Moon Shadows (7 page)

“You were hallucinating.”

She pulled her hands free, couldn't allow him to touch her now. “In the morning, I woke naked, covered in blood, over a mile from my camp. Curled up beside what was left of the deer. The next night was the same, and the night after, I tied myself to a tree. I went to a local doctor, told him something was wrong with me. He found nothing in the exam. I was healthy, but he'd do a blood test. Before he sent my blood off to the lab, he looked at a smear under the microscope. He was puzzled. Somehow the sample must have gotten contaminated. He couldn't explain it. Couldn't explain how there came to be canine blood cells along with human. It wasn't possible, some sort of mistake.

“I took the blood sample and left. Got back to the States. Took the sample to an American doctor. What the hell did some guy in France know? But the American doctor was just as puzzled, wanted to know where I'd gotten the sample. Who or what was it from? I got out, I ran. I read everything I could find about blood conditions, diseases, infections. And I thought about what had happened to me in the mountains, about the silver cross. I knew. I knew from the night when I changed, but how could I accept that? That Hollywood horror movie? I'd prove it was something else.”

“Simone, let's sit down. You need to sit down.”

“No.” She batted his hand away when he reached for her. “
Listen
. A week before the next full moon, I rented a cabin. I bought chains, and a video camera, a tripod. When it was time, I set up the camera, shackled myself, and sat on the floor to wait. When it happened, I tried to fight it, but it was too strong. In the morning, I had the tape. I watched myself, watched it happen to me. I stayed there all three nights, afraid to go anywhere, see anyone. After the cycle, I went to the library, and found the name for what I was. Lycanthrope.”

“Simone.” He took a long, quiet breath, and though she tried to turn away, his hands rubbed up and down her arms. “You were attacked, traumatized. You've turned the man into
a beast, a monster—because that's what he was. A predator, but human. Lycanthropy is a psychological disorder.”

“It is if you
think
you turn into a wolf. If you
do
, it's a physiological disorder. You don't believe me.” She touched a hand to his cheek, knowing it might be the last time he would allow it. “I don't expect you to. I'd be worried about you if you accepted all this on just my word.”

“I believe you were attacked, and hurt, and forced to defend yourself. And the shock, the trauma of what happened to you, especially at such a vulnerable time of your life, caused severe emotional distress. I can help you. I want to help you.”

“You think I'm crazy,” she stated. “But you're not leaving.”

“I don't think you're crazy, I think you're troubled. Why would I leave when being with you is what I want most?”

“You need to see. You needed to hear what I've told no one else, and you need to see what I've allowed no one else to see. And once you do, if you're done with me, I won't blame you. But I need you to come with me now, give me just a little more time.”

“I want to help you. I think I can help you if—”

“God, I hope you're right. Just come. I need to go downstairs. It'll be sunset soon.”

He went with her, with the dog patiently trotting behind them. She unlocked the basement door, relocked it when they were on the other side.

She heard him catch his breath when he saw her lab, the cell, the cameras and equipment below.

“You're shocked,” she began. “And you're confused.”

“That's the mild take. For God's sake, Simone, I'm not going to believe you're some sort of mad scientist, or the female version of Oz.”

“Oz?” She stopped, goggled at him. “Oz, from
Buffy
? You watch
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
?”

“I caught it a couple of times. Okay, yeah, so? It makes a lot more sense for me to watch a well-written television show than for you to think you're a werewolf.”

“Actually, I prefer the term
lycan
. Werewolf brings up images from old horror movies. Lon Chaney or whoever
tromping around in the fog in a pair of tight pants, on two legs.
Buffy
got it closer to reality.”

“Oh yeah, reality.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and she watched his struggle for patience. “You can't keep living like this. If you trust me enough to tell me all this, then trust me enough to let me find the right doctors, the right treatments for you.”

