Crave the Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “How in hell did you learn voodoo?”

  “I have a priestess on staff.”

  Matt stifled a repeated urge to laugh.

  “Okay,” he allowed. He’d really like to know more, but … Matt peered ahead. Their destination loomed a few hundred yards away. “What did the shaman tell you?”

  “Words have power,” Mandenauer said. “What occurs in a being’s life is what makes them who they are.”

  Matt thought about the wall that had told the Nahual’s story, or at least what the Ute who had created it had known of the story, and understood why those glyphs were there.

  “He also said sacrifice was needed to…” Mandenauer’s thin lips pursed. “Set the spell.”

  “What kind of sacrifice?”

  “Blood.”

  That figured.

  “What do we do?”

  “This incarnation of that ancient being has a new tale. To confine the creature, we write that tale on his tomb.”

  “And then the Nahual just strolls in and holds still while we bury him?”

  Mandenauer shot Matt a glance that reminded him very much of his mother when he’d annoyed her. “Hardly.”

  “Then how do we get him in there?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  * * *

  Not long afterward, Matt rappelled into the cavern. He reached the bottom and waited, expecting Mandenauer to follow. Instead, the old man waved him off. “I will stay here and keep watch.”

  “It’s daytime.”

  “For Gina,” Mandenauer said, “that does not matter. Until she has killed, she will remain in wolf form.”

  “You think she’ll come after us again?”

  “I know she will.”

  “Do not kill her,” Matt reminded him.

  “Make sure I do not have to. The sooner you are finished, the better off we all will be.”

  Matt moved past the glyph-covered wall, past the stone doorway, and around the corner, where he started on a fresh canvas, so to speak.

  With the paints and brushes he’d discovered in the knapsack Mandenauer had handed him—one Matt had thought held clips, ammo, maybe a few grenades—he worked fast. Matt wasn’t an artist, and he didn’t care how the glyphs looked. All he cared was that they were legible enough to hold meaning. That appeared to be the key.

  He drew the man-wolf figure, adding the la glyph as the Ute had before. The ingeniousness of that little quirk in meaning added a kind of “lock” to the spell that only blind, dumb luck had managed to “unlock.”

  Matt sketched a woman standing before a scribbled-upon wall, black smoke whooshing out an open doorway, and the magic dogs—because he liked them. In the distance he drew the ranch, surrounded by wolves. Stepping back, he examined his handiwork. Something was missing.

  Matt picked up the lantern he and Gina had left behind, then crossed the short space until he stood in front of the original panorama. He immediately saw the difference between this wall and the new one. A thin, wobbly line encircled the entire tableau.

  “Words have power,” he murmured. “What occurs in a being’s life is what makes them who they are. Willing sacrifice is the ultimate power.” Then he thought of Derek’s game, the spell that could imprison a Worgen. It had seemed silly then—really violent and kind of disgusting—but silly. Now…?

  Matt traced a finger along the reddish-brown line and knew without a doubt how the Aztecs had “set” the spell and confined the Nahual.

  He headed for the opening. But as he approached he heard a whoosh, a howl, a thud.

  Then nothing.

  CHAPTER 26

  Gray light filtered through the opening. When had the sun gone down?

  Matt hurried back in the direction he’d come. Even if Mandenauer was still alive, they had no time left for discussion. Matt would have to move forward with his theory without confirmation. Right now, he didn’t have much choice.

  Setting the lantern down, Matt tore through the knapsack. But where the old man kept every type of weaponry on his person, in his knapsack not so much. The sharpest thing Matt found was the broken end of a paintbrush. How had Mandenauer planned on making a blood sacrifice with nothing but that?

  Matt scanned the ground. Snatching up a likely rock, he dragged the jagged edge across his arm. Blood welled; he dabbed a finger, then began to paint.

  “Not enough,” he muttered. He was going to need a bigger hole.

