Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  While the adjuster assured me he would do his best to get the paperwork processed as quickly as possible, it didn’t change my immediate reality: I had no clothes other than the ones I was wearing, and no money to replace much of anything until that insurance check came in. I sighed. Much as I might want to lounge the rest of the day, I needed to earn money to pay for the replacement of my worldly goods. I needed to go somewhere with a change of clothes, individuals I could trust and a room where I could sleep.

  * * *

  Work wasn’t busy enough to adequately distract me. Not the early shift anyway. Tonight’s Snack and Sip special wasn’t drawing in the hoped-for crowds, even though by 11:00 p.m. we’d marked it down to half off. Odd really. We’re talking smidgelets on toothpicks, rolled in a chipotle-sweet cornflower batter and deep fried before being basted in a cheek-sucking sauce of scraped malaquo intestinal wall juice, chili peppers and blood oranges.

  Okay, no, I hadn’t actually tried it. But apparently they went great with a Steeping Gash (Blue Curacao, black tea and chocolate-liqueur-soaked sour cherries on ice covered with death-soaked morgue gauze).

  Still. We’re talking sweet, salty, savory and rank in a single on-special order. Maybe we should have waited for the Thursday 2:00 a.m. crowd to try it out.

  “Babybabybabybabybabybabybaby.” A guy—two heads, two necks that spindled into double-wide shoulders, with grease-streaked comb-overs that did nothing to hide the triple circlets of teeth which might otherwise be twin bald spots—had apparently been trying to get my attention.

  I swiveled my neck to look at him without making a full-body commitment to the conversation. The key was to focus on that spot, approximately level with the tops of his ears but between the double-headed split, where a single-headed individual’s eyes might reside. Trick of the trade.

  “Yes?” See? I could be polite.

  “Babybabybabybabybabe?” Both of his lower lips were quivering, although one was coated in a lascivious sheen of saliva while the other set was red and scaly from the cold. You know—winter in Toronto.

  “Yes?” Maybe he hadn’t heard me the first time. Even though all four of his eyes were staring at my chest. “Hey!” I snapped my fingers up high to divert his attention. “Up here, sir,” I said. “What can I get you?”

  The babe-babbler stopped speaking and pointed at the chalkboard off to the left of where he was sitting. I tried to ignore the brown beneath his fingernails that ran more to red than earthy.

  Oh. He wanted to order the special. Cool—Sandor would have less to throw out now. Smidgelets didn’t keep more than a few hours after they’d been thawed.

  Lynna called as I was returning from the kitchen with the tray of nip and nibbles. Babe-babbler and I shared the nod, the one that says “hey I see you” and sometimes “thanks, buddy” before I drifted farther from earshot to answer.

  She was safely ensconced in one of Anshell’s upper bedrooms, waiting for things to cool down on the streets, and feeling chatty. She’d even found someone to cover for her at work for a few days so I knew she was taking this seriously. Calmer, although I suspected Anshell had slipped a little something into her tea to help with that. It even sounded like she was surfing a little white-knight-white-horse crush on everyone’s favorite medic-slash-warrior. I warned her to take it slow but by the distracted uh huh uh huhs she gave me, I wasn’t holding on to much hope that she would listen.

  The next call, surprisingly, came from my mother. I’d forgotten all about our dinner arrangement for Friday night. She’d forgotten that the best way to reach me was on my cell phone. Instead she’d tried me at the apartment and had gotten the out of service message. Called my cell next but it kept going to voice mail. Finally she remembered where I worked, called directory assistance for the number and tracked me down here. Got to give her props for persistence and ingenuity. But I wasn’t ready to worry her yet, so I downplayed and distracted her from the obvious (something weird going on) and agreed to meet her at the bagel place uptown at 7:00 p.m. the following night. Sure, it was possible I’d go all furry before then, but life goes on and it waits for no one—especially a dinner with my mum.