“A picture's worth a couple of million words. There are tapes.” She moved to the camera and tripod. “I record every change, study the tapes to see if there's any improvement, any alteration. You can study them for yourself if you like. Or use the equipment here, study the blood samples.”

“You're medicating yourself.” He gestured toward the vials, the herbs, the bottles of pills. And his patience snapped. “Goddamn it, Simone, this has to stop. It's going to stop.”

“My fondest wish.” Odd, she thought, the more angry he became, the calmer she was. “If nothing happens after sundown, I'll do whatever you want me to do. See any doctor, have any test, check myself into the nearest padded room. I swear it.”

“Damn right you will.”

Yes, she thought, the calmer she became—and glanced over with what was nearly a smile. “You're pushy when you're mad. Interesting.”

“I can get a lot pushier.”

“I can't remember the last time anyone was actively angry with me, or upset for me. I'm going to have to decide if I like it. All I ask is that you give me the next twenty minutes, and that you promise—swear to me—no matter what happens, you won't try to get within five feet of the cage.”

“You're not locking yourself in there.”

“Twenty minutes. It's not that much to ask when I've given you my word that I'll do whatever you think best if you're right, and I'm wrong.”

He tossed up his hands, a kind of silent and frustrated acquiescence.

“Amico won't let you approach the cage, but I don't want him to have to hurt you. Promise me.”

“Fine. You've got my word. I won't go near the cage. And in twenty minutes, you and I are going to sit down and figure out the best way I can help you.”

“All right.” She stepped to the camera, turned it on. “The keys to the basement door are there, on the table. If you want to go, I understand. Just lock up behind you. Take this.” She drew off her cross. “Leave it if you go. I can't get out,” she continued, walking to the cage and working the combination on the first of three muscular locks. “I can't work the combinations in my lycan form.”

He cursed under his breath, but she heard him. With the door open, she turned, kept her eyes on his as she unbuttoned her shirt. “You'll think you can help me when it begins, but you can't. If you try to rush the cage, Amico will stop you.”

She stripped off her shirt, unhooked her bra.

His eyes narrowed. “Simone, if this is some sort of kinky and unique seduction, it's—”

“Keep your word,” she interrupted, and stripped off her jeans. “I don't see any point in ruining good clothes three times a month.”

“Practical. And really beautiful.”

She closed the cage door, set the first lock. “You won't think so in a few minutes.”

She wanted to pace, to move. That restless fever was creeping over her skin. But she stood still after the locks were set. “There's a slide under the microscope. I left it for you to see. Not the electron microscope—we'll deal with that later.”

“You have an electron microscope?”

She nearly smiled as she heard the surprise in his voice, saw the glitter of interest over his face as he took a closer look at her equipment.

“Later. Go ahead, have a look at the regular slide. Tell me what you think.”

“There's a naked woman standing there behind bars, and you want me to play with your chemistry set? Not that it isn't a kick-ass chem set, but the naked woman's got it beat. Hands down.”

She heard her own laugh, rested her brow against the bars. “I keep falling for you. Just have a look.”

Obliging, he walked over, bent to the microscope, adjusted
the focus. “Blood sample,” he murmured. “Weird cells. Some sort of infection. Not rabies—not exactly. I've never seen anything like this.” Intrigued, he shifted his stance. “At first glance, it's . . . it's not canine, but it is. It's human, but it's not. Where did you get this?”

He straightened, turned toward the cage. And his heart leaped into his throat.

She was covered in sweat, shaking, with her fingers clamped around the bars. And those fingers were . . . wrong. Too long, too . . . tensile. With the nails sharp and black. Her eyes were on his, and full of sorrow, full of pain, and starting to shimmer. Not with tears, he saw—or not only with tears. There was something fierce and raging burning through the wet.

Some sort of illusion, he told himself. Some sort of elaborate trick. “Simone—”

“You swore.” She hissed out the words as he instinctively moved toward her and as Amico growled low and barred his path. “Stay back. Don't come near me. God. Oh, God!”

