by Lucy Monroe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
“Lucy Monroe captures the very heart of the genre.”
—Debbie Macomber, New York Times bestselling author
Moon Craving
“An ancient race of werewolves trying to survive among humans holds Monroe’s series together. The medieval Scots setting and her strong characters leave their mark on readers in this sexy, stay-up-all-night read.”
—Romantic Times
“These characters are charismatic in their own way, and you find yourself as lost in them as they are in each other.”
—The Good, The Bad and The Unread
“Highly recommended!”
—ParaNormal Romance
“A book that will grab you right from the beginning … Likeable characters and an engaging romance make Moon Craving a thoroughly captivating tale that I highly recommend.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Ms. Monroe captivates the readers with her spine-tingling explosive action and highly intense, sensual love story.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“The characters came to life from page one and I found it impossible to put down; I actually read it in one sitting.”
—Rites of Romance Reviews
“A passionate and wonderful book. Fans of Lucy Monroe will sigh with romantic delight as the pages come alive. Don’t miss it.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
Moon Awakening
“Simply awesome … Stunningly sexy and emotionally riveting … Easily one of the best paranormals I’ve ever read!”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“An exciting tale, Moon Awakening is a book I highly recommend, and I can’t wait for the next story.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A sensual, humorous story with intriguing and entrancing characters … Outstanding … I’m looking forward to future stories.”
—Fresh Fiction
PRAISE FOR LUCY MONROE AND HER NOVELS
“[A] wicked and wonderful temptation … Tempt Me is … for any reader hungry for passion and adventure. Give yourself a treat and read this book. Lucy Monroe will capture your heart.”
—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author
“Lucy Monroe’s romances sizzle!”
—JoAnn Ross, New York Times bestselling author
“If you enjoy Linda Howard, Diana Palmer, and Elizabeth Lowell, then I think you’d really love Lucy’s work.”
—Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author
“Monroe brings a fresh voice to historical romance.”
—Stef Ann Holm, USA Today bestselling author
“A light read with many classic touches … Highly enjoyable.”
—Romantic Times
Berkley Sensation titles by Lucy Monroe
TOUCH ME
TEMPT ME
TAKE ME
MOON AWAKENING
MOON CRAVING
MOON BURNING
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MOON BURNING
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Lucy Monroe.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47710-6
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For my son Zach. Your brilliance delights me, your insistence on marching to your own techno tune challenges me, your enjoyment of the paranormal connects to me and your heart touches me! You are a wonderful son and a young man any mom would be proud to call hers. May your dreams be realized, may your heart be blessed with joy and may your life be one of purpose and celebration. You have certainly brought both to mine!
Thank you! Much love, Mom
Prologue
THE BEGINNING
Millennia ago God created a race of people so fierce even their women were feared in battle. These people were warlike in every way, refusing to submit to the rule of any but their own … no matter how large the forces sent to subdue them. Their enemies said they fought like animals. Their vanquished foes said nothing, for they were dead.
They were considered a primitive and barbaric people because they marred their skin with tattoos of blue ink. The designs were usually simple. A single beast was depicted in unadorned outline, though some clan members had more markings that rivaled the Celts for artistic intricacy. These were the leaders of the clan and their enemies were never able to discover the meanings of any of the blue tinted tattoos.
Some surmised they were symbols of their warlike nature and in that they would be partially right. For the beasts represented a part of themselves these fierce and independent people kept secret at the pain of death. It was a secret they had kept for the centuries of their existence while most migrated across the European landscape to settle in the inhospitable north of Scotland.
Their Roman enemies called them Picts, a name accepted by the other peoples of thei
r land and lands south … they called themselves the Chrechte.
Their animallike affinity for fighting and conquest came from a part of their nature their fully human counterparts did not enjoy. For these fierce people were shape-changers and the bluish tattoos on their skin were markings given as a right of passage. When their first change took place, they were marked with the kind of animal they could change into. Some had control of that change. Some did not. And while the majority were wolves, there were large hunting cats and birds of prey as well.
