by deba schrott
He lowered his body, the erection he’d gotten the instant he’d tossed her over his shoulder landing safe in the cradle of her thighs.
She gasped, arched, the movement pressing them together in both new and familiar ways. Her neck, so long and slim and white, slid along his mouth, and he remembered taking her skin, marking her, and he wanted to do it again.
Since he’d never been one to deny himself—Viking—he did.
She tasted like fury—heat and blood—everything that
had made him what he was, everything he both loved and loathed in this world.
Her hands beneath his shirt were cool. They felt like
heaven against his flushed skin. Her hair brushed his cheek, sending her scent—lemon ice—across his face. The flavor of her mouth made him desperate to plunge within
Their clothes fell away—boots, shirts, jeans—and in moments they lay naked on his living room floor.
He lifted his head, shifted his body, and she put her palm against his chest, staying him. Confused, he glanced into her eyes. “This is supposed to be pretend,” she said.
He froze as reality tumbled in. The argument. The stakeout. The rogue. Damn.
“I’ve never been very good at it.” He rolled off her, his erection dying in an instant.
She came up on one elbow. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You’re very good at it.”
The twist she put on the final word left no doubt the it she was talking about. The mark on her neck was already fading, and he wanted to put it there again. He wanted to mark her in such a way that everyone in this town and every other would know that she was his.
He sighed and laid his arm over his face. What was wrong with him?
She wasn’t his. He didn’t want her to be. But tell that to his treacherous body.
“You think we’ve been down here long enough for everyone to believe we’re… you know?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure everyone believes we’re you knowing our brains out.”
She laughed, and he was so surprised, he dropped his arm and got an eyeful of her bare-naked ass as she crawled away from him.
“Hey!” He wrapped his fingers around her ankle.
She paused and glanced back. The sight of her on her knees, her hair swaying in time with the light sway of her breasts, made his penis consider a repeat erection.
“We need to get to the village before the rogue really does eat George,” she said.
He let go of her ankle, rolling onto his feet.
She tackled him before he could stand, throwing her body atop his. “We’re supposed to be doing the horizontal bop, Barlow. Don’t stand up and show everyone that we’re not.”
He really was no good at pretending. Which was proved when his semi-erect penis poked her in the belly.
“Maybe later.” She leaned down and kissed him, quick
and hard, before she came again to her knees and crawled out of the living room, smacking her hand against the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as she stood.
Julian continued to lie on the floor, willing his erection to wither—hey, there was a first time for everything—and not having much luck.
Maybe later?
How on earth did she expect him to function with those words echoing in his ears?
The sound of a window being opened at the back of the house was followed by a series of moans and grunts that did nothing to aid in his withering.
Shape-shifting wasn’t easy. Unless you were him.
Julian closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out, and eventually managed to stop imagining Alex naked on her knees. By the time he made his way to the bedroom, she was a wolf—sleek and soft, her green eyes shining from her tawny wolf face. She leaped onto the sill and disappeared through the opening, the crunch of her paws on the snow outside a siren call to the wolf awakening within him.
Then he was running, springing from the floor as a man, going through the window as a wolf, landing next to her mid-lope as together they welcomed the night.
Alex felt the pull of the moon, a shimmer like lust deep within. She wanted to tilt her muzzle to the sky and howl.
She wanted to roll in the snow; she wanted to tumble, snout-over-paws, across the ground. She wanted to get all tangled up.
With him.
She could no longer deny that something in Julian Barlow called to something in her—and not just when they were wolves.
The silver orb seemed to whisper her name. The moon knew her, and she knew it. When the moon called, Alex would answer. It had marked her as one of the children of the night.
Running beneath the shimmery glow both soothed and energized. She was wolf and woman, strength and intelligence in perfect form.
The dark side beckoned. She knew she should resist, but she was helpless against it. She couldn’t leave until she had what she’d come here for. But the longer she remained, the more she became one with the moon, with this other half of herself, the less chance she had of finding the woman she’d been before he had changed her. When she was like this she didn’t want to.
Barlow ran at her side, his golden fur spiked by the shimmering sheen. Their claws clicked against the ice-soaked land in perfect syncopation. She could swear his heart and hers beat in the rhythm of time.
Then he swerved, bumping into her, sending her tumbling across the ground. Before she could right herself, he pounced and together they frolicked, like puppies, cubs, kittens—something young and furry—beneath the smiling, brilliant moon.
They wrestled and rolled, striving for dominance—a game and a gamble she lost. He pinned her to the ground, her underside exposed, his mouth at her neck, teeth just pricking the skin beneath her fur. And as before, his penis pressed against her belly—hard and pulsing—calling to the lust that lived within her for both him and the night.
They stayed like that, him above and in control, her on her back barely breathing, and she began to imagine his mounting her, her letting him. He’d ride her from behind, perhaps even bite her as he came, then she did.
He let go, and the sudden release of her throat from captivity had Alex spinning from back to front—the instinct of an animal to protect its soft side—where she met him face-to-face as he hunkered shoulders low, tail end high, wiggling in anticipation of play.