He saw her bite her lip, bite through it as if to hold back a scream. The blood trickled down her chin, and the chin itself began to
stretch
, to lengthen and narrow. Even as his rational mind refused what his eyes saw in front of him, he heard something hideous, like bones grinding.

Then she did scream, collapsing onto the concrete floor, falling onto all fours as her spine arched and cracked, as fur—gold and thick, spread over her skin.

No illusion. No trick. And still impossible. “Mary, Mother of God.” He stumbled back, rapping his hip against the table so that bottles and vials clanked.

And what was in the cage threw back its head, its long sleek throat working as it howled with a terrible joy.

S
HE
woke as she always did after the change. Disoriented and achy. As if she'd barely recovered from a long, debilitating illness.

And she woke hungry. Ravenous, which at first puzzled her. Until she remembered she hadn't put any meat in the cage with her. A foolish point of vanity, she supposed. She hadn't wanted Gabe to see her feed.

Gabe. She curled a little tighter into herself, a full body compress over the misery. He'd seen now. He knew now. He'd never be able to look at her the same way again, not with desire or affection. Certainly not with love.

But if she hadn't misjudged him completely, once he was over the shock and the horror, he might be able to help.

She made herself get up. She could smell the wolf still. The scent of it clung to her skin long after her body was hers again, and the stink of it, even after so many years, turned her stomach.

She would take a long, hot shower, scrub it away. Then eat and work. And wait. If he came back, she thought as she
unlocked the cage, what she'd done would be worth the cost. He wouldn't love her, not the way she would always love him, but he would help her. The kindness in him would demand it.

If she was wrong, if he didn't come back, she'd relocate again. Maybe go to Canada this time. He might tell someone, of course, but no one would believe him. Still, it would be better all around if she moved away, settled somewhere else.

She tugged on her jeans, then stopped with her fingers on the button of the fly as she stared at Amico's dog bed.

Amico sat on the wide cushion, watching her, waiting for her command. Beside the dog, Gabe was sprawled. Sleeping.

She wasn't disoriented now, she was simply dazed. Without thinking, she finished dressing, shut down the camera. She released Amico from his guard stance with a whispered command. Even as the dog stood, Gabe stirred.

His eyes fluttered open. She wanted to stroke his cheek, his hair. His eyelashes. But she kept her hands at her sides as she crouched down.

“You stayed.”

“Huh?” His eyes were bleary for a moment, but she watched them sharpen even as he rubbed his hands over his face, back through his tousled hair. “Yeah. Must've conked for a while. Who'd've thought it? I could use coffee.”

“I'll go up and make some.”

“What time is it?”

“Early. Just after dawn.”

He glanced at her wrist. She wore no watch. “How do you know?”

“I always know.” She straightened, reminded herself to maintain some distance, for both their sakes. “I'll put coffee on, then I need to shower. You'll have questions. I'll try to answer them.”

“All right.”

She went up the stairs with the dog beside her. But she didn't look back as she unlocked the door, or when she closed it behind her.

Silly for her hands to shake now, she thought. After all she'd been through, all she'd endured, she would shake and tremble now? She spilled grounds on the counter as she
measured them out and left them there. She'd clean them up later. All she had to do was make coffee—a simple, everyday task—then she could shower. She needed the heat, the soap, the cleansing.

She needed time alone before she faced the pity and the condemnation she would see in his eyes.

She heard him come in. “It won't take long,” she said quickly. “Help yourself. If you're hungry, I'll—” She jerked back, stepped far back when he reached for her. “Don't. Don't touch me now. Its scent's still on me.”

Moving fast, she unlocked the back door, jerked it open to let the dog out. The air was full of mists and morning scents, and made her want to weep.

“I'll be down in a few minutes.” She had to force herself not to run.

