Kiss of a Dark Moon

by Sharie Kohler

She crossed her arms and cocked a brow, waiting for him to put his finger on what precisely was different about her.

  It did not take him long.

  He slowly looked her up and down. “You?” he demanded. His silver eyes drilled into her. “How can that be?”

  “Apparently I descend from the Marshan line. I’m one of the lucky females EFLA is determined to eliminate.”

  He nodded slowly. “I see. You’re a descendant of Étienne Marshan.” He searched her face, and she wondered if he saw a resemblance to the lycan he had allegedly killed.

  She shrugged. “Or rather, Christophe Marshan.”

  He nodded. “Now it makes sense why they want you dead so very badly.”

  She felt her features twist with bitterness. “Apparently the prophecy that has everyone gunning for me has already come to pass. Hybrids have been alive and roaming around for over a century.” She laughed mirthlessly and dropped onto a buttery brown leather couch. “I’m a dovenatu. But by no means the first one.”

  “Dovenatus already exist?”

  “Yes. Two brothers. Twins. Their mother was attacked by a lycan nearly a century ago in a small village in Spain.”

  “These brothers. You’ve met them?” Darius sat across from her on the ottoman, his large shoulders tensing beneath the black linen of his shirt. “You know where they are?”

  She thought of the last time she had seen Rafe, his face hard, his dark eyes remote. As much as she swore to detest him for all he had done to her, the image would stay with her until the day she died—along with his taste, the feel of his lips on hers, the memory of them together, the sensation of his hard body over her, in her…

  She brushed her fingers against her mouth as if she felt him there.

  Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from her lips. “I’ve met only one of them, the one that turned me. His name is Rafe Santiago. The brother is in Europe somewhere.”

  Darius rubbed the hard line of his jaw. “Do you realize what this could mean?” He motioned behind him. “He may possess the answers I need. A blood sample from him—and you—and we may be able to create a genetic history.”

  “A blood sample,” she muttered. Darius didn’t want to help her. He only wanted to use her. Screw him.

  He leaned forward on the ottoman eagerly. “Where is he?”

  She opened her mouth to snap at him that there were no answers, no solutions to his quest to reverse the curse and regain his soul, but then she stopped herself. Wasn’t she hoping to do the same? Return to herself? Reverse what Rafe had done to her?

  His silvery gaze fastened on her. “You must meet with Dr. Howard.”

  “Who?”

  “The geneticist I’ve hired to conduct research.” At her mulling silence, he continued, “This Rafe Santiago has given you a great gift, Kit.”

  “A gift?” Her spine shot ramrod straight. He’d lied to her, held her captive, then freed her as if he couldn’t stomach the sight of her. “To be like you? Cursed?”

  His expression grew grim, the skin stretching tight along the hard lines of his face. “Still pig-headed, I see. Unwilling to change, to learn.”

  She breathed thinly through her nose. His words stung. It was the same song. She’d heard it on more than one occasion from Cooper. From Gideon and Claire, when she had refused to give Darius a chance.

  From Rafe.

  “You’re hardly cursed,” he continued. “You still keep your soul…and live in the light. Not darkness.”

  Something in his voice, in the hard mask of his face, shook her. For a moment, she glimpsed the darkness he spoke of, the darkness that dragged him down every second of every day, weighing every breath he took. How many souls had he killed over the centuries? Did each one haunt him still?

  Not liking the realizations she was reaching, or the way she was beginning to feel sorry for him, she turned and started to walk from the room, calling over her shoulder, “Forget I came here.”

  Before she knew it, Darius stood before her, having whipped past her in a blur her eyes could hardly register.

  His eyes glittered as hard as ice. “It’s time you hear a few hard truths.”

  “From you?” she demanded, snorting. Hot, familiar rage swept over her, heating first her face and neck, then spreading down through the rest of her. “How about I tell you a few hard truths instead?”

  His face revealed nothing. Such calm irked her. He was the monster. Why should he appear so unaffected when her emotions raged out of control?

