Kiss of a Dark Moon

by Sharie Kohler

  The second lycan charged up the wooden steps, releasing a bellow of rage as he flew past his comrade. Rafe tightened his finger and squeezed off a round. The shot zipped through the air with a muted hiss. A dark hole appeared squarely in the lycan’s forehead, followed by a thick trickle of crimson. The creature dropped, eyes staring vacantly ahead, the silver instantly fading, reverting to a very mortal, lifeless shade of blue.

  The lycan with the cut throat staggered down the porch, trying to flee until he recovered from his temporary wound. Rafe aimed at his back and fired, watching grimly as the lycan dropped to the dirt.

  The door behind him flung open. Kit stood there, wide eyes taking in the scene, mouth parted with un-spoken words. Her gaze flew to Rafe. She gasped. “Your face!”

  “Inside,” he barked.

  He didn’t need a mirror to see what she saw: the beginning of him shifting.

  He spun back around, senses sharpening, burning along his nerve endings. Branches snapped and leaves crumbled beneath the feet of the two remaining lycans, soft, undetectable to the human ear but as loud as a car horn to his.

  “Stay in the cabin,” he growled over his shoulder.

  “What—”

  “Now!”

  He broke into a run and circled the cabin, disappearing into the trees. He paused, nostrils flaring, sensing an approaching lycan, feeling the race of the other’s heart, the fall of his uneven breathing on the humid air.

  With a single jump, Rafe swung himself up into a tree the moment before the lycan became visible, moving stealthily through the press of cedar.

  He waited until his prey was directly below him before dropping, blood pounding through him like the beating of drums. Landing directly behind the creature, he grabbed a fistful of greasy hair and pulled back the lycan’s head, firing the gun into his temple.

  The body fell lifelessly at his feet. Rafe stepped over it and moved on, taking a position behind an oak large enough to conceal him. He listened, detecting the movements of the coming lycan.

  This one moved cautiously, each step measured.

  Rafe flexed his hand around his gun’s grip, waiting. Sweat trailed down his spine. He held his breath.

  Suddenly the steps halted. Too suddenly. He’d been detected.

  Stepping out into the open, he found nothing but wind and trees before him. He rotated on the balls of his feet, gun at the ready, scanning the area, seeing nothing.

  Scalp tight and tingling, he continued to turn in a full circle—until he came face to face with a smug-looking bastard with flashing silver eyes.

  Before he could fire, the guy was on him. The gun flew from his hand. They crashed to the ground. Burning curses flew as they rolled in a violent collision of arms and legs. Bone crunched bone. Fingers clawed, scratched. Teeth snapped, bit with animal fury.

  A growl rose from deep in his throat, and the beast within him sprang free. He felt his skin tighten, his bones stretch. His strength increased, power swelling in a liquid-hot surge.

  Rafe jammed his feet to the lycan’s chest and shoved him off, sending him flying several feet. He landed in a cloud of dirt.

  In a flash, Rafe was on his feet again, gun back in his hand. He aimed.

  “What the hell are you?” the creature demanded in a harsh snarl, chest rising and falling with heavy breath.

  Gasping, with a hot rush of adrenaline, he bit out, the sound of his voice thick and distorted, “If you think really hard, I’ll bet you can figure it.”

  Shock flickered across the lycan’s face the instant before Rafe squeezed the trigger and the silver bullet rushed across air to penetrate his chest.

  Sliding his gun back in its holster, he headed back to the cabin, leaving the body behind, ready to reassure Kit.

  In the distance, an engine gunned to life, stopping him in his tracks.

  Son of a bitch.

  Fury rippled over him. While he was getting his ass kicked, Kit was bailing on him.

  The beast burned hotter, hungrier, furious.

  He didn’t care that she had told him she would try to escape. He knew only anger. And betrayal. And possessiveness.

  A fire-hot determination to keep her with him—and punish her for daring to leave him—crashed over him.

