Marked by the Moon (5 page)

There was definitely something hinky about Julian Barlow.

Mind control? Witchcraft? A magic spell? Maybe all three. She'd find out of course. Finding out was what she did best—along with killing.

His brush lay on the sink; Alex used it even though the mingling of his golden strands with her light brown made her edgy. After wrapping herself tightly in a scratchy hotel towel, