Moon Cursed

by Lori Handeland

  “That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it,” Kris murmured.

  He sighed. “Ye can go.”

  Kris wasn’t far from the cottage, but she was still kind of surprised, considering the way she stumbled up the hill and zigzagged down the road, that no one offered to take her there. With her shambling gait, no doubt freakishly pale face, the flapping plaid blanket she wore like a cape, and the bag of makeup and food she still clutched in one hand, anyone seeing her might think Kris the local loony. Right now she felt like it.

  She reached the cottage, let herself in, and tossed the bag onto the couch. She wasn’t hungry. She was cold, and she was tired.

  She stood under the heated stream of the shower until the water went cool, then donned her flannel pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt, and heavy socks before going to bed. When she awoke it was dark and someone was pounding on the door.

  Groggy, Kris turned on the light, then, blinded by its brilliance, shuffled into the other room. She opened the door without thinking, and Liam rushed in.

  “Are ye all right, mo gradh?” He took her in his arms and, still desperate for warmth, she let him. “I heard what happened. I would have come sooner but—”

  Kris pulled his mouth to hers. The only way she’d ever be warm again was this.

  In the middle of speaking, his lips still parted, she drank his breath, inhaled his heat. Her tongue plunged; her hands clenched on his neck.

  His hair, which had been captured in a rubber band, she released; the spill across her wrists smelled like rain.

  He began to lift his head, no doubt to ask her again if she was all right, and she nipped his lip. No words now, no thoughts, only this.

  She slid her arms around his shoulders, tangled her fingers in that hair, and the movement tugged up her shirt, exposing her to his touch.

  His palms were cool like the night, but they warmed, as did she. Her blood seemed to bubble, and she imagined it red and hot, flowing like lava, glowing like magma beneath her skin.

  Wherever he touched, she burned. Ah, the blessed, blessed heat. She might die of it or perhaps of wanting it, wanting him.

  They left a trail of clothes across the floor, flinging a shirt here, a sock there, then tumbled naked onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, reaching for and finding each other.

  “Kris,” he gasped, and she straddled him, shoving his shoulders flat to the bed and leaning down.

  “No,” she murmured against his lips, then whispered, “yes,” when he framed her breasts with his palms, stroking the nipples in time with the thrusts of his tongue.

  He kept silent, fast learner, although when she lifted her hips and lowered herself onto him he did say something like, “Urgh.”

  At first she kept the movements slow, shallow, just a tease, a bit more seduction. She matched them with her tongue, and he scraped the tips of his nails across her breasts to the rhythm of their bodies’ song.

  She hissed in a breath, sitting up, liking both the change in the pressure and the view. Liam’s deep blue eyes appeared black in the flare of the lamp; his dark hair spread across the stark white pillow like an onyx fan. His skin, tanned from days spent outdoors, gleamed slick and smooth. She had to touch it.

  It was smooth, but not hot like hers, and that was strange. She felt on fire. He should be, too.

  His palms cupped her hips, urged her to keep moving as she roamed, first her fingers across his chest, then her lips, then her tongue. She explored every inch she could reach. She ached to explore those that she could not. Perhaps after she would examine—

  Her head had just fallen back, her hips rocking, very close to the end, when she remembered. She’d planned to search every inch of his body for a tattoo.

  She stiffened, and the movement rubbed them together just right. His fingers tightened, digging into her hips, and then she was coming. She couldn’t stop it, regardless of who he was, perhaps what he was, and she didn’t want to.

  She set her palms over his and rode the tide, rode him, until the last tremor died away.

  Before the glow was gone, her mind began to click. Did Liam have a tattoo? How would she find out? She couldn’t inspect him like a monkey trolling for fleas, but there were other ways.

  Kris, who had collapsed onto his chest, buried her face in his neck not only to keep him from seeing her thoughts but also because having his skin against hers was as seductive as inhaling the scent of him.

