Marked by the Moon (4 page)

“Why are you taking me with you?” she asked.

Julian growled, a deep rumble that made her eyes narrow. If she'd been in wolf form, he thought she'd have growled right back. He felt a twinge of interest. He hadn't had anyone rebel in centuries.

“Why are you coming?” he countered.

She glanced over her shoulder, then quickly climbed over the ledge, landing barefoot at his side. The street person who'd sold Julian the sweats and T-shirt had been wearing canvas sneakers so filthy, so full of holes, and so huge he'd refused them. It didn't really matter. Despite the area being littered with broken glass and sharp bits of metal, any injuries she might attain by running over them
would
heal.

Julian heard the police milling about inside. They'd be occupied for a few minutes dealing with the scene, but soon they'd start looking around.

He took her hand, and she let him. Then they ran until they were far enough away for their presence not to matter. When he slowed, he immediately dropped all contact. Together they wiped their palms against their pants.

“Why are you coming with me?” he repeated.

“I—” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “I don't know how to live like this.”

“And you think I'll teach you?”

She met his eyes. “Won't you?”

Of course.

The words whispered through his brain. The combination of fear and hope in her eyes pulled at him. The scent of her enticed him.

“I
should
leave you here,” he ground out. “Let you run wild until the cops lock you up. If you're lucky, Mandenauer will arrive before the next full moon.”

She blinked. “Who?”

“I'm not a moron,” Julian snapped. “I checked you out.” Though he hadn't come up with much. “You were born. You lived for a while in Nebraska, even started kindergarten. Then your mother disappeared—”

He lifted a brow, waiting for her to explain, but she didn't.
He figured
disappeared
meant “death by monster,” especially considering what happened next.

“You and your father fell off the grid. Since only Edward has the connections to make someone disappear like that, either one or both of you was a
Jäger-Sucher
once upon a time.”

She shrugged, giving up the pretense. “I don't work for him anymore.”

“I know.”

The
Jäger-Suchers
had rules, and Alexandra Trevalyn did not follow them. One of those rules was:
Wait until they shift to shoot them
.

As Alex had proved with Jorge, she didn't believe in rules.

“What else do you know?” she asked. “About me? About them?”

“Not as much as I'd like,” he murmured. He and his kind stayed isolated from the world. It was the only way to live the way that they wanted to. Which meant information was hard to come by. Not that he didn't come by it. It was just hard. And expensive.

“The
Jäger-Suchers
are in disarray,” he continued. “There was a—” Julian paused, searching for the word. “A purge. Many of them died; the rest are in hiding.”

Her brow creased. “When did this happen?”

“Nearly a year ago. The werewolves banded together and began hunting the hunters.”

“They never cared before.”

Most werewolves only cared about themselves, which was how the
Jäger-Suchers
had so much success.

“There were whispers of a cure,” Julian continued. “But werewolves don't want to be cured. They like what they are.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She appeared to think about that for a minute, then nodded. “So the werewolves went on the offensive.”

“In more ways than one,” Julian agreed. “Not only have they gone after the
Jäger-Suchers
instead of waiting for the
Jäger-Suchers
to come to them, but they've made a concerted effort to replace what's been lost and purposely increase the number fighting on their side.”

“A werewolf army,” Alex said faintly.

“It's happened before.”

 

Barlow knew about the werewolf army. However, according to him, he wasn't the one behind it.

Except he was a werewolf. Killing? Lying? Both came as easily to him as eating.

Why hadn't Edward told her he'd been losing agents? That he was on the defensive rather than the offensive for the first time in more than half a century?

He was a big believer in imparting info on a need-to-know basis, and he'd no doubt say if questioned that Alex hadn't needed to know. She was no longer one of them.

Maybe Edward thought Barlow was behind the whole thing. Although if that was the case, it was something she definitely needed to know.

However, she'd learned in the few years she'd worked for the old man that he had his own way of doing things, and he was usually right.

As they walked along the deserted street, her shoulder brushed Barlow's and memories rushed in—the kiss, his scent, the bizarre fact that they could even touch.