  I loved my mum. She was one cool lady with a backbone of steel and a serious protective streak. She raised me on her own after Dad died, without much help from anyone. But she was getting older now, and I didn’t want to burden her with the latest happenings. I also didn’t want a bull’s-eye target on her back. So we had to get whatever was going on here resolved by tomorrow night. Otherwise I was going to have to spill, and I really didn’t want to have to do that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sleep took too long. I was restless in the Swan’s storage room; despite my overwhelming exhaustion, I couldn’t turn my mind off enough to let it all go. Legs twitchy. Pillow too hard, mattress too soft, blanket scratchy in all the wrong places. I knew I was safe—okay, hoped I was—but I was on my own in this big warehouse of a place. None of the guys had popped by. Which didn’t mean anything, right? I’d managed just fine without the trio before my life turned to shit.

  And then there was a rapping at the door and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “Knock knock,” he said.

  My breath hitched. I looked around for something to throw, something I could use as a weapon. Cans of newt balls. Jars of goreal pinkie jam. A pillow. I picked up one of my steel-toed combat boots instead.

  “I can hear you breathing,” he said. “Let me in. We need to talk.”

  I said nothing. Because talking. Right. That’s what we needed to do. Because what had happened between us earlier wasn’t freaking me out at all.

  “Dana, let me in.”

  I let a full minute go by, weighing the possibilities before finally saying those two words: “Come in.”

  Sam pushed the door open. Firm. Not aggressive, but not backing down either. He could have entered at any time—the door hadn’t been locked. He filled the space with his energy, his bulk, the light behind him framing his hair with an edge of wildness, hiding that spark I knew was in his eyes, the quirk of his mouth. Those lips.

  “Demon Blue broke,” Sam said. “His name is Gus ‘The Diamond’ Lazzuri. Hit man. Big surprise there. He said he was hired to kill you because of what we saw, what we stopped.”

  “You were there too.” I was standing now, leaning against the wall, pressing myself away from the heat that was Sam. “Why not both of us?”

  “Maybe there’s a contract out on me too.” He shrugged. “Doubt it though. People don’t generally fuck with me because of Anshell.”

  I seized the opening. “Yeah, Anshell. What’s the deal with him anyway? Is he some kind of supernatural warlord?”

  Sam shook his head. “Anshell’s a good person to call a friend. Leave it at that.”

  He took a step forward. Paused.

  “Anshell asked me to find you, to keep you safe for the night,” Sam said.

  I snorted. Even with the magnetic pull I felt sucking me towards Sam, I still had my bullshit filter in full working order. Good to know.

  A wry grin from Sam.”That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

  “But. Jon...” I said.

  “The vampire who exposed you to the shifter virus because he was also sleeping with a jealous he-pussy?” Sam shook his head.

  “We have a thing,” I started again. “There’s no commitment.”

  “No commitment,” Sam echoed. “You were saying how we’re not possible because of your not-commitment with your non-exclusive vampire?”

  I opened my mouth, closed it. Opened. Closed. “Okay, I’m out,” I said. “That was all I had.”

  Sam took another step forward. He smiled, but there was a dark shadow in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. I could faintly hear the slap slap slap of the waves against the icy shores of La
ke Ontario. A car driving away, muffler dragging on the gravel road, sputtering out exhaust. I took it all in, but it was distant compared to the awareness of Sam standing in front of me. Waiting.

  His hand reached out to cup my jaw, traced the edge ever so lightly. The closer Sam got to me the more I felt my skin stretch, yearning, needing his touch. Fearing his touch. A strange tickling sensation just below my skin, fur rubbing from the inside as he went lower, the tips of his fingers starting as flesh and ending as curved points on a furred pad. Changing back to skin and softness once more as he trailed his digits down the side of my neck.

  God. Goddess. What a feeling.

  Sam tilted his head slightly to the left and leaned in, his tongue tracing heat from the crook of my neck to just below my ear. He was making the sounds of someone enjoying a fine wine.

  That small part of my brain, the one that was still barely coherent, was jumping up and down trying to get my attention. Bad idea. Dangerous man.

  My nostrils filled with the cinnamon musk of him; I inhaled his heat, an answering quiver deep within.