  “You’re a murderer, Darius. No matter how long it has been since you’ve killed.” She gestured wildly, knowing his research lab lurked somewhere in his spotless mansion. “All your research, all the Caltech scientists you buy can’t save you. No antidote will ever give you back your soul.” Her chest heaved by the time she’d finished speaking.

  He still did not move, did not speak. A damned pillar of stone.

  Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Blood rushed in her ears as loudly as cars speeding on an interstate. She forced her chin up and held his hard stare.

  “Why are you here, Kit?” he asked at last. “Why did you come?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice came out a choked whisper. “I thought you could help me.”

  “Hybrids are an entirely different species, even if some genetic traits tend to be the same. You’re not ruled by the moon or a need to feed. You can shift at will. Why not accept that you are a dovenatu and—”

  She shook her head even as she thought of the last time she’d shifted. The sensation of her body stretching, twisting, tearing in pain. The terror of losing control. Losing herself.

  She hadn’t willed it. She had simply been too furious to stop it. Rafe had talked her through it, the warm whisper of his voice leading her past the red haze of her rage until she felt herself returning to normal, but she had left him. Her stomach churned, knotting tightly, and suddenly she feared she would be sick.

  “Is it really so bad?” Darius’s voice slid over her quietly, seductive as the drag of silk. “Why not embrace what you are?”

  “What’s good about it?” she retorted, heat swarming her face. She pounded a hand against her chest. “I’m not me! Not human.”

  Darius’s mouth twisted cruelly. “What did being human ever get you, Kit?”

  She flinched as he stepped nearer, cringing as he inhaled near her cheek. His dark scent swirled around her. “I can smell him on you, this dovenatu. His scent is all over you. You belong to him now. What are you doing here?”

  She gasped, her feminist hackles quivering with indignation.

  “He belongs to you, too,” he added, as though reading her mind.

  She stared at Darius, his words shocking and thrilling her in some buried, primal way.

  He stepped back, jaw locked and resolute. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “You’re not sorry.”

  “If I were you, I would find Rafe Santiago again. You need him right now.” He cocked his dark head, blue-black strands of hair brushing his massive shoulders. “But then, you know that already.”

  Need him. His words burned her up, fueled her anger. They were the same words Rafe had used.

  “Well, you’re not me,” she snapped, loathing that she recognized a truth in all he had said.

  Stepping around him, she stormed from the living room, stalking over the limestone foyer and out the front door, wondering if leaving Rafe, walking away from him, might have been the biggest mistake of her life.

  CHAPTER 28

  Kit sat behind the Hummer’s wheel, the leather vibrating against her palms as she drove. The lights of oncoming traffic blurred before her. She swiped a hand at her burning eyes, refusing to let tears fall. Damn.

  There must be some explanation for the sob that scalded the back of her throat. A side effect from her unwelcome transformation? Could Rafe’s turning her have truly bonded her to him? Something had to explain the loss she felt inside, the dull ache in her chest. Something. An
ything except that she actually cared for him.

  The likelihood of that very thing shook her.

  She missed Rafe. Propping her elbow on the arm-rest of the driver’s-side door, she shook her head. It made no sense. She missed the very thing she fought. A man who lied to her and chained her to a bed. The only one, she now realized—she now accepted—who could help her. She trusted him. Another word rose in her mind, a nagging whisper.

  Her mind shied from the word, but it was there, a shadow in the far corners of her mind.

  Whipping across two lanes, she exited the freeway. Heading into the familiar. The loud, boisterous din where she always managed to drown out the world and forget the void in her own life.

  Right now, forgetting seemed a good idea. It didn’t even faze her where she was headed, or that EFLA or lycans might also be there. In her mood, she relished the idea of a good fight.

  Two hours later, and too many shots of Crown to count, she realized she wasn’t the least bit drunk. Not even buzzed. Apparently another consequence of her new dovenatu status. That and her ultrasensitive nose. The hot stink of too many bodies overwhelmed her.

  Gus poured her another shot from behind the bar. “What’s eating you, babe?”

  Kit shook her head and slammed another shot. “Nothing.”