She started to strip when she reached her bedroom door, peeling off clothes, heaving them aside as she rushed into the bathroom. Her breath was snagging in her throat, tearing out in gasps when she turned the water on as hot as she thought she could bear.

Yes, she wanted to weep, but couldn't have said why. He'd stayed, and his compassion was more than she could ask. More than she could expect. So she only braced her hands against the tile when she stepped under the spray of water. And squeezed her eyes tight against the useless weakness of tears.

She lifted her head again, slowly, when she scented him, and her eyes were already searching when he nudged back the shower curtain.

“I could use a shower myself,” he said casually and took off his shirt.

“Don't.”

“No point in being shy now. I've already seen you naked.”

He stripped down, stepped in behind her. “Jesus, hot enough for you?”

Her body went rigid when he trailed his fingers over her shoulder, over the only scar she bore from the attack. The bite that had changed her.

“How can you touch me?”

“How can I not? And what's this here?” He skimmed those fingers over her other shoulder, and the small tattoo of a full moon.

“A reminder, that it's always part of me. I need to—” She broke off, shook her head. When she reached for the soap, he took it first, and began to lather her back.

“Let me give you a hand.”

“Don't be kind.” Her voice broke. It took all her will to mend it again. “I need a little time to settle before I can deal with kindness.”

“Okay, check the kindness.” His lips glided over her damp skin, just at the curve of neck and shoulder, as his soapy hands slithered over, and up to find her breasts. “What's your stand on lust?”

“You can't want me now.”

“I can't begin to tell you how much you're mistaken on that point. Turn around, look at me.” He didn't wait, but took a firm hold, shifted her. Water streamed over her, pulsing over the sleek blond hair. It was the shame in her eyes, the same he'd seen when she'd waked him, then again in the kitchen, that told him she needed more than his love, more than any hopeful words he might offer.

She needed his desire.

“I've got just one question right now, and that's why do you avoid saying my name?”

“I don't.”

“You do. Why?”

“Because names are personal. Because I thought it'd be easier to walk away, for both of us.”

He eased her back, back against the shower wall, with his hands running over her, down her flanks, up her sides, through her hair. “Say it now.” His lips touched hers, retreated. “Say my name now because nobody's going anywhere.”

“Gabe.” She shuddered back a sob. “Gabriel.” Threw her arms around him. “Gabe.”

“Simone.” And now his mouth crushed against hers, not in
kindness, not with patience, but with a hunger and demand that struck the shadows from her heart.

“It's not pity,” she managed as his greedy hands explored, and took.

“This feel like pity to you?”

“No.” On a laugh, a moan, she arched back to let his mouth feast. “No.”

Her body was long and sleek, the muscles taut and tight, the skin soft as rose petals drenched in dew. She was trembling again, but now he knew it was arousal that shook her. Need that brought her mouth to his in an endless kiss, of warm, wet lips, and seeking tongues.

Steam billowed, but the almost blistering heat of the water was nothing now, a chill compared to the fire that kindled and burst through him.

He pressed his mouth to the scar on her shoulder in a gesture of acceptance. Whoever, whatever she was, she was his. And he wanted every part of her.

“I need you so much.” She locked herself around him. “I didn't know I could need anyone this much.”

“It's just beginning, for both of us.” He gripped her hips, and she braced for him, opened for him, watched his eyes as he slipped inside her. He took her slowly, deliberately, even when her vision blurred and he wondered if he would burn up before release. Took her while her head fell back, when she cried out.

And when her hands slid limply down his wet back, and her long, low groan slithered over his skin, he took them both.

 

I
T
was the first time she could remember feeling self-conscious with a man. Shyness wasn't a part of her nature, but she felt oddly shy now as she dressed in front of him. “I know we need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“I have to eat. I need to eat.”

He stepped closer, tipped up her chin. “You need sleep, too. You're exhausted.”

“I will, I'll sleep. Later. I'll go fix breakfast.”

“I'll do it.”