  CHAPTER 26

  He made it to the cabin in seconds, the rage churning through his gut intensifying as he saw brake lights glowing in the sultry dusk air.

  Springing forward, he landed beside the driver’s door as she was backing from beneath the tin-roofed carport. Kit jumped and cried out at his sudden appearance, slamming on the brake. He tried the door handle.

  “Unlock the door or I’ll break the window and pull you out.”

  She hesitated only a moment before putting the vehicle into Park and shutting off the engine. With a wary glance at his face, she unlocked the door.

  He yanked it open and hauled her out. Without a word, he dragged her toward the cabin, stepping over bodies as if they were no more than litter in his way. And that’s all they could have been. All his attention, all his fury, was caught up in Kit.

  He slammed the cabin door behind them and flung her on the bed.

  She immediately rose up on her elbows, her eyes skimming over him, the barest hint of light flickering in their green depths. “You’re covered in blood.”

  He didn’t spare himself a glance. “Leaving?” His voice escaped in a growl as he came down on the bed.

  Her throat worked as she inched back. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

  He cocked his head. “No.” But he could still be angry. “I shouldn’t.” He straddled her, settling his knees on each side of her hips. Her head fell back on the bed to glare at him.

  Her nostrils flared. “You reek of blood.”

  “That’s what happens when you kill a pack of lycans hunting you—who want to kill you.”

  He shrugged free of his jacket, flinging it violently to the floor. Grasping the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head and let it join the jacket.

  She quivered beneath him, eyeing the breadth of his chest. “I never asked you to protect me.”

  “You never asked for any of this, did you? But you have it. This is your lot. NODEAL, EFLA. The Marshan Prophecy.” He leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her head, coming closer with each word he uttered. “Life as a dovenatu. Me.”

  With that final word, his lips swooped down and claimed hers. His hands tangled in her hair, holding her still for the assault of his mouth. He swallowed her gasp, delving his tongue into the sweet heat of her mouth, tasting her desire, her anger…her fear. A fear that she tried suppress with her prickly exterior, her tough-girl façade.

  That fear cooled his anger as nothing else could, made his hands soften their tight grip in her hair. As if his mother were whispering in his ear, urging him to control the beast, to shove it back into the dark, his lips gentled, nipping gently, coaxing forth a response.

  She arched beneath him, purring like a stroked cat. Her female scent undid him, the faint powdery odor of her soap—and something else, something that was innately Kit.

  He shed her clothing—and his—his hands moving in a rapid blur.

  She rose up to meet his first thrust, fingers digging into his back, scoring his flesh in savage swipes. His head flung back as he moved, taking her hard and fierce, claiming her with a driving need. He had never taken a woman with such ferocity before—a mortal woman. But with Kit there was no holding back.

  His hands covered her breasts, squeezing, kneading, rolling the distended tips.

  A sharp keening rose from her throat and he drove into her harder. The sound of her desire, the feel of her soft heat tightening like a fist around him, milking him for all he was worth, pushed him over the edge.

  Releasing a cry, he shuddered, spilling himself inside her. Sated, he collapsed over her, his hands still holding her, luxuriating in the soft texture of her flesh.

  Only a moment passed before she slipped out from und
er him. Donning her shirt, she sat on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the mattress, knuckles whitening.

  “Are you no more than an animal?” she whispered. “You knew I didn’t want to do this with you. Not again. I told you that.”

  Bitter cold washed through him at her scathing words—followed by the savage burn of the beast clawing through him.

  All his life he fought to make a difference, to make his mother proud, to prove to her that he could overcome the darkness. That he lived only in the light.

  And Kit refused to see that. Refused to recognize that there could be something between them beyond animal passion. That he—she—was more than an animal, more than a beast. He rose from the bed in one fluid motion. Picking up his discarded jacket, he pulled his revolver free.

  Facing her, he grabbed her wrist and forced her to her feet, slapping the weapon into her hand.