He skittered as far away from her as he could get and still remain on the cracked, broken remnant of the sidewalk. The
expression on his face brought back the image of him wiping her taste from his mouth, her touch from his hand, and fury sparked.

Which was stupid. She'd felt exactly the same way once she'd come to her senses. Disgust for her lack of control, nausea over the flash of lust, horror at what she'd already done and what she'd been willing to do with the slightest hint of encouragement.

Just thinking about the interlude brought back Alex's thirst for vengeance. She wanted to kill Barlow not only for what he'd done to her but for the way he'd made her feel.

If Edward had not said the werewolf that had killed her father was a member of Barlow's pack, she would have put a silver bullet through the guy's brain and disappeared into the sunset, the fate of humanity at the mercy of a new werewolf army be damned.

But Edward
had
said, and since the only thing that had kept Alex going for the past eight years was the possibility of revenge, she bit her tongue and kept going, silently assuring herself that once she got wherever Barlow was taking her, she'd blast her father's killer to hell, along with anyone else who got in her way. Right before she left, she'd give Julian Barlow a parting gift.

Kaboom
.

The promise soothed her as little else could.

Not that she didn't understand the man's need for payback—even sympathize with it. Alex shook her head.

He wasn't a man. Alana hadn't been a woman. They were murdering beasts. They didn't feel love, or pain, or remorse.

Except Barlow did. The agony in his eyes, the gruffness in his voice told the tale. He mourned his wife with an intensity that matched Alex's own.

Unease flickered. She was a werewolf now, and yet she
still missed her father, ached with his loss and her love for him.

But there was a reason for that. She been injected with Edward's serum and cursed by a voodoo priestess. She was as close to human as a werewolf could get. That was the only reason she still felt any emotions at all.

So what was Julian Barlow's excuse?

“Where's your car?” he asked.

Alex glanced around. They'd run a long way, then walked some more. She wasn't familiar with the area, but she recognized a few of the buildings ahead as some of those she'd passed while trailing Jorge.

She pointed to the west. “About a mile.”

Barlow began to jog and she did the same, just a young couple out for a little exercise. Except it was the middle of the night, they were white, and—with Alex's oversize, worn clothes, bloody arms and neck, and lack of shoes—she looked like a bag lady in a
Dawn of the Dead
remake.

“Now you understand how it is for most werewolves,” he said.

“How
what
is?”

“You were changed against your will.”

“So?”

He sighed as if she were incredibly dense and continued. “New wolves are like babies. They can't be blamed for what they do. Would you punish an infant for banging a toy against a wall and breaking it?”

“I hardly think the man you left behind for me to kill was a toy.”

“No, he was a habitual child molester.”

Alex's lips pulled into a grimace.

“Kind of leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn't he?”

Thanks to Edward's serum and Cassandra's spell, she
hadn't killed her toy. Right now, Alex was kind of sorry about that.

“I told you he was a very bad man,” Barlow continued. “He deserved to die.”

Alex had to agree, but—“Who made you judge and jury?”

“Me.”

Huh. He sounded just like Edward.

“You felt the madness as soon as you awoke, didn't you?” he pressed.

Alex glanced at him and told the truth. “Yes.”

He continued to stare straight ahead as they ran much faster than she ever had with much less huffing and puffing.

Certainly Alex had kept up with her training. If she wanted to best supernatural beings daily she didn't have much choice. She could run ten miles without collapsing, sprint one hundred meters in thirteen seconds; she'd had instruction in Judo, and she could fight with every kind of weapon. Her father had been very thorough.

However, she hadn't kept up
this
well. No human being could. The virus in her blood was obviously good for more than a full moon fur coat.

“Would you execute an insane person for listening to the voices in his head?” Barlow continued.

Alex didn't answer, because her answer would give her away. Despite her new abilities, her conflicting feelings, she still didn't consider a werewolf a person.

They came around the corner of yet another empty building and stopped. Five guys stood between them and Alex's cargo van.