  Before she could be completely won over, before she gave in to the desire to lie there and sleep, she rolled to the side, then sat next to him on the bed, trailing her fingers over his belly, his hips, following the path with an admiring gaze. His legs were tightly muscled, with a light dusting of hair, just enough to be manly, not so much that the hair obscured skin. She found nothing but Liam from his face to his feet.

  “Turn over.” She pushed at his shoulder, then traced her hands up his legs, drew her nails over his buttocks, brushed her palm over the smooth, unmarred skin at the small of his back, and swept it up his pristine shoulders.

  He was clear of tattoos. But what did that mean?

  “I’ll nae be able to go again so soon, mo bheatha. Ye must give me a bit o’ time.”

  She was swamped by a sudden desire to hold him, just hold him close, and never let him go. “What does mo bheatha mean?” she whispered.

  He turned his head. Their eyes met, and a strange feeling hit her in the chest so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  “‘My life,’” he translated, and his hair, which had been spread across his upper back like a curtain, slid sideways.

  The tattoo wasn’t very big. But it was very Nessie. From the tip of her snake-like head, past her humps and her flippers, right down to her long, thin tail.

  Liam saw Kris’s expression and sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  “The— That— I mean … It—”

  “Did ye want to talk about what happened today? I’m sorry ye had to find her. Sorry it upset ye so.”

  “Tattoo,” she blurted. Liam stilled. “You have a tattoo.”

  His eyes became wary. “Aye.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means—” He stopped, pursing his lips and looking toward the living room with a frown.

  “Don’t lie,” she said, and her voice broke. She didn’t think she could bear it if he lied to her, too.

  Liam tilted his head, opened his mouth, and someone knocked.

  He was off the bed and reaching for his pants before whoever was there had stopped tapping.

  “Wait.” Kris got up, too. “I can—”

  “No.” The sound of his zipper served as emphasis, if his glare hadn’t been enough. “Stay here.”

  He left pulling on his shirt. Kris kept her gaze on the tattoo until it disappeared.

  The front door opened. A curse erupted. Kris yanked the quilt off the bed, hastily made a toga, and followed. By the time she got there, her brother and Liam were already bumping chests, or near enough.

  Marty’s nose was swollen, and he was sporting two black eyes from the last encounter. Since there wasn’t a scratch on Liam, she couldn’t believe her brother was begging for a second round.

  “Go away.” He shoved Liam. “I need to talk to my sister.”

  “I willnae leave her alone.” Liam’s tone said without words, Like you did.

  Marty flushed. “I had my reasons.”

  “What are they?” Liam asked.

  “Yeah,” Kris interjected. “What are they?”

  Both men turned. When they saw what she wore, their faces took on comically similar expressions of disapproval.

  “Ach, put on some clothes.”

  “I have to agree with the limey here,” Marty said.

  “Limey is for the British, ye Yankee bastard.”

  Marty lifted his brows. “Paddy?”

  “That’s Irish, ye no-account fool.”

  “Jock?”

  “There ye go.”

  “Jock is an insult?” Kris asked. />
  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s what the bloody English say. Something about there being a lot of Scots named John or Jack or some such nonsense.”

  “That makes no sense,” Kris said.

  “What does?” Liam asked, still standing too close to Marty, staring at him like a wolf trembling for a fight. “Clothes, lass, if ye please.”

  “Can you two manage not to strangle each other while I’m gone?”

  “Maybe,” Marty muttered.

  “Doubtful,” Liam returned.

  “Then I’ll just stay right here.”

  The two sighed and backed away from each other a few paces.

  “Go,” Liam ordered. “I willnae touch him unless he touches me first.”

  “Me, either,” Marty said, but he was staring at the couch and his face kept getting redder; the bruising beneath his eyes seemed to pulse.

  Kris followed his gaze. Her bra lay on the arm, her underwear across the back. She snatched up both as she went into the bedroom, then closed the door.

  The murmur of voices from the living room had her throwing on clothes faster than she ever had before. For those two, talking was bad, as evidenced by the steady increase in volume during the short time it took her to don sweatpants and a T-shirt before bursting back out.

