Moon Fever

by Susan Sizemore, Maggie Shayne, Lori Handeland

When I awoke, I still lay beneath the stars, surrounded by wolves. I began to shiver so violently my back ached with it. Would I ever be warm again?

  “Let’s get inside.”

  Inside? Where? How? I didn’t know. But the idea was so appealing I struggled to sit up.

  My movements woke the wolves, and I stilled. Would they turn on me now?

  One by one, the animals unwound themselves from the pile. As they did, they brushed my hands and face with their noses, gently, like a kiss, then faded into the trees.

  “Were they real?” I breathed.

  A single howl was answered by several more. The sound no longer made me feel sad and lonely but accepted, as if I were one of them.

  Shepard lifted me into his arms and strode away from the broken river. Farther downstream, with the shelter of snow banks on three sides, he’d pitched the tent he must have been carrying in the huge backpack.

  Inside, a small stove warmed the air. He set me on what appeared to be a deer hide so he could tie the flap, then turned. “Strip,” he said.

  I blinked stupidly.

  “You have to get out of the wet clothes, Carly. You’ll never survive in them.”

  I was too cold to be modest; I was also too cold to be naked.

  He released the buttons of my coat more quickly than I could have with my numb fingers, helping me slip out of it and the rest of Julie’s things as if I were a child. When I was naked, he threw his wolf coat around me. Oddly enough, the warmer I became, the more I shivered.

  Dylan began to undress, too.

  “Wh-wh-what are you d-d-doing?” My teeth chattered so much I was afraid I’d bite off my tongue.

  “Skin-to-skin contact is the quickest way to offset hypothermia.”

  He yanked off his shirt. Muscles rippled in the firelight, sleek and golden. Perfect. If I weren’t dying, I’d be tempted to lick him all over.

  His boots, socks, and pants went the way of his shirt, then he scooted beneath the coat before I could get a decent look at anything else. I did, however, feel it.

  He slid his body along mine, urging me to turn over. “Spoon, Carly, like this.”

  My back to his front, we fit together like spoons in a drawer, something I’d heard about but never done. When you sleep with a guy just for the sex—my standard modus operandi, as I’d trusted no one long before J.T. had suggested it—spooning isn’t included. A damn shame, too. Spooning was nice.

  My head rested beneath his chin; his arm lay heavy across my hip. Our feet tangled together, his so much warmer than mine.

  “How did you know the wolf was Joe?” I asked.

  “Same eyes, and Joe’s hair was black, with just a little gray.”

  In other times—like yesterday—I’d have scoffed at that explanation. But yesterday I hadn’t seen human eyes in an inhuman face.

  “He herded me onto the ice. After it cracked and I went in, he wouldn’t let me climb out.”

  “That makes no sense. Werewolves like to kill in the most bloody, destructive way possible. They don’t try to drown or freeze their victims to death. They don’t have the self-control.” Shepard’s breath drew in, then sifted out, the movement pressing us more intimately together. “These aren’t behaving normally, and I don’t like it.”

  “You’d prefer they tore me limb from limb?”

  “Of course not. But they’re up to something, and it can’t be good.”

  I had to agree. “In New York, the man who tried to kill me exploded when my bodyguard shot him.”

  “Your bodyguard carried silver bullets?”

  “Apparently so.” I wondered if they always had.

  “If J.T. expected the werewolves to come, why didn’t he keep you in a glass cage like Phoebe?”

  “I wouldn’t have stayed.”

  Dylan went silent, tugging me closer, sharing his warmth. I would have liked to ask more questions, but in the aftermath of another brush with death, that urge to feel alive was back, much stronger than it had been on the steps of his cabin, when guys with guns were chasing us, before I’d ever heard about werewolves, before I’d ever seen one.

  I arched my back, and his penis leaped, pressing against my spine.

  “Carly.” Dylan’s voice was low, warning.

  I turned to face him. “What?”

  “This is about staying alive.”

  “Exactly,” I said, and kissed him.