  “Only two reasons a woman goes drinking alone,” Gus volunteered over the heavy thrum of voices.

  She nearly snarled when someone bumped into her, sloshing the amber liquid in her glass onto her fingers. Repositioning herself atop her stool, she downed the drink and slid her glass across the bar’s sticky surface, muttering, “Lay it on me.”

  “Well.” Gus shrugged a well-muscled shoulder. “A: because she’s alone. No woman ever wants to be alone.” He held up a broad palm as if he thought she was going to object. “I don’t care what feminists say.”

  Kit’s brow winged up at that. Despite Gus’s chauvinistic attitude, the middle-aged biker had always been good to her—covering for her when she was late, picking up shifts when she couldn’t make it in, even loaning her money a time or two when she came up short at month’s end.

  “Or B,” Gus continued, “because she’s got a man, only he’s a no-good loser she’d be better off without.” Gus shook his bald head. “Which is it, babe? You seeing someone?” He snorted. “Not Dan, I know. Last time I ever set you up.” Gus poured another shot. With a quick glance around to make sure the owner wasn’t looking, he slammed it back. With a smacking sigh, he added, “Milly stopped baking me those magic cookie bars of hers because you stood up her precious son.” He patted the belly pushing against his Harley T-shirt. “Lost five pounds already.”

  Dan. Kit had almost forgotten about him. No surprise, considering the man who had filled her life—her world—of late. She hopped off the stool, suddenly accepting that Gus’s particular brand of philosophy wasn’t making her feel any better. “Thanks, but I’m outta here.”

  “Hey, you okay to drive?”

  Kit smiled grimly, not the least affected from the half-dozen or so shots. Unfortunately. She wouldn’t mind the dulling influence of alcohol right now. “Sure.”

  Gus eyed her dubiously. Kit stared back.

  With a slow nod, he asked, “When you coming back to work?”

  “I don’t know.” Her appearance tonight would no doubt make the rounds. If she didn’t call in for a shift soon, the manager would fire her. But Kit couldn’t summon a shred of worry. Her job was the least of her concerns now. Gideon was expecting her in New Mexico. And considering she didn’t know how to find Rafe…if, in fact, that is what she wished to do, she had no clue where he’d made off to.

  “Night,” she called, diving through the Friday night crush, squeezing her way to the back door, the quickest exit. Kid Rock reverberated all around her, rattling her bones.

  With a grateful sigh, she broke free, the scarred steel door thudding shut behind her, stifling the din. Inhaling the night’s warm, smoke-free air, she burrowed her hands into her jeans pockets and rounded the building, walking through the parking lot toward Rafe’s Hummer, the black hood gleaming beneath the clear, moonlit night.

  The rush of cars on the nearby highway hummed like a drone of bees in the distance. Other sounds penetrated. The faint buzz of an airplane in the distance. A passing car, the bass throbbing on the air.

  Gradually, more noises rose, eclipsing the others. Even if they were not as loud.

  Skin tingling, she stopped and listened, identifying the sounds. The scuffling of feet on loose gravel. The sharp cries of someone in distress. Her hand balled into a fist in her pocket.

  She resumed walking, her pace increasing. She followed the faint sounds, passing her own car. Feet crunching over asphalt, she exited the parking lot, skipping across the street.

  Her skin tightened, stinging with keen, primal awareness as a woman’s voice reached her.

  Stop! God, stop—no, no, no, no.

  Sliding her hand from her pocket, she broke into a run. Arms pumping at her sides, she crossed a railroad track, hauling ass through a vacant lot with weeds as high as her knees.

  Her senses sharpened, guiding her. No thought entered her mind. Instinct—pure, darkly primitive—drove her.

  The sounds became more distinct. The woman’s wrenching cries for mercy echoed through her head, joined by rough, snarling laughter.

  Something strange tickled the inside of her nose. The faint odor burned, stung like a foul chemical.

  Fear. Thin and stinging. A definite smell.

  Saliva pooled in her mouth. Her nostrils twitched, flared, catching another scent. Familiar. Heavy as sweat, as smoke drifting on air. Lycans.