  “You can leave,” Marty was saying.

  “I willnae.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? She’s my sister.”

  “Ye’ve hurt her enough already, Yank.”

  “Why do foreigners,” Marty considered, then continued, “and southerners, too, for some reason, think that’s an insult? Maybe if you’re a Red Sox fan, but I’m not.”

  “I dinnae ken anything about yer American football.”

  Marty glanced at Kris. “Are you serious with this guy? He doesn’t even know the difference between football and baseball.”

  “Yeah, that’s something I look for in a man.”

  Liam frowned. “Really?”

  “Sarcasm,” Marty said. “Try to keep up.”

  Kris had forgotten just how annoying her brother could be.

  “Now get out,” Marty continued.

  “No.”

  “Kris, tell him I won’t hurt you.”

  “He won’t hurt me,” she repeated.

  “Dinnae be so sure.” Liam pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Kris glanced at the sheet, which appeared to be a random list of dates and places. “What’s this?”

  Liam, still staring at Marty as if he expected her brother to break into song and dance, or perhaps just break his nose, lifted his chin. “Ask him.”

  Kris handed the list to Marty, who took it, read it, and frowned. “You had me investigated?” Strangely, his voice sounded more impressed than angry.

  Liam dipped his chin in assent.

  “Why?” Kris asked.

  “Ye didnae think it odd he just showed up? After all this time he suddenly wants to bond—in a foreign country no less—with the sister he abandoned.”

  “I did not—,” Marty began.

  “Ye did. Ye say ye had yer reasons, and we will get to those, but ye left her, and ye didnae come back, and it pains her. So I wondered what brought ye here, and why now? Now, when we have a wee problem of our own.”

  Click. Kris could have sworn she actually heard the puzzle piece slip into place in her mind. “I need that list back.”

  Marty handed it over.

  “What is it?” Liam asked.

  “Hold on.” Kris booted up her computer, accessed her e-mail, and downloaded what Edward had sent her.

  The lists matched.

  CHAPTER 22

  Kris opened what she now thought of as the gun drawer, picked up the weapon, and pointed it at Marty. “Liam, move away from him.”

  Kris was shocked that she could point a gun that was no doubt loaded with silver bullets at her brother, who just might be a shape-shifter, and neither her voice nor her hands shook.

  Liam came to stand at her side. “Are ye daft?”

  “You’re the one who investigated him.”

  “I didnae find a shooting offense.”

  “I did.” She decided to leave Edward out of it. “The places Marty’s traveled match a list of places where there have been murders that appear to be the work of a local legend.”

  Her brother’s lips curved. “Loup-garou outside of Paris. Hyena shifter in Ethiopia. Giant in Tasmania.”

  “Thardid Jimbo,” Kris said. “Was it you?”

  “No.”

  Kris lifted a brow. “You think I’ll just believe that and put away the gun?”

  “Ye have not been much for the truth so far,” Liam agreed.

  “Did I do a lot of shape-shifting when we were kids?” Marty asked.

  “Just because you didn’t shift then doesn’t mean you aren’t doing it now. You could have been…” She paused, remembering what Edward had told her. “Injected. Cursed. Bitten.”

  Dear God, had she really said that?

  “Got anything silver?” Marty asked.

  Kris glanced into the drawer. A box of bullets, but she didn’t want to put the gun down to open it. Instead, she pulled the Celtic cross from beneath her shirt and tossed it.

  Marty snatched the icon out of the air with one hand. He didn’t catch fire. For an instant Kris was relieved, until she recalled something else the old man had said.

  “Not all shifters react to silver. Sometimes it only pisses them off.”

  “You’re right.” Marty threw the cross back, and Kris looped the chain over her head. “Now what?”

  Kris had no idea.

  “Listen, Squirt, I’m not a supernatural.”

  “Then how do ye know so much about them?” Liam asked.

  “I hunt them.”