He feinted; she parried; then he was running, she was chasing. They went skidding across the ice. She felt like a kid again, until she remembered that she’d never been a kid.
Had he?
The distant howl of a wolf had them both pausing mid-wiggle. Alex knew with an instinct she hadn’t realized she possessed that the howl had been that of an actual wolf. But the call reminded them both of why they were here and sent them trotting briskly in the direction of where they needed to be. Clouds danced over the moon; then snow began to tumble down.
Barlow had taken a quick trip to Awanitok that afternoon and had an equally quick chat with George. The young man was supposed to wait until he heard Barlow’s howl before walking about in the night like the foolish boy he wasn’t.
The Inuit settlement was quiet and dark as they approached, until something moved on the outskirts.
The ruff on Alex’s neck went up. She lifted her nose.
George.
The kid had heard the call of the wolf, but, unlike them, he’d been unable to distinguish wolf from werewolf, so he’d exited his home and begun his stroll. He was already leaving the boundaries of the village.
Barlow jerked his head, indicating Alex should go in one direction; he would go in the other. They needed to be closer to George, and they needed to stay downwind.
Alex stalked the boy as he clumped along, making as
much noise as he could, whistling, too. If the rogue was out there, it couldn’t help but hear him.
The snow had thickened, the wind had come up. At times the flakes became so frenzied, Alex had a hard time seeing.
Her gaze scanned the area. Flat in some places, th
ere were also mounds of snow and chunks of ice big enough to hide a wolf. Combined with all the nooks and crannies within the town itself plus the damnable snowstorm, the rogue could be anywhere.
Then something moved, a shadow just there, low to the ground and very quick. Alex looked for Barlow, didn’t see him, which didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Considering who— make that what—he was, he might be invisible.
He’d been so before.
Regardless, she needed to get closer to George. If the rogue attacked, someone had to stop it.
She slunk from behind a building, slithered along its edge, blending into the swirling shadows as best she could as she kept her gaze on the lump of snow and ice where she’d seen the movement.
It hadn’t been wolf-like. Then again it hadn’t really been human. Alex tilted her head, considering. Maybe the movement had been Barlow.
She blew air out her nose, pawed the snow a little, confused. She wanted to charge over there and discover what was going on. But she couldn’t reveal her presence and perhaps let the rogue get away for good.
Almost as if he’d heard her thoughts, or perhaps merely seen the shadow, George ventured closer to the suspicious pile of snow. Alex whined, just a little, hoping he would hear her and hesitate.
Instead George walked nearer and nearer the place where danger might lie, and Alex couldn’t stay in the shadows any longer. If the rogue crouched behind that glistening white mound, it would kill the boy before she could stop it.
As there was no cover once she left the protection of the buildings, Alex didn’t even try to be subtle. She shot across the distance separating them, headed straight for George.
A loud crack split the night an instant before a wolf erupted straight through the snowbank. Covered in white, she couldn’t see the true shade of its coat, and the animal was moving too fast to catch a glimpse of its eyes or anything else. The beast ran straight for George.
Alex leaped at the boy, knocking him to the ground, then rolling to her feet, trying to put herself between the downed kid and the second wolf.
Before she could gain her balance, the animal hit her broadside, and she flew off her paws, slamming into the ice hard enough to stun.
At the same time she heard another crack, wondered distantly what it had been, even as she waited for the wolf to tear at her throat or her belly.
And by the way—where in hell was Barlow?
Then he landed next to her in a heap. It took an instant before she understood that this wolf was Barlow. But why had he been chasing George? Why had he knocked her down?
And what was that smell?
Alex rolled onto her belly just as George came to his knees. “Someone’s shooting at us,” he said.
Alex glanced at Barlow. Flames sputtered in the center of his chest.
“Or maybe just at you two,” George murmured.
Alex threw her body atop Julian’s. Her fur caught fire. George tried to help by scooping snow in his hands and tossing it on top of them both. He managed to put out Alex, but Barlow was another story.
Because once a silver bullet pierced a werewolf somewhere vital, they were done for.
CHAPTER 21
“Ooooooo!”
The howl rose through the sifting snow toward the grainy, hidden moon.
Alex wished she had a gun, and fingers, so she could end Barlow’s torment. Her throat ached to join him as he howled out the remaining seconds of his life.
George had run back to town, presumably to find water—a bucket, a hose, a fire hydrant. It wouldn’t do any good, but it gave the boy something to do.
Her eyes prickled—the smoke, the stinging snow, that was all—as Alex fought the wolf’s urge to run away.
Barlow might be the bane of her existence, but she wasn’t going to let him die alone.
“Ooooo—whooo!”
The shift in the howl from mindless pain and fury to a distinguishable word had Alex tilting her head, stepping closer. The snow had become a blizzard, and she could just discern the outline of Barlow shimmering—there, and then gone and then there again. Was he getting taller as he died?
“Whooooooooo dares?”
The words echoed across the night as Barlow, naked and man-size, his chest a bloody mess, burst from the swirling blanket of white.