Yesterday Alex would have run the other way. She was interested only in killing werewolves, not stupid kids trying to be tough. Today she wanted to fight, even before she saw
that they'd managed to get inside and were using their switchblades on what few clothes she owned.

A growl rumbled from Alex's throat. Barlow cast her a quick glance. “No,” he said.

“That's all I've got in the world.”

“You don't need it anymore.”

“That isn't the point,” she snapped.

“
Don't
shift.”

Alex had been inching forward, longing to plant her fist in the face of a guy who was shredding her underwear. She paused though she wasn't sure why. Something in Barlow's voice, in the tone of his command, made it difficult for her to disobey.

“You're too new,” Barlow explained. “I can hold them off while you change, but once they've seen us do that, we'll have no choice but to kill them all.”

Alex frowned. Since when did a werewolf care if he had to kill people?

“What do you suggest?” she asked.

Barlow cracked his knuckles, and his smile gave Alex a shiver. He might wear a veneer of humanity. He might play at being calm, reasonable, in control. But that smile and the flash in his eyes revealed the truth.

He liked violence as much as the next werewolf.

“Let's kick their ass,” he said.

Alex moved into position with Barlow as if they'd been fighting together for years.

The five young men dropped everything but their knives and approached holding the weapons as if they knew exactly what to do with them. Alex wasn't worried. Knives were made of steel, not silver; any wound they might have the good fortune to land would heal.

The boys rushed forward, and Alex decked the guy who'd dared to finger her pan ties. He flew off his feet and smacked into another one. They hit the pavement; their knives clattered every which way, and they lay still.

Alex glanced at her fist. She could get used to this.

Hyped, she bounced on the balls of her feet, spinning toward a third guy. She caught the scent of steel and jerked away an instant before the knife slashed her cheek. Barlow tackled him, and the two went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

A wild punch caught Alex on the chin. Her head snapped back, but she didn't go down.

“What the hell?” the guy muttered; then his eyes widened as Alex started to laugh. The blow hadn't even hurt.

He turned to run, and Barlow kicked the kid in the chest. Alex sidestepped as the boy sailed five feet and landed in a heap. He didn't move, either.

The one Barlow had tackled lay immobile, the fifth—

“Watch out!” Alex shouted, and Barlow rammed his elbow backward, catching his attacker in the gut.

“Ooof,” the kid said, then dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled back, and he toppled over like a well-hit bowling pin.

Alex's harsh, excited breathing was the only sound that broke the resulting silence. Barlow wasn't even winded.

“That was—” Alex clenched and unclenched her hands. “Freaking fabulous.”

“Learn to pull your punches,” Barlow said, refusing to look at her. “You could kill someone, even in this form.”

He walked to the van, opening the driver's-side door and climbing inside. Alex stared after him and thought again:
Since when does killing bother a werewolf?
Right now, it didn't bother her. Right now, if someone came at her with the intent to turn her to ashes, she'd kill him with ease and probably dance a jig on his broken bones.

What was wrong with her? She was behaving more like a beast than the king beast.

The adrenaline rush faded, and Alex was left in a cold sweat, her hands lightly shaking.

“Alexandra!” Barlow roared from the van.

Alex glanced at the bodies flung all around; her heart slowed as she noted that each one was still breathing before she followed him.

“Keys,” he snapped as soon as she climbed inside.

“What's your problem?” she asked. “You
said,
‘Let's kick their ass.'”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

It had. In fact, it had seemed like a fantastic idea right up until the time the stillness had descended, and she'd realized how much fun she'd had, how easy it had been to hurt people, and how much she'd wanted to keep doing it.

Alex was both energized by their success and seriously worried by it. What was the weird connection between them, and how could she break it?

“Alexandra,” Barlow murmured.

“Alex,” she returned. The last time someone had called her Alexandra, finger painting had been the most important thing on her schedule, followed by snack and an afternoon nap.

“Your keys?”

Her hand went to her pocket before she remembered this wasn't her pocket. “I think they're back in that room.” She put her palm against the passenger window. One of the boys stirred. Another groaned. “With my clothes.”