  Kris frowned. If Marty was a Jäger-Sucher, wouldn’t Edward have mentioned that?”

  Liam snorted. “Sure ye do. And that’s why Interpol had a file on ye.”

  “Personnel file,” Marty said.

  “You work for Interpol?” Kris was almost as surprised by that as she’d been by Marty showing up here in the first place.

  Marty reached for his pocket, and Kris lifted the gun. “My ID.” Slowly he pulled it out and threw it to her.

  Sure enough. He was with Interpol. Kris set the gun back in the drawer, but she left the drawer open and her hand lingered nearby.

  “Why didn’t they just tell us you worked for them?” Liam asked.

  “I’m kind of a secret…” He rolled his hand as if searching for a word. “Consultant.”

  “Why secret?” Kris asked.

  “Investigating the paranormal.” He shrugged. “They don’t like to admit it exists.”

  Neither did Kris.

  “How did you end up doing that?”

  “Remember all the fairy tales Mom used to read to us?”

  “Yeah,” Kris said slowly, not sure where he was going or if she wanted to go there.

  “I would complain that they were girlie, but you loved them, and, to be honest, so did I. I guess it makes sense that we both ended up in jobs where we chase things that most people believe are fairy tales. You debunking them and me…” He paused.

  “What do ye do,” Liam murmured, “that has caused ye to turn up in all the places where people are dyin’?”

  Kris felt a trickle of unease. If Marty had been chasing the legends, most likely studying their origins, finding out all he could about them, then he knew enough to imitate them.

  “I’ve been traveling from kill site to kill site to investigate,” Marty answered. “But by the time I get there, the kills have stopped and there’s no trace of the creature. At least until I came here.”

  “Nessie isn’t the killer,” Kris said.

  Liam cast her a quick glance, but she ignored him.

  “How you figure?” Marty asked.

  “The Loch Ness Monster has avoided detection for centuri
es. They’ve brought sonar and radar and all kinds of ’ars, trying to catch a reading, a picture, some film. But they’ve got bupkes. The only way for her to stay hidden so well is for Nessie to possess human-level intelligence. And if she’s that damn smart, she’d keep the bodies as hidden as she is.”

  Marty appeared intrigued. “If not Nessie, then what?”

  “Someone’s been trying to pin the killings on her. Get her killed.”

  Marty frowned. “Who’d kill Nessie?”

  “You?”

  “I don’t kill these things.”

  “You said ‘hunt.’”

  “As in ‘search for, track, investigate.’” He spread his hands. “All I do is find them.”

  “And you let them keep on keepin’ on, piling up the bodies as they go?”

  “Of course not. If the creature is harmful, we outsource the killing.”

  “Let me guess,” Kris said. “You hire the Jäger-Suchers.”

  Silence fell over the room. Marty broke it first. “I should have known. All those hoaxes. It was cover for being a hunter.”

  “Me?” Kris laughed. “No.”

  Marty lifted a brow at Liam.

  “I dinnae even know what ye’re talkin’ about.”

  Kris glanced at him. There was something more to that; she could hear it in his voice. Was he a hunter? He did disappear all the time, wandered around the loch, showed up whenever he was needed. He was either a Jäger-Sucher or a superhero. If he wasn’t a shape-shifter.

  “Are you a serial killer?” Marty asked.

  “Are you?” Liam returned.

  “All right,” Kris interrupted, afraid they’d start shoving each other again. “Why do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer and not a super shape-shifter?”

  “Maybe we are.” Marty shrugged. “In my experience shifter and serial killer are the same damn thing.”

  Kris kept her gaze on Marty’s face. “But you don’t think we’re dealing with a super shifter, or you’d have contacted Edward the instant you got here and discovered the killings were still in progess.”

  “Killer creatures don’t stop until someone makes them. But these did.”

  “Because we aren’t dealing with killer creatures but a killer human. All the murders on the list might look like they’ve been committed by a supernatural creature but were in fact committed by an unnatural human.”