  A soft thud, followed by the pitter-patter of wolf feet, had him grasping at the first idea that flitted through his head. Matt ducked behind the stone door, then pulled it as close to his body as he could. He was trapped in the small space, but at least the Nahual couldn’t rip out his throat.

  A snarl erupted, and something slammed into the door on the other side, driving the stone into Matt’s chest and his chest seemingly through his shoulder blades and into the wall at his back.

  Matt fought for breath as he gathered his thoughts. He needed blood—a lot of it and fast. He didn’t have a knife, but he did have fangs. Or at least the Nahual did. According to Mandenauer there was a cure for lycanthropy. He’d take the man up on it.

  If they survived.

  Before he could think any more about it, Matt offered his leg, and an instant later the creature’s teeth sank into his calf.

  Matt cried out, his fingers clenching around the edge of the door. The Nahual tore free a bite-sized chunk of flesh and blood sprayed. Matt yanked his leg back where it belonged.

  Then he saw the gap in his plan that loomed as large as the one in his calf. How was he going to paint a circle around the tableau if he was holding on to the door to keep the Nahual from latching onto his throat?

  “I never said it was a foolproof plan,” Matt murmured.

  Burning pain shot through his veins. His vision flickered. For an instant he was somewhere else, running across the range, chasing a herd of—

  Bam. Matt was back in his body, still clinging to the door as the Nahual paced and snarled on the other side.

  Had those been teenagers?

  Matt shook his head. “I never chased any kids. I never ran on four paws.”

  Yet.

  “Mandenauer!” Matt shouted.

  He hadn’t heard any shots or any screams. Just a thud. Maybe the old man had merely dropped his gun.

  As if that would ever happen.

  Another muffled thump in the distance had Matt’s spirits lifting. The old man wasn’t dead. He was—

  A second snarl reverberated down the stone hall. Matt risked a peek just as the reddish-brown wolf with Gina’s eyes emerged from the gloom.

  * * *

  Gina smelled blood and she wanted it, needed it, craved it like she craved the moon. She was half-mad with the pulse of hunger. When she caught the scent of the man who smelled like oranges what was left of Gina’s control snapped.

  How dare anyone take what was hers?

  She charged, crashing into her maker, who stood between her and the kill. She relished the battle. The crunch of bodies, the snap of teeth, the rip of flesh, then the splatter of blood against the dirt like rain. Fighting kept her from remembering the siren call of insanity, which made her want to howl at the moon, scrape at the ground, and whine until the voices shrieking in her head went away. They were loud, those voices, and they hurt her ears, even as the agonizing hunger pierced her stomach with razor-sharp claws.

  Beneath those screams something whispered that she couldn’t kill her maker—literally—that this was foolish, suicidal, wrong. But the hunger, the smell of oranges and blood, and that flicker of memory—a man’s laughter, his kiss, his touch, the way he made her feel. Every time she thought she knew who she was, another memory would surface and confuse her, increasing the lure of that madness.

  However, violence, blood, pain—they grounded her in this body, solidifying her as the wolf she knew herself to be. Her maker would never die? Fine with her. That only meant she could hurt him again and again and again. He was
the perfect toy.

  She didn’t even notice when her prey stopped hiding and began to move.

  * * *

  This was his chance.

  Matt let go of the door, swiped his fingers through the bleeding mess that was his leg, and got back to work. It was the race of a lifetime.

  Would he finish the job before one of the werewolves won the battle over who got to kill him?

  Would he complete the circle of blood around the drawings before he passed out?

  Or would he become a werewolf first and have no fingers for painting, let alone enough humanity left to care?

  Would what he was doing even work?

  It didn’t matter, because this was all that he had.

  Matt’s hand trembled. Precious droplets of blood ran down his arm, fell to the floor. But there was more pouring from his leg—so much that the dirt beneath his feet had gone dark and muddy.

  “Shouldn’t have made the damn vista so big,” he muttered.