Barlow muttered a word in another language, and despite her not understanding it she knew it to be a curse. “We need to get out of LA,” he said. “The cops are going to figure this out.”

“Right. They'll decide the torn clothes are because someone shifted into a werewolf, and the keys on the floor belong to—” She paused. “How will they figure out who they belong to?”

“Your ID?” he suggested.

“I was a
Jäger-Sucher
once. That translates to ‘hunter,' not moron. No ID.”

He placed his hands on the steering column, closed his eyes, and…was that a growl? She wasn't sure since, seconds later, the van started like magic.

“You're some weird werewolf,” she said.

He ignored her. “You don't have any ID?”

“I didn't say I had no ID, just that I had no ID on me.”

Reaching forward, she tapped the side of her fist into a plastic square above the radio. Instead of popping open to reveal the secret compartment, the plastic shattered into a hundred charcoal-gray shards.

“Whoops,” she muttered.

“What did I say about pulling your punches?” he asked.

“Only do it when I'm not punching you?”

He gave a short bark of laughter, and Alex nearly joined in. Would have if she hadn't already reached into the hole and pulled out her fake driver's license and the single photo she had of her father, Charlie.

The sight of his face brought everything back. The years they'd spent on the road, the closeness they'd shared after her mother had…died.

They'd been the perfect family. Father with a good job. Mother who stayed home. Cute little girl who adored them both.

Every night after work, Charlie would take Alex to the park while his wife, Janet, made supper. He had loved softball—both watching and playing it—and he'd imparted that love to Alex. Even at five, she'd had her own glove, and she'd been able to catch pretty darn well. But what she'd loved more than the game itself was the time with Daddy.

Until there'd come a night when they'd returned to their house not long after dark and instead of supper, they'd found a nightmare.

Charlie'd had a secret life, one he hadn't shared with Janet. He'd thought he left his
Jäger-Sucher
past behind him. He'd
changed his name; he'd even changed his face. Unfortunately he hadn't changed his scent. He couldn't, and his past had sniffed him out.

One of the werewolves that had gotten away found him. Or rather, he found Janet. Then he killed her.

His mistake was in waiting for Charlie. Because even though Charlie worked in a hardware store now, even though he pretended to be just another guy, he still kept silver bullets in the gun he'd locked in the trunk of his car, and he could still shoot with the accuracy of the marine sniper who'd trained him.

Luckily her father had a sixth sense about danger, or maybe he'd just smelled the blood. He'd told Alex to run to the neighbor's and play with their new kitten. By the time he'd picked her up, he'd packed the essentials into their car and called Edward to clean up the mess.

Charlie had rejoined the
Jäger-Suchers.
He hadn't felt like he had any choice. He'd never be free of his past, and his daughter would never be safe unless he killed every last monster on earth.

He'd made a mistake keeping the secret. But he would rectify that by teaching Alex all that he knew so she could never be surprised as her mother had been.

It hadn't been easy, but they'd managed. Werewolves hunted at night, and Charlie did, too, long after Alex was asleep. She'd been old enough to understand that something bad had happened to her mommy in the dark, and she knew better than to venture into it alone.

As she got older, she saw things, things that made her desperate to learn all her father had to teach.

So Charlie taught, Alex learned—how to kill werewolves, how to add and subtract—and when they had a little downtime
between assignments, they played catch, just like they had when they'd still had a home.

Alex's eyes suddenly burned with tears she could not shed. Because if Barlow saw her crying over Daddy and Mommy, he'd know something was wrong with her.

When people become werewolves, their humanity dies. They lose all allegiance to their family, their friends, to anyone or anything but themselves.

Alex glanced at Barlow out of the corner of her eye as she slid the photo of her father beneath the seat.

So what was wrong with him?

 

Julian was spooked, but he didn't let it show. He'd learned long ago—before he'd even become what he was—to keep his emotions in check. Emotions were a weakness he couldn't afford. Just look where his love for Alana had gotten him.

Here with this woman-wolf who was really freaking him out.