The one thing they all shared in common was that they did not reproduce as quickly or prolifically as their fully human brothers and sisters. Although they were a fearsome race and their cunning was enhanced by an understanding of nature most humans do not possess, they were not foolhardy and were not ruled by their animal natures.
One warrior could kill a hundred of his foe, but should she or he die before having offspring, the death would lead to an inevitable shrinking of the clan. Some Pictish clans and those recognized by other names in other parts of the world had already died out rather than submit to the inferior but multitudinous humans around them.
Most of the shape-changers of the Scots Highlands were too smart to face the end of their race rather than blend. They saw the way of the future. In the ninth century AD, Keneth MacAlpin ascended to the Scottish throne. Of Chrechte descent through his mother, nevertheless, his human nature had dominated. He was not capable of “the change,” but that did not stop him from laying claim to the Pictish throne (as it was called then) as well. In order to guarantee his kingship, he betrayed his Chrechte brethren at a dinner, killing all of the remaining royals of their people—and forever entrenched a distrust of humans by their Chrechte counterparts.
Despite this distrust but bitterly aware of the cost of MacAlpin’s betrayal, the Chrechte realized that they could die out fighting an ever-increasing and encroaching race of humanity, or they could join the Celtic clans.
They joined.
As far as the rest of the world knew, though much existed to attest to their former existence, what had been considered the Pictish people were no more.
Because it was not in their nature to be ruled by any but their own, within two generations, the Celtic clans that had assimilated the Chrechte were ruled by shape-changing clan chiefs, though the fully human among them did not know it. A sparse few were trusted with the secrets of their kinsmen. Those that did know were aware that to betray the code of silence meant certain and immediate death.
That code of silence was rarely broken.
Stories of other shifter races were told around the camp-fire, or to the little ones before bed, but as most of the wolves had seen no shifters but themselves in generations, they began to believe the other races only a myth. A few knew the truth, but it was a truth they were determined to eradicate from shifter memory.
But myths did not take to the sky on black wings glinting an iridescent blue under the sun. Myths did not live as ghosts in the forest but breathed air just as any other man or animal. The Éan were no myth; they were ravens with abilities beyond that of merely changing their shape.
And they trusted the Faol of the Chrechte (the wolves) less than the wolves ever trusted humans.
Chapter 1
Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Donegal Lands, Scottish Highlands
Twelfth Century AD
The raven flew high above the earth, her keen vision spying five Donegal hunters in the forest below.
The red and black of their plaids peeked through the trees, leaving no doubt to the true number, but she could only hear three of them. Two were silent as they stalked their prey. Even her raven hearing, honed sharper than her talons, could not detect the sound of their movements.
They had masked their scents as well, showing they had better control of their Chrechte nature than the others. These two Faol of the Chrechte were dangerous.
No wolf could be trusted, but one who mastered his beast was one who must be watched most carefully. He would not be easily taken in by the tricks of the Éan. It was good her raven family had set her to this task. Another, less seasoned fighter could fail too easily with wolves such as these.
Sabrine had been protecting her people since her fifteenth summer, a long seven years past.
She circled lower, preparing for her landing. This had to look natural, but she did not relish taking human form merely to fall through a few tree branches. She was still a good distance from the men, though closer to the earth, when an agonizing pain pierced her left wing.
Her first instinct was to pull her wing to her body, but she forced herself to keep it extended so she could coast lower rather than spinning out of control. She would not die before saving her people from the wolves’ treachery.
As she neared the earth, she let her raven fall away, taking on her fully human form, just as she had planned to before the foul arrow had pierced her wing. Tree branches scratched at her body as she tumbled toward the ground.
She ignored the minor pain for the larger purpose. She would use the wolves’ thirst for blood against them. Their own actions would make way for her to find welcome in their clan.
As a helpless human female.