  His teeth were beginning to chatter or perhaps just to change. They seemed too big for his mouth. They kept clacking together, distracting him.

  Snarls, growls, the rending of flesh, the thud of bodies, continued behind him. Matt ignored it all. It was when the sounds stopped that he needed to worry.

  Then, suddenly, they did.

  Matt risked a glance. Gina lay on the ground, broken, bleeding, breathing, but barely. He had to force himself not to run to her. There was nothing he could do, and she wouldn’t know him anyway.

  A rumble trilled across the damp air. Matt lifted his gaze from Gina’s inert form to the Nahual’s eyes. They were still Jase McCord’s eyes, and they hated Matt.

  The creature stalked forward, tongue lolling, fangs dripping. He made sure Matt had time to see his coming bloody, painful death—and to be afraid.

  Instead, Matt brushed his fingers over his leg one last time and sealed the circle.

  The sleek black wolf’s ruff lifted. He turned his head, tilted it in confusion; then, an instant too late, he knew.

  A single yelp escaped, and then an unseen force drew him backward, claws digging into the dirt, making furrows all the way into the crypt. The door slammed shut, cutting off his desperate howl. The silence that followed was both eerie and welcome. Then a low growl rumbled through the gloom as Gina rolled to her feet, ravenous eyes fixed on Matt.

  Matt didn’t move. He had nowhere to go, even if he could take a step without falling. However, she lifted her nose, sniffed once, snarled, and turned away.

  He was like her now, or near enough, and she needed human blood.

  Gina had taken a single step toward the opening when a figure staggered from the shadows.

  She leaped; a gun fired. She fell.

  Matt lifted his gaze to Edward Mandenauer, and the old man shot him, too.

  CHAPTER 27

  Gina awoke in her own bed. She hurt all over, especially her head. When she tried to remember what had happened, the headache bloomed toward migraine.

  “Shit,” she muttered, and pulled the covers over her face.

  However, with the darkness came flickering images of blood and death and mayhem. They scared her so much she yanked the covers back down.

  A gorgeous blond woman stood at the foot of Gina’s bed.

  “You remember me?” the woman asked.

  “Dr. Hanover.”

  “Elise.”

  “What kind of doctor are you?” Some kind of “ologist,” but Gina didn’t think it was psychologist. Which, considering what was in her head, was the only kind of doctor she needed.

  “Virologist.” Elise sat on the side of the bed. She didn’t appear afraid that Gina might grow fangs and tear out her throat.

  Maybe those thoughts, which had seemed like memories, were only dreams after all.

  “I cured you,” Elise continued.

  “Of what?”

  “Lycanthropy.”

  Or not.

  Gina sighed and closed her eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Elise continued. “Moon comes up, you’ll still be you. I promise. How are you feeling?”

  Gina’s eyes snapped open. “How do you think I’m feeling? My best friend is…” She paused. “What is he?”

  Dead? Trapped?

  Screaming?

  “Gone,” Elise said. “He was gone the instant he agreed to let the Nahual in.”

  “How did I get home?”

  “Edward’s got all kinds of connections. He called in a helicopter. Got both you and Matt out of there and back here so I could—”

  “Teo!” Gina sat up so fast the whole world spun, and Elise reached out to touch her shoulder with a hand that had a pentagram on the palm. Odd place for a tattoo.

  “Whoa,” Elise said. “You’re still a little shaky.”

  “Where is he? Is Teo okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Elise assured her. “I cured him, too.”

  Gina frowned. Teo had been bitten? Had she—?

  No. He’d been bleeding when she arrived. She’d wanted that blood so badly. But then …

  Images flickered. The fight. The Nahual howling. The door slamming. She’d gotten up, stomach rumbling, planning to make it stop with him, but by then he’d been more werewolf than human.

  Hell.

  “He hasn’t woken yet,” Elise continued. “He lost a lot of blood.”