  Chapter 7

  D ylan’s lips were cool, his mouth so warm, his skin soft over the hardness of bone and muscle. I sank into him—tasting, touching, needing the heat of his embrace in more ways than one.

  He held back, believing I was fragile, dying, and maybe I was, but if this was my last night, I didn’t want to spend it cold and alone.

  I swept my tongue into his mouth, grazing his teeth, the jaggedness of their edge a delicious sensation. My fingers explored his chest, all muscle and sinew and smooth, smooth skin. My thumbs ran along the hollow of his collarbone; my palms skated over broad shoulders.

  “Carly, no.” His words vibrated against my lips. I lifted my head, searching for the truth. Did he truly mean no?

  His eyes said the same thing as the erection pressing against my stomach. He wanted this; he wanted me, as much as I wanted him.

  “It’s all right, Dylan.” I wrapped my hand around him—cold to warm, soft to hard. “Didn’t they ever tell you in nursing school about the best way to heat the blood?”

  “They might have mentioned something,” he drawled, his accent more pronounced than ever before.

  I leaned in, my mouth hovering over his as I let our breath mingle, let him think I might kiss him, then again I might not. The dip in ice water seemed to have hardened my nipples permanently. They grazed his chest, and I had to fight not to rub myself against him and purr.

  Meanwhile, I stroked him, milked him, made him groan, pulse, nearly come before he grabbed my wrist and held me still.

  “I want this.” I stared into his eyes, letting him see that I did.

  He surrendered with a curse, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that raised the temperature beneath the wolf coat several degrees in an instant.

  He made love to my lips, gently at first—nibbling, then stroking. As the heat spread both through and around us, the kiss hardened, deepened. His teeth nipped; he enticed my tongue into his mouth, suckling just the tip, and his hands…

  They were everywhere. I’d never felt a working man’s hands on my body. I’d never considered how arousing they might be—the subdued strength, the contrast of callused palms to skin pampered daily by lotions and potions. Every brush was a delight, every scrape an enticement. Shivering, I pressed myself against him, silently begging for more.

  “Shh,” he murmured, tracing his lips from my mouth to my cheek, then my eyebrow. “I’ll make you warm.”

  In the rush of desire, I’d forgotten the icy river bath, the pain in my extremities, the near-death experience, which had been the whole idea.

  The firelight danced across his face, and I followed the flickers with my fingertips. His eyes opened, hazel darkened to evergreen, and he smiled. The expression did something odd to my heart.

  He flipped the coat over our heads, and the world receded; everything important lay within the cocoon of heat created by our bodies. He walked his lips over my neck, then down to my breasts.

  One slight flick of his tongue, and sparks ignited. A moan escaped. I couldn’t help myself. Nothing had ever felt this wonderful in my life.

  Taking the sound for the encouragement it was, he drew me into his mouth; my hands tangled in his hair, showing him a rhythm.

  I’d never been aroused by attention to my breasts. Perhaps because most of my dates said hello with their eyes locked beneath my neck and spent the better part of those dates the same way. Most men I’d slept with pawed and poked as if conducting a science experiment.

  Dylan did none of these things. He treated my breasts as he treated the rest of me, with a respect bordering on rever
ence. Because of that, I opened myself to him in every way.

  The pull of his lips caused my hips to arch in response, and his palm lowered, heat in my belly both without and within.

  The pull of his roughened fingertips was a contrast to the gentleness of his touch. The scent of him, snow and evergreens, the land, the wind, the night…I’d never smell any of them again without thinking of him.

  He kissed his way down my rib cage, tongue running along each curved bone. He rubbed his face against my belly, the scratch of his beard making me jerk, then the press of his lips grounding and settling me.

  My hands drifted over his shoulders, across his back, then hesitated at what I felt there. But when I began to explore, he slid lower, flicked his tongue over me once, and I forgot everything else as he kissed me where I’d never been kissed before.

  I cried out, as much from the shock as from the sensation. I’d never accepted oral sex, never been interested. To me, the act was more intimate than intercourse, and I wasn’t much for intimacy. But here in the land of eternal midnight, with a man I’d only just met—a man who’d saved my life several times—I could no more deny him that than I could deny him anything. I didn’t want to.