Dark amusement rolled through her with the pain of her landing. She grabbed the arrow, broke off the tip, gripped the other side, and yanked it from her arm.
As her world turned black around the edges, she threw the offending weapon as far from her as possible.
Barr’s big body spun silently at the sound of an arrow leaving its bow. Rage rode him harder than an English-man’s seat on his horse. No visible sign of the wild boar, there was no damn excuse for using the weapon.
Muin’s attention was focused on the sky, not the forest where it was supposed to be, the youngest in their party standing with his bow still lifted as if prepared to shoot again.
It would be easier to train the English, Barr thought with a snarl he made no attempt to suppress. He’d known Chrechte cubs with better hunting instincts.
“What the hell was that, boy?” Barr demanded in quiet tones meant to get his anger across but not to carry.
“I saw a raven,” Muin whispered fervently. “My gran-da says they’re bad luck and to kill them on sight.”
“Oh? And did your gran-da also teach you how to hunt?” Barr demanded with barely restrained wrath. “Did he teach you to warn our prey of our approach?”
“The boar would not have heard the arrow.” Muin’s attempt at defense carried no weight with Barr.
He moved so he towered over the beardless boy. “What happens when you kill a bird in the sky?”
Muin swallowed, his face twitching despite the fact he so obviously tried to hide his nerves. “It falls to the earth.”
“That is right. Do you suppose the bird will show us the courtesy of landing without sound?”
“Nay, laird.”
“Nay.”
Not for the first time since coming to the Donegal clan as acting laird and Chrechte pack leader, Barr wondered if he had the patience for the task. He’d liked his position as second-in-command for the Sinclair just fine, but the king had requested this favor. Barr wasn’t swayed. However, his former laird, Talorc, had seconded the request, adding to it his own that Barr train the Chrechte among the Donegal clan. Naturally, Barr had agreed.
He knew Talorc had developed a soft spot for Circin, the young warrior who had challenged him and ended up being trained in the way of their people for his trouble. Since Circin was to lead the Donegal clan one day, both by the king’s edict and the reality that he would one day be the strongest Chrechte amidst the Donegals, it was imperative he learn to control and utilize his wolf’s nature.
The task was not an easy one though, not with poorly taught Chrechte who seemed oblivious to their instincts and blind to their surroundings … on a good day.
Muin wasn’t usually one of the idiotic ones though.
That was the only thing saving him from a hard knock to the ground.
The young clansman’s face took on a hue as ruddy as his plaid. “I, uh …”
“Acted without thought. I would agree.”
“I’m sorry, laird.” Muin ducked his head, the shame he felt a palpable taste in the air around them.
“Do it again and I’ll toss you like a caber.”
“Yes, laird.”
“And, Muin?”
The youth raised his face to meet Barr’s gaze. Barr had to respect the courage it took to do that. He didn’t usually frighten grown men like his twin brother, Niall, did, mostly because he knew how to smile and his brother didn’t. Not that Barr had had reason to do so lately. However, his size alone intimidated many among the Donegal clan, Chrechte and human alike.
“Yes, laird?” Muin asked.
“We are Chrechte. We respect all life. We hunt for food, not for sport.”
“But the birds, they’re bad luck.”
“They’re birds. Only old men who remember their yesterdays better than today and cubs believe a bird brings or takes luck. You are a warrior. Act like it.”
Muin straightened, pulling his shoulders back. “Aye, laird.”
Barr shook his head and turned to continue their pursuit of the wild boar, for all the good it would do them. If their hunting party returned with a kill, he’d revise his opinion of these young Donegal Chrechte.
Earc would still have the boar’s scent at least. The other Sinclair warrior who had come with Barr to train the Donegal soldiers and the Chrechte among them never gave up on a hunt.
And he had not on this one, but he looked puzzled by the path the boar took through the forest. “It’s running from us,” Earc said in a voice no human would have been able to hear.
“You think it smells our younger Chrechte?” They had not yet mastered the ability to mask their scents for long periods of time.