  “You think me an animal?” he demanded, his voice thickening, a warning. The beast lurked close. But he didn’t care. Let her see it. She did anyway. Whenever she looked at him, it was all she saw. All she would ever see. “You think I’m the same as them? A mindless killer?”

  She looked from the gun to him with unsure eyes. Her mouth parted, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Despite himself, his gut tightened, responding to the sight.

  Shoving the unwanted feelings down, he tossed out “Then do what you do best.” He nodded decisively at the gun in her hand. “End this. Put me out of my misery. And yours. If you think I’m a soulless killer, then that’s what you should do, right?” At her stunned silence, he barked, “Right?”

  She held the gun limply in her hand, staring at it as if she had never seen one before, as if she did not know its function.

  “Do it!”

  She jumped.

  Impatient, he grabbed her hand and forced her to point the gun at his chest, its barrel cold and hard against his heart. “Shoot me. I’m a monster, right? A soulless demon. You’ve said as much.” He flexed his fingers over hers, bringing the barrel against his chest. When she tried to tug her hand away, he jabbed the gun against his flesh, digging the barrel in. “C’mon,” he barked. “Make me pay, Kit. Maybe that will reverse your curse. Have you thought of that yet? Let’s find out, eh?”

  She blinked, and he realized she had not considered this possibility. “Maybe that’s what it takes.” He shrugged as if it were a small matter and not the end of his life they were discussing. “Maybe. Kill the source of your curse and you’ll be free. That’s how it works with full-breed lycans, doesn’t it?”

  Suddenly pale, she nodded, mouth parted with words that would not come.

  “Find out, then,” he snarled, jerking her hand, tired of her denouncing him and hurling insults. The time had come for her to decide where they stood. He knew she wouldn’t shoot him. He just needed her to realize it, too. Hopefully with that realization, others would come, too—such as her not really considering him on the same level as a full-breed lycan.

  “Shoot me,” he invited. “If I’m such a bad guy, shoot me, Kit.”

  A small, strangled sound escaped her mouth. Her fingers stretched wide, lifting off the gun. Still he held her hand, forcing her to hold the gun.

  “No?” He shook his head. “Strange. I thought you were trained to kill monsters.”

  He turned his back on her. With rough, angry movements he dressed, noticing that she followed suit, moving slowly, head bowed, silent as death. He tossed her his keys.

  She caught them with a fumble. Her forehead drew tight in confusion. “What are these for?”

  “You want to leave?” he asked. “Go.”

  She would never accept his help. Accept him. He could try to teach her his ways, but she would fight him at every step—and hate him in the process. He saw that now. Saw that he had to release her.

  “You’re letting me go?” she whispered.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Your freedom.” He waved to the door. “Go.”

  She moved toward the door, her steps a slow shuffle. “You’re letting me go?” she repeated.

  He nodded, resisting the urge to place himself between her and the door. He had to do this. For her.

  Some of her spunk returned then. Lip curling over her teeth, she asked, “What? Is this some kind of trick?”

  “No trick.” He waved at the door again, the gesture mild, at odds with the emotions churning darkly through him. “Go on.”

  She opened the door wide, letting the early night inside the room. Chirping crickets sang out as she looked over her shoulder at him, a question still in her liquid-green eyes. Her lips worked, clearly searching for words. “Good-bye, then, Rafe.”

  “Good-bye.” He nodded stiffly, the words thick as rocks filling his mouth and throat—and just about as unsavory. “Take care of yourself, Kit. Because I won’t be there to look out for you.”

  Color spotted her cheeks. “I don’t need you covering me.” Her chin lifted higher. “I don’t need you at all.”

  Then she was gone.

  Without shutting the door, she hurried down the porch steps, skirting the dead lycans and vanishing into the deepening night.

  He listened, following her movements, the light fall of her feet on the ground as she walked, forcing himself to stand still, to not go after her. His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

  A door slammed shut. The Hummer’s engine purred to life. Rock and gravel crunched beneath rolling tires, the rumble of the engine fading as she drove away.