  Bad idea. Bad bad idea. Take a step back, Dana. Back back back.

  My back was against the wall, and Sam was in front of me, pressed against me pressed against the wall. His hardness left no questions. I gasped, the last protest. I couldn’t do this shouldn’t do this can’t do this won’t do this God Goddess I wanted this.

  I reached up and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him to me, opening my mouth, opening my mind, letting all resistance go.

  We clawed at each other’s clothes, ripping buttons and shirts. Buckles came free, pants came off and he grabbed me by my ass and lifted me up and onto him, pausing only to unsheathe and roll on a condom. No foreplay; none needed. I was wet from his proximity. I reached down to guide him in. One long, languorous thrust and I felt his contained power. He teased me with his length, slowly, then leaned back to grab my right nipple between his teeth. There would be marks tomorrow. I didn’t care. I arched my back. He chuckled, my breast shaking with his amusement. He looked up at me from that angle and I shifted slightly...there.

  Sam’s eyes unfocused and he groaned. Growled. My legs gripping his hips, my arms draped across his shoulders, fingers buried in his hair. Soft, soft hair smelling vaguely of cinnamon and vanilla and cold days with warm fires and cider. His broad hands slapped against the wall behind me, on either side of my head.

  The wall shuddered behind us with each thrust, jars of otherworldly delicacies jumping on their shelves. More. I fastened my teeth on Sam’s neck. No fear of infection—we were both shifters now. No danger of changing into something we weren’t already.

  Just.

  Oh.

  * * *

  I woke sometime between night and dawn to the sound of something breaking. Sam was curled up behind me, arms draped around me in a loose hug. His soft snores purred. But that other sound—that was not a sound that was supposed to happen after closing.

  I shifted slightly and listened. A soft swish of fabric, padding footsteps, careful to be silent, not silent enough. I twisted around to meet Sam’s eyes. Open now. He’d heard it too.

  He inclined his head to indicate the door, then he was on his feet with his T-shirt in one hand and pants in the other. Sam was sliding his gun into the back of his pants and had a knife in his hand while I was still fishing around for my shirt and jeans. Together, we edged towards the door of the storage room and into the gloom of the hallway beyond.

  Another crash, this one from the kitchen. We drifted closer. No light, only sound and adrenaline pumping. My fingers itched with the need to sprout claws. Fight or flee. My head said flee but every other instinct I had said fight. I was on a high from the sex and the near-full moon. And now we were hunting. Sam flashed me a grin. He could feel it too.

  We formulated a quick plan without using words. I would surprise the intruder. He would circle around to corner whatever or whoever was now rooting through the cutlery drawers. One...two...three...

  “Is there something specific you’re looking for? Maybe,” I said, “I can help you find it.”

  It was the wild woman from the street. Her mouth was open, a puckered O of surprise. She recovered quickly, though, grabbing the nearest cleaver and throwing it at my head. I dodged, but only just. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the blade, still quivering, embedded in the steel covering the far wall by the grill.

  “Shit! What the hell?”

  “Kind kitty wanted to hunt poor little me,” she said. “Celandra does not want to be hunted. Celandra is not a mouse, not a rodent, not vermin for kitty cats to grab between their jaws and shake until they’re dead.” She cackled. “Or playing dead. Celandra is very good at playing dead.” She muttered something under her breath but I couldn’t hear it.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Celandra was looking for her kitten. Kitten is in danger. Then Celandra noticed all the fine fine food. Celandra is hungry. Kitten’s bowl of milk not good enough.”

  “If you’re hungry, hang on—I’ll make you something,” I said. “But no more throwing knives, okay?”

  Celandra bobbed her head in agreement, grey ringlets between the matted clumps springing up and down with the motion.

  “Kitten is kind. Celandra thanks kitten for her hospitality. Once Celandra’s belly is full, she will tell kitty everything she knows about the danger.” She waved shriveled fingers, broken nails hanging askew, hangnails edged with dried blood. “And please call off your hunter cat. I’m fine, you’re fine, and his services will not be required for the hunt this fine night.”