“No. I need to do something. Keep my hands busy.”

She went down, got out eggs. Because she wanted Amico to understand Gabe's place in the house, she asked Gabe to feed him.

“I didn't think you'd be here this morning.”

“Where did you think I'd go?”

“Anywhere but here.” Because her system still craved meat, she started bacon in a skillet. “You saw what I am. But you're here, and you haven't said anything.”

“I saw what happened to you, and I've got a lot to say. I'll start off saying I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't watched it happen. I could have watched all the tapes you have—and I scanned a number of them through the night—but I wouldn't have believed it. It's not the sort of thing you're supposed to believe when you're an adult. And sane.”

When she said nothing, he moved to her, touched her lightly on the shoulder. “It hurt you.”

“The change is painful, yes.”

“Have you tried painkillers, sedatives, something to ease the transition?”

“From time to time. They don't help all that much, and they don't stop the change. Nothing does. Yet.”

“You're trying herbs.”

“That's how I got into them. Combatting, I thought, the unnatural with the natural. I've tried spells. Witchcraft, voodoo, charms, potions, and lotions. Medical science, paranormal science. I've had eleven years to try.”

Eleven years, he thought. Alone. How had she stood it? “Have you found anyone else with the same condition?”

“No. You'd be amazed how many people think they're lycanthropes. There are web sites devoted to it, and all sorts of tales of wolfmen and women. But I've never found anyone who's actually infected.”

“Interesting term. Infection.” He sipped his coffee while she broke eggs into a bowl. “I read some of your notes. A blood infection, one that alters DNA, and somehow combines
with the canine. A rabid infection that not only resists but prevents antibody production.”

“A type of blood infection. But it's not rabies.”

“No. A distant cousin. Where did you get the drugs, Simone?”

“Illegally. Through the black market.”

“You can't keep medicating yourself this way, using experimental drugs—and not all of them for humans—with unknown side effects or consequences.”

“I can't think of a side effect or consequence more injurious than howling at the moon every month.”

He closed a hand around her wrist until she stopped and met his eyes. “How about psychosis, paralysis, stroke, embolism? Let's try death.”

“I've considered all of that, and the risks are worth it.”

“Alone, in a basement lab.”

“What's the alternative?” She pulled her arm free, whipped eggs with a vengeance. “Going public? Taking a trip to Johns Hopkins, for instance, and saying, hey, guys, check this out?”

“Between two extremes is a lot of space, a lot of options.”

“Going wolf every month is pretty damn extreme, and so would be the talk-show bookings I'd get if this ever gets out.”

“You'd be a real crowd pleaser on
Letterman
. Stupid Pet Tricks would never be the same.”

The laugh snorted out before she could stop it, and half the stress pressing on her shoulders melted away. “You can make jokes?”

“Sorry, baby. I—”

“No. You can make jokes.” She set the bowl down long enough to clutch his face in her hands and press her lips hard and quick to his. “I've been looking for a miracle, and it came running around a corner at me. You didn't leave. You touched me, you made love with me when I thought you'd be revolted by me.”

With a sigh, she poured the eggs into the skillet. “And you're standing here waiting for me to cook these stupid eggs and making jokes. You're rational. I'm amazed you can be here, be funny, be rational after what you saw.”

Because it was there, he picked up a strip of bacon she'd
set on a plate and singed his fingertips. “I'm not going to tell you I wasn't freaked,” he said as he tossed the bacon from hand to hand to cool it. “Still am, but I'm working through it.”

“Bottom line, okay? Bottom line, I can't possibly go through mainstream options. You were freaked, Gabe, because that's what I am. A freak.”

“You're not. You have a disease.”

“And if I don't find a cure, I'll be like this all of my life. If it doesn't drive me mad, or to suicide, I'll live a very long life. One of the happy benefits of this condition is robust health. Ridiculously. I haven't had so much as a sniffle since I was eighteen. And injury? Try this.”