  Into certain danger. And out of his life.

  CHAPTER 27

  Kit. This is unexpected. I thought you’d be in New Mexico by now. Shopping for turquoise or horseback riding or…something,” Darius murmured with deceptive laziness. Only the sharp glitter of his pewter gaze sliding over her told a different story.

  Something dark and menacing lurked in his eyes as he surveyed her from head to toe with languid slowness, crossing strong arms over his broad chest. Deceptive indeed. Languid was a word that could not be applied to him. He reminded her of a snake coiled hidden in tall grass. A secret killer.

  With her newly honed senses, she could almost smell how dangerous he was, how capable of destruction. The hair at her nape prickled. She was abruptly reminded that he was alleged to have killed Étienne Marshan. True or not, it would take a lycan of extraordinary power to kill the world’s first lycan.

  Sliding her hand in her pocket, she caressed her mother’s necklace, gaining strength from the feel of it. Perhaps unwise, but she had returned to the motel Rafe had taken her from the night the lycans attacked and retrieved the cross before heading to Houston. She had to. Feeling it close gave her courage now.

  She had also called Gideon and assured him she would meet him in New Mexico at the end of the week. Once there, she would explain everything to him. Once she spoke with Darius to see if there were some way out of the mess her life had become. In person. Not over the phone.

  Kit stopped into the center of the vast sunken living room and glanced around at the expensive furniture and art framing the walls. She didn’t need to know anything about art to know they were all priceless works. And old. No doubt as old as the lycan himself, who lived in Houston’s high-end River Oaks. Darius had probably known the artists.

  Her thoughts drifted to Rafe. Was he accustomed to such finery? The gulf separating them yawned ever farther, convincing her she had done the right thing by leaving. Even if he had turned her into a creature like him, she was nothing like him. On any level. She never would be.

  She’d never been to Darius’s home before. Wouldn’t have dreamed of accompanying Gideon or Claire on their visits to evaluate the progress of his research. But she knew where he lived, had made it a point to find out. If he ever fell off the wagon, she wanted to know where to find him.

  Again Darius’s rich, formal tones rumbled over the air, reminding her that she had not answered him. “Kit?”
>
  She tore her gaze from an elaborate tapestry hanging on the wall.

  He did not look as she had remembered him. Oh, he still seemed dangerous, still had the appearance of a caged predator. But his chilly pewter gaze did not illicit the usual feelings of hatred in her. For the first time, she felt pity for him, a tormented soul with no say in his damnation.

  She dragged a deep breath into her lungs and looked away from his harshly handsome face, accepting the sudden glaring truth. She had changed. In more ways than one. Why else would she be here? Seeking help? From the one person whose help she had stubbornly refused in the past. Even when Gideon had always insisted that Darius could teach her more about lycans, teach her to be a better hunter.

  “What’s happened?” He frowned, those eerie eyes narrowing on her. “I thought you were leaving town? What are you doing here?” His nostrils flared ever so slightly, and he took a step closer. She heard him inhale, drawing in her scent. His eyes seemed to glow brighter. Her stomach quivered, her response primal, unwanted as he took yet another step closer, an encroaching wall of heat, overwhelming her with his nearness. “What’s happened to you?”

  She shivered and pulled back her shoulders, alarmed that he would immediately be able to sense that she had changed, that she was different. The fault must lie with her. With her inability to camouflage herself. She winced. No doubt one of the many things Rafe had insisted she needed to learn.

  She picked up a bronzed figurine of an armored knight from a side table. She turned it over in her palm. It looked very old, the details blunted from age. “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s different. You’re different.”

  She set the figurine down and looked directly into his silvery gaze, lifting her chin. “Tell me about the Marshan Prophecy? About dovenatus?”

  For a moment, the hard mask of his face cracked. Surprise flickered across the hard lines of his face, a muscle feathering in his square jaw an instant before the mask fell back into place again. “How did you hear of that? Who told you?”