  Blood. Gina could smell it, almost taste it, and that memory brought back the hunger. The desire to rip into Teo’s flesh and—

  “God!” Gina smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. Elise took that hand and pulled it back down.

  “That wasn’t you,” Elise said. “It was the demon.”

  “It was more me than you think,” Gina returned.

  Even now what she’d felt bubbled within her—the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the kill, the ecstasy that lay in the blood.

  “I know what it’s like,” Elise said.

  Gina peered into the other woman’s clear, blue eyes and saw the memories there. Elise did know; she would always know.

  “You have to be strong. If you let yourself give in to the…” Elise searched for a word.

  “Sadness?” Gina offered. “Madness?”

  “Gladness?” whispered a voice that gave her a start. Had that been the Nahual?

  No. That voice had been hers. Which almost made Gina want the Nahual’s voice back.

  “Darkness,” Elise said. “If you let yourself dwell on that swirl of guilt and memories, you’ll never move on, and the demon wins.”

  “I wanted people to die screaming because of me,” Gina whispered.

  “But they didn’t, Gina. You never killed anyone. Edward got to you in time.”

  That was good. That should make her feel better. Except—

  “Will I always remember that I wanted to?”

  Elise looked away. “Yes.”

  “Teo,” Gina continued. “I didn’t … hurt him, did I?”

  “You saved me.”

  Gina glanced up and he was there, pale, shaky, on crutches—but alive.

  Elise stood. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  She went out of the room and closed the door.

  Teo crutched across the floor as if he’d been using the things for years. However, when he got to the side of the bed, he let them clatter to the ground and kind of collapsed where Elise had just been. He took Gina’s hands, and he didn’t let go when she tried to pull away.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice even rougher than usual. “I love you.”

  “The woman you loved died.”

  “No. The woman I loved saved me. Twice.”

  At first she was confused—once maybe; what was he talking about? Then she remembered the cavern and she laughed, scaring herself with how unher that laugh sounded. “I wanted to be the one to kill you, Teo. I wasn’t trying to save you from him, but win you for myself.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

&nb
sp; His hands tightened on hers. “I felt it, too, Gina. The lust for blood, the passion for the kill, the craving for the rise of the moon that gives you power over life and death. That pounding hunger, which makes you want to do anything if only it will stop. But we’ll get past this. Together. You’ll see.”

  Gina swallowed. “Jase is dead.”

  “The Jase you knew, yeah. The thing he became…” Teo shook his head. “The Nahual’s still there. We’re going to have to make sure he never gets out.”

  “What if I start hearing him again?”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” She tilted her head, listened. “Or at least not yet.”

  “If we can keep people away from there, the creature’s voice will die.”

  “The Nahual’s voice will never die,” Gina said. “And neither will he.”

  “He’ll be silenced.” Teo’s eyes had gone the shade of gray-green smoke. “It’s the best we can do.”

  “Jase—” Her voice broke. “It’s my fault.”

  “McCord chose to give that thing access to his body and his mind so that he could hurt us, hurt you. How is that your fault?”

  “When I chose you, I doomed him.”

  “When he chose the Nahual, he doomed himself.”

  Which was exactly what Elise had said. When the words were repeated in Teo’s reasonable tone, the truth of them began to unfold.

  “Sacrifices have been made,” Teo continued. “If you don’t want those sacrifices to be in vain you need to live the life you were meant to live. In the sun. With a smile.” He touched her face. “With me.”

  Though the memories still hovered, shadows at the edges of her mind, hope, which glowed like the sun, began to push them back. She’d no doubt have terrible dreams for a long time, perhaps forever. But Elise was right; she couldn’t let the demon win.

  Gina leaned her cheek into Teo’s hand. She would never again crave the moon, but she would always, always crave him.

  EPILOGUE

  Matt sat on the porch, watching the sun set with Edward. Several of the horses—though not all—had found their way home and milled in the paddock. Matt had been thrilled to discover that Spike was one of them.