His lips twitched at the slang. It had taken him a few decades to figure out that the only way to fit in was to learn the local lingo and use it. Of course now that he no longer needed to fit in, he could probably do so without any problem at all.

He had no idea why he'd encouraged the fight. Perhaps to see what Alex could do in human form. He needed to know all he could about her before he brought her into his inner sanctum. He definitely hadn't beaten those boys senseless because of the hint of sadness that had billowed around her like fading perfume.

Julian's fingers clenched on the steering wheel. She was still sad. He could smell it.

It had taken him a few centuries to hone his human senses until they were nearly as sharp as his wolf's. Trust a Norseman to adapt. It was one of the many things they were good at.

Of course he'd never adapted this well. He could smell anger, violence, fear. That was easy. But he couldn't recall ever smelling sadness before. Even with Alana.

Julian drove to the crappy motel near LAX, parked around back, and got out.

Alex got out, too. “What gives?”

“You can't get on a plane like that,” he said.

The blood on her body had seeped through the T-shirt and the sweatpants he'd given her, creating a gory polka-dot pattern. The fight had torn a few holes, added another level of dirt. She still wasn't wearing any shoes.

Alex followed him into the dingy, dank room he'd rented when he'd arrived only a few days ago. The place smelled of a hundred others. He couldn't wait to get home.

“Use the shower,” he ordered.

“What if I don't want to?” she asked, but she was already headed that way.

As soon as the lock clicked on the bathroom door—foolish on her part, no door would keep him out if he truly wanted to get in—Julian pocketed the key and returned to her van.

He sat on the passenger side, slid his hand beneath the seat, pulled out the photo she'd hidden there. A man—same eyes, same smile, hair closer to chestnut than Alexandra's shade of light brown. He was of average height, thin and rangy, with gold-rimmed glasses and big, hard, capable hands.

Charlie Trevalyn—Alex's missing father.

Julian knew the man must have been killed, most likely by
werewolves considering Alex's loathing for them. Of course there was no record of such a thing. Just as there was none of what had happened to her mother. Why would there be?

Werewolf kills were sometimes written off as rabid animal attacks, but usually people just disappeared. When they did, Edward Mandenauer was often involved.

Julian put the photo of Charlie back where he'd found it and returned to the hotel room. He placed a call to the airport and let his pilot know when he wanted to leave. By the time he hung up, sweat had broken out on his brow, dampened the back of his shirt, and begun to run down his neck. Sometimes werewolf senses were a gift and other times, like now, a curse.

He heard every drop splashing against her body, swirling downward, cascading over her shoulders, her breasts, belly, thighs. He could smell the soap, the shampoo, hear the swish of her hands as she washed.

If he closed his eyes he could see the water, the bubbles, the stroke of fingers against skin. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he tasted her—that mouth, her neck, the blood.

“Shit. Fuck. Hell.” Sometimes if he cursed in English he managed to draw his mind away from whatever he was cursing about. But not this time. He could still see her naked body, hear her rapid breathing, smell the soap mixing with her tangy scent.

He opened his eyes. Steam trailed out from beneath the door, snaking toward him like a magical mist, enticing him to do things he should not. He'd taken several steps forward before he stopped, turned, and forced himself to retreat, to stare out the window at the coming dawn and once again count to ten, then fifty, then a hundred in Norwegian, trying to shake the bizarre sense of destiny from his brain.

Alex had closed the door behind her—locked it, too—then turned on the shower. When she'd stepped beneath the water, she'd discovered that the usual just-short-of-scalding temperature she preferred was something she preferred no longer. Tepid was all she could stand against skin that felt like she'd been lying naked in the tropical sun for hours with no respite—or sunscreen.

She easily scrubbed off the blood and the dirt, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter how long she rubbed, she couldn't get rid of the scent of werewolf. That scent was part of her now.

She had a sudden flash of Barlow's hands on her breasts, his tongue in her mouth, and everything she'd felt in that small clip of time she'd spent in his arms rushed back. Despite her hatred of werewolves, and him in particular, she'd wanted the man more than she'd ever wanted anyone else.