  She vaulted a chain-link fence, dropping lightly to the pavement in a crouching position, fingers brushing the ground. She was close now.

  Pausing, she straightened, smelling the air before proceeding, her feet light, skimming the ground as she ran into an area consisting of warehouses and run-down commercial office space. Buildings whipped past in a blur, their windows watchful, blackened eye sockets. Hot wind singed her cheeks. Scattered perimeter lights cast the drab buildings a hellish red—fitting, considering the demons who prowled close at hand, torturing the night’s chosen victim.

  Her senses guided her, an invisible hand leading to the unfortunate soul. She found the creatures between two buildings. The victim was pinned down on broken asphalt, surrounded by ramshackle crates that smelled of mildew and rot.

  Kit counted five. More than she had ever faced alone. She slid her gun free just as they lifted their heads, catching her scent on the breezeless night.

  Two of them removed themselves from their tight circle, lips peeling back in cruel smiles. She braced her legs apart, muscles coiling in readiness.

  The other three lowered their heads and continued their assault on the female who thrashed beneath them as uselessly as a bug.

  “Come to join the party?” one asked Kit, silver eyes roaming her from head to foot as he approached in a loose-legged amble.

  She lifted her chin. “Bring it,” she bit out, the low, guttural sound of her voice strange to her ears.

  They sprang in unison, flying through the air.

  She held her gun in her hand and was firing before she even realized she had pulled the weapon.

  One lycan dropped. The scent of his blood, acrid as cordite, singed her nose.

  She fired at the second beast.

  He fell, clawing his chest, blood pouring freely from the wound.

  The coppery taste of fresh blood floated on the air, curling around her like tendrils of poison gas. She compressed her lips, trying to seal herself off from the noxious taste.

  “She’s the hunter! The one!”

  Two more flung themselves off their victim, charging Kit, eyes silver flames in the dim alley, testimony to their animal fury. Only one remained over the woman, slave to his savage lust as he worked her over.

  They moved in on Kit quickly, using all their considerable strength and sp
eed. Still, it took no time for her to aim and squeeze off two more rounds.

  They were falling through the air, the last one not yet hitting the ground, and she was moving, pouncing on the remaining one and wrapping her arms around his neck in a ruthless grasp.

  Blood rushed her veins, the pump of adrenaline making her heart pound harder. A dull roar filled her ears. The lycan thrashed, trying to throw her off him. Still, she held on, nails digging, tearing into his flesh. He howled an ungodly shriek.

  The lycan’s victim opened her mouth wide on a scream. Gazing at Kit, she stumbled to her feet, holding the tattered fragments of her dress over herself. And Kit knew. Knew what she saw. Knew what terrified her.

  She was in full form. She likely looked as Rafe had with his face transformed into sharp lines and angles. Almost feline in appearance. Not human. But not lycan, a voice whispered. Better. Stronger.

  Power surged through her like an electrical current. She knew she could rip this lycan apart. But that would be plain savagery—a dark side to herself she did not ever want to unleash.

  She released him, and he dropped like a sack of grain, moaning and clutching the bloody scratches scoring his neck.

  Like a rabid dog, he needed killing. Not the butchery of a savage attack. And only silver could do that.

  The woman whimpered and huddled against the wall of the building. Her face was badly beaten, one eye swollen shut, her nose crushed, blood seeping from her nostrils and sliding down into her mouth. “Don’t hurt me,” she choked, staggering to her feet. Sidling close to the wall of the building, she stumbled over crates and garbage, fleeing.

  Kit didn’t stop her, had no wish to frighten her more.

  Returning her attention to the lycan, she picked up her gun.

  With one hand pressed to the swiftly regenerating flesh at his neck and the other hand clawing the ground, trying to crawl away, he spat out, “What are you?”

  She lifted her arm, a great feeling of peace sweeping over her. The tide of animal fury ebbed, subsided. She felt herself returning, the beast receding to its cave within her. “Not you,” she said, firing, forever stilling the lycan.