.

  12

  My mind refused to accept the information my senses were feeding it.

  This wasn’t the scent of a vampire. Not even a deceased one, although the inevitable rot of death was definitely there.

  But even as it burned my nostrils, it was what lay beneath it that made my hackles rise.

  Unnatural.

  During my twenty-four years, I’d come across a lot of individuals who carried traces of various species in their DNA—once or twice, even so many that it was hard to isolate them all. Yet never, absolutely never did a mixed heritage manifest as something so twisted.

  And as far as I knew, Manfred had been full vamp. Born and bred.

  The scent at his core should have been a single entity instead of this ragged, chaotic mess that had about the same effect on me as nails scraping against a chalkboard.

  My mouth salivated from the acid burning up my throat.

  I shifted shape, using the rush of magic to distract myself before I threw up, then quickly covered my nude body with the leather jacket and slipped my feet into the boots. Cold whisked across my bare legs, but in that moment, the icy bite was a welcomed presence.

  I didn’t want to lose my breakfast.

  Then again, I also didn’t want to sample Manfred’s scent any longer, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I breathed through my mouth, controlling each intake of air until my stomach settled. I was still nauseous from the unnatural presence, but now, when I let it fill my lungs, I was at least able to focus on the individual threads without making a mad dash for the bushes.

  Shit, I didn’t know whether I should have been glad or horrified that my initial assessment had been right. Neither option sounded pa
rticularly comforting.

  A low pounding of paws snapped my attention from Manfred’s corpse.

  The air was too rank to glean anything about the new arrival from it, but it took only a couple of seconds until a brown were in wolf form cut across the horizon, a large German Shepard keeping pace by his side. They were on the other side of the lake, nearing the bridge that would bring them in my direction. The crime scene was already disturbed, but it still felt wrong to allow anyone to come near.

  If not for anything else, then to at least spare them the nightmare of seeing—and smelling—what was left of Manfred Weber.

  I shuddered, then, channeling my voice, let out a warning growl.

  The werewolf and his dog stopped in their tracks, both heads snapping in my direction. I repeated the warning, making sure it was firm, but not threatening. When a werewolf shrugged off human rationality in favor of a mind controlled purely by instinct, precision in language became crucial.

  For a moment, the massive wolf kept staring at me with the stillness of a predator. Then, as if flicking a switch, his posture relaxed, and he padded back in the direction he came from. My shoulder sagged, though my senses remained on high alert.

  The park might be right in the middle of its usual workday lull, but that didn’t mean it was abandoned.

  Casting a fleeting look at the corpse, I closed my eyes and, as difficult as it was under the circumstances, called Afanasiy’s image to my mind.

  I focused on the details, on the way he smelled of power and man, on the deep, rich voice that made my blood course through my veins with unstoppable desire.

  Warmth bloomed on my forearm—and in my chest.

  It was as if a rope, previously loose, had gone taut. But the pull was far from unpleasant.

  As I gave in to the sensation, another kind of heat infused my flesh. It saturated my essence, becoming a part of it until I could hardly feel the cold air that brushed against my legs and entwined with my damp hair. After no more than a few seconds, that heat was joined by a very solid sensation pressing against my back.