  I wanted to learn everything he had to teach, both in the darkness and in the light. I wanted to be with him, to hold him, to welcome him into my body and my life.

  My legs trembled. He ran his fingertips down the quivering muscles, then up again, urging me without a word to relax. His mouth did clever, amazing things, soft flickers of his tongue, hard, open-mouthed kisses. He tasted me deep inside, riding his thumb on my throbbing center until I convulsed, fighting to be free, even as I ached to become one with him.

  He understood my need and met it, rising over me with one sleek, powerful surge and plunging inside as the orgasm rolled over me, and I cried out unintelligible words that ended in his name.

  The coat fell away, revealing his face in the firelight, stark, open, and I got that funny feeling again just below my breastbone. Reaching up, I touched his cheek, and he opened his eyes, staring into mine as he came.

  When the last shudders died, he buried his face in my neck and kissed me, then rolled aside, spooning us as he stroked my hair.

  Now was usually the time when either I left or they did. Except there was nowhere to go, and I wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Sleep,” Dylan whispered, and, amazingly, I did.

  When I awoke, the flame in the small stove still burned merrily, sending shadows dancing across the canvas walls. Dylan was no longer wrapped around me; the tent had become quite toasty.

  He lay on his stomach, fast asleep. His eyelashes created a shadowy crescent against his cheeks, the stubble of his beard making him appear paler than I knew him to be. Perhaps the pressure of dragging me along as we ran for our lives was wearing on him.

  But shouldn’t he be used to pressure? He’d said he was in Special Forces—a Ranger. They fought for their lives all the time.

  He’d also said he was a nurse. Was that truth or fiction? I knew so little about this man, and I wanted to know everything.

  Reaching out, I ran my palm across his shoulder, down his back, and I felt again what I’d felt last night: deep ridges across what should be perfect flesh.

  I propped myself on one elbow, drew back the makeshift blanket, and winced. Raised white streaks marred one shoulder.

  Frowning, I leaned in close, but I didn’t need to see any better to know that claws had made those scars.

  Chapter 8

  W hen I lifted my gaze, Dylan’s eyes were open. The stillness of his expression revealed that he hadn’t wanted me to see, even before he shifted and pressed his shoulders to the ground.

  “Who did that to you?” I demanded.

  “Not who. What.”

  “A werewolf,” I murmured. “Tell me.”

  “Not relevant.”

  “We’re being chased by werewolves that want me dead. You don’t think scars from a werewolf are relevant?”

  “One has nothing to do with the other. The werewolf that did this to me isn’t after us.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he’s a coat.”

  My gaze flicked to the wolfskin. “Good.”

  He stared at me for several seconds, then shook his head. “You don’t want to throw it off while you make girlie, grossed-out noises?”

  “Maybe later.”

  A surprised bark of laughter escaped him. “You’re amazing.”

  “Right back atcha.”

  I was tempted to pull him into my arms and make him forget what haunted him, except I was pretty sure what haunted him was chasing me—or something very much like it. I wanted to know everything Dylan did about the creature that shouldn’t exist.

  “Tell me,” I repeated. “Please.”

  Maybe if I knew more, I’d be afraid less. Probably not. But knowledge is power; knowing more definitely couldn’t hurt.

  Dylan stared at the roof of the tent as if he could see through it and into the night. Would the sky lighten even a little to signal the dawn?

  I had no idea what time it was anymore, I didn’t know what day it was. My world had narrowed to Dylan and this place, and maybe that wasn’t so bad. Out there, people—make that things—were trying to kill me. In here, there was only us.

  “I was in Afghanistan,” he began. “Place was mostly a wasteland even before we arrived. We searched those caves endlessly.”

  “For Bin Laden?”

  “Among others. There’s no shortage of nuts there—or anywhere else, for that matter. People in the U.S. think they understand what’s going on outside our borders, but they don’t. Not really. The majority of the world would be happy to see America fall like the Roman Empire, and we might. All the signs are there.”