His arms stretched outward, muscles flexing, fingertips twinkling, as his head tilted back and the cords in his neck tightened. A sound of pure, animalistic rage lifted toward the moon and the silver bullet popped out of his chest, arcing through the chilly air and plopping into the snow with a wet thunk.
Alex stood there, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling free as the hole in his skin knit together and the burn marks faded away. -No wonder Edward wanted this guy dead.
George returned with a pail in one hand and a down quilt in the other. The snow had thickened considerably and Barlow had become a shadow again an instant before George tossed the quilt at Alex, then hauled back to toss the water in his direction.
Barlow stepped out of the snow and, shocked, George let go of the pail, which flew several feet in the other direction. From the sloshing sounds, it landed upside down.
“What?” the boy began. Then, “How?” He finished with, “Huh?”
“Did you tell anyone what happened?” Barlow asked.
George shook his head. “I didn’t know if whoever shot you was still here or if the rogue was, too. I didn’t want them hurt.”
Barlow grunted, peering into the storm. “Get us some clothes,” he ordered.
The kid ran. Alex didn’t blame him. She wanted to.
Alex imagined herself, herself and began the annoyingly
slow process of becoming human again. She had a few things
to ask the wolf-god.
“I am still so pissed!” Barlow muttered, then he stomped closer, knelt, and set his hand on her back, which was contorting this way and that as it went from wolf to woman.
As soon as he touched her, the world spun, and by the time Alex opened her eyes, she had legs, fingers, skin.
She lay in the snow, dizzy and freezing, doing her best to
catch up.
“What can’t you do?” she muttered.
Barlow, who’d straightened and returned to staring at the swirling white, glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“You can move at the speed of sound.” He snorted. “Almost. You can become invisible.” He shrugged. “Change the shade of your fur.”
“Not sure about that.” He turned again to the storm.
“Well, since you can heal silver, I’m betting turning from a golden wolf to a purple one wouldn’t be any trouble for you at all.”
“Mmm,” he murmured.
“That’s all you can say? Mmm?” She got to her feet, ignoring the burn of the ice against her soles. “You just popped a silver bullet out of your chest, Julian.” Alex threw up her hands. “What the fuck?”
For an instant she considered that Barlow himself could be the werewolf that had murdered her father. He could heal silver; there wouldn’t be a mark on him from the bullet she’d fired on that long-ago night. But if Barlow were the culprit, wouldn’t Edward have mentioned that?
No, whispered a little voice. Because if he had, Alex would have shot Barlow the next time she saw him rather than allowing him to lead her to the werewolf village. And the village was what Edward was after—that and the army Barlow didn’t appear to have.
Alex’s mind whirled. Who was the bad guy? Who was manipulating whom? Who could she trust?
“I don’t know what I can do,” Julian murmured, still facing away from her. “Most everything I’ve ever tried, I’ve done.”
“Maybe that’s why someone tried to kill you.”
Barlow turned then, eyebrows lifted. “They weren’t trying to kill me, Alex, they were trying to kill you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
If possible, Barlow’s eyebrows went higher.
“Lately,” she muttered.
Alex considered what had happened. She’d left the safety of the village; there’d been a sharp crack, which she’d ignored in her concern for George. Barlow had burst through the snowbank, knocked her aside, and then—
Crack’
“You pushed me out of the way,” she said.
Barlow shrugged and didn’t comment.
Why would anyone want to kill her? No one knew her well enough yet to hate her.
It suddenly occurred to Alex that while she had not gotten a good look at her father’s killer, her father’s killer might have gotten a pretty good look at her. But if that was the case, why hadn’t the culprit outed her as a Jäger-Suchers to the others the instant she’d loped into town?
Because to do that would be to admit that he or she had not been the good little Barlow-escue werewolf he or she was supposed to be but had instead been out killing people.
Alex thought it far more likely that the wolf, if it had recognized her—and maybe it hadn’t, she’d been fifteen at the time—would try to kill her. Now someone had.
Which meant her father’s killer was here. Perhaps Edward hadn’t been manipulating her—much—after all.
“Aren’t you the slightest bit concerned?” Barlow asked. “I just told you someone tried to put a silver bullet into you, and you stand there staring into space.”
“Werewolves try to kill me every damn day,” Alex said. “It’s when they try to be my friend that I get a little freaked out.”
“Who said it was a werewolf?”
Alex scowled. “Who the hell else would it be?” “Let’s find out.”
George appeared out of the ever-thickening snow, his arms full of clothing and boots. He dumped them onto the ground between Alex and Julian.
“Thanks,” Julian said. “Now get inside and stay there.”
The boy opened his mouth to argue. Julian narrowed his eyes, and George snapped it shut again, then spun on his heel and marched away.
Alex snorted and muttered something that sounded a lot like wolf-god. As if that were some kind of insult.
Julian wasn’t sure where George had found the clothes, but he’d done a good job. Certainly everything was a bit tight on him, but Alex’s apparel appeared just her size. Probably because he’d caught the kid staring at her ass on more than one occasion.