  Celandra’s switches between reality and fantasy were unnerving. I looked for Sam in the shadows but saw nothing. Maybe he was hanging back, waiting to make sure there was no danger. If that was the case, I thought I’d play along as well.

  “Sandwich okay? You want normal food, right? Nothing slimy or squirmy?”

  The faintest puff of wind and she was peering over my shoulder at the stainless-steel countertop, around and into the storage shelves where all the specialty items were stored.

  “D’you have any of those rat tails in vinegar and onion? Maybe with a bit of Sandor’s special breadcrumby newt ballsack pâté? And turkey. Sliced turkey with mustard.”

  I stared at her a moment, processing. This was not the first time she’d been here, and she knew Sandor. Okay.

  I pulled down the bag of bread from on top of the fridge and started making her freakadelic sandwich as requested. Arguing with a crazy, periodically cleaver-wielding woman who wanted special food à la demonic mode just didn’t seem worth the effort.

  Speaking of effort, where was Sam? I sniffed the air, casually, but nothing. His scent was gone except for whatever still clung to me.

  Celandra, in the meantime, was enjoying her food with gustatory relish. She moaned in pleasure, then cocked her head to the side as if listening to sounds unknown and muttered over her shoulder.

  At my frown of concern, she tilted her head in the opposite direction and did that listening thing again. Nodding as if someone or something had spoken in her ear.

  “Your hunter has become the hunted. Celandra will help. Bring knives.”

  And with that she hopped off the stool, yanked the cleaver from the wall and started drifting towards the swinging doors leading from the kitchen to the main bar area. I stared a moment, then shoved down all those feelings that said “help” and “no” and “no way” and “oh crap, not again, could this night get any weirder?” No point. Instead I grabbed a shorter, sharper knife with one hand, a meat-tenderizing mallet in the other, and followed.

  Celandra had a glow about her that she immediately tamped down when she noticed me looking. At least that’s what I thought her motivation was—it was hard to tell why she did anything right about now. Maybe she just didn’t want to
draw attention to herself. Although, logical, but perhaps not Celandra logic.

  I paused to scent the air once more. Nothing. No, wait. Over there, past the pool tables, more towards the back where the stage area was. A whiff of fur wet with coppery blood. Another scent of—of what?—silver and salt and more blood. Sam’s blood.

  My blood, as I bit through my bottom lip.

  Celandra turned to me, eyes remarkably lucid, and held me back with the palm of her hand. Her touch was gentle but she was stronger than she let on. Once she was sure I’d understood, she turned again and crept forward, closer to the smell. I hung back, waiting for her sign. Sam was fine had to be fine would be fine. Just before she rounded the far side of the bar, my domain, she motioned me forward.

  White translucent smoke swirled and eddied around a large mass. Like a glacier, like the mounds of snow outside that had been molded and shaped by the waves, so close, smooth rounded edges sloping down like frostbitten wax drippings. The ridges ran pink with diluted blood, preserved on the hardened shell.

  What I had thought was smoke was actually alive. Cloud-like drifts with eyes and mouths and teeth breathing frost, dropping the temperature in the room and hardening the mass with another layer of ice as they danced around it.

  And their sculpted masterpiece?

  Sam. Partially changed, a paw sticking out of the ice floe, claws extended but barely moving. Or was it just a trick of the light and smoke? No. I refused to believe he was dead. He couldn’t be. C’mon, Dana, focus.

  Okay. Not a trick. Those digits were definitely in motion.

  Dizziness making the floor beneath me uneven as I stumbled, a gasped remembrance to breathe. Sam was still alive. There was hope.

  As I watched, Celandra glided through the circle, waving her arms and hands like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. Her arms were turbines, sluicing through the demonic gaseous entities, daring them to re-form. Which they did, of course—if it was as simple as waving your arms, surely Sam would have escaped by now. She was chanting and crooning under her breath, and the cleaver glinted in the reflected moonlight from the open entranceway to the Swan.