  My eyebrows lifted, my interest piqued, but I let it go. Werewolves first, Roman Empire comparisons later.

  “We had constant intel about this terrorist or that whack job,” he continued. “Every day, every night, a new mission to check out a new cave. The things are like an endless honeycomb. I still see them when I close my eyes. When I sleep, I see what came out of them.”

  My skin prickled. “Werewolves?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “A whole pack. The moon was dark—”

  “Dark?” I interrupted.

  “New moon, or no moon, although the moon’s always there, we just can’t see it. Dark moon is the best time for an op. No shiny silver flares off the guns.”

  Made sense, or at least as much sense as anything else he’d been saying. “I thought werewolves only came out under the full moon.”

  “Under a full moon, they’re possessed by a blood lust so strong they can do nothing but kill. Under any other moon, they kill just for the fun of it.”

  “Fun?” My voice wavered.

  “They’re monsters, Carly. Once bitten, pure evil takes over—the love of the kill, the thrill of having power over life and death.

  “That night, our intel said the usual: terrorists in a cave at such-and-such longitude and latitude. We’d bomb the hell out of that particular section, then we’d go in and check what was left of the bodies and hope like hell we’d find Bin Laden or at least a large enough part of him to be sure.”

  “But that night, you found something other than terrorists?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know who the men were who came out of those caves in the shapes of wolves. The night was so dark,” he continued, his voice low, hoarse, his face still, eyes distant. I laced my fingers with his. He didn’t seem to notice, but I held on anyway.

  “Before, whenever we reached the bombed-out caves, nothing moved; everyone was dead.” He took a deep breath, then another. “But not this time.”

  “What happened?”

  “No silver bullets,” he said simply.

  The scene spread out in my mind. Wolves climbing out of the rubble, slinking shadows beneath the ebony sky. Coming clos
er, their forms solidifying into snarling, slavering beasts. The soldiers emptying clip after clip into them, and still they advanced—an army of wolves with human eyes. I shuddered.

  “Hey.” Dylan tugged me into his arms, and I let him. “You okay?”

  “I need to hear this. I have to know.”

  Being held against him helped. He’d fought werewolves before and won. He’d do so again. We’d beat them; we’d survive. Together.

  “How did you get out of there alive?” I asked.

  “Pure chance, dumb luck. All of the others were killed. Kind of.”

  “How can you be kind of dead?”

  “Killed, not dead. Or at least, not dead completely, or maybe dead and then risen again.”

  “Isn’t that a zombie?”

  My voice was flippant; once again, he didn’t laugh. “There are more monsters in this world than you realize.”

  We went silent for several seconds. I decided I didn’t want to know about the “more” right now. I had all I could handle with the werewolves.

  Dylan’s chest rose and fell against my cheek, the movement already familiar and comforting.

  “The first wolf knocked me aside,” he continued. “I flew several yards, fell down an incline. My shoulder burned. Didn’t realize how bad it was until I tried to climb out of the hole and passed out. The screams brought me back.”

  He swallowed, and his throat clicked loudly in the sudden silence. “I made it to the top. By then, the screams had stopped, and the wolves milled around among the bodies. I still thought they were wolves.” He shook his head. “Even though hundreds of bullets had plowed into them and they’d kept coming. One of them sensed me, lifted its head, and I saw the eyes. There was no mistaking them for just wolves after that.”

  “No,” I agreed. I’d seen one, too.

  “I knew they’d come for me. I didn’t plan to go easily, but all of my weapons were useless.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t have to do anything. A howl sounded in the distance, and they disappeared.”

  “Like that?” I snapped my fingers.

  “No.” The ghost of a smile tilted his lips. “They left on four paws. Called by their leader, I think. I started to climb out of the hole again. I needed to check if anyone was alive, though I doubted it, then make sure they had proper burials back home where they belonged.” His accent became stronger, sounding as deep as the South where he’d been born. “But before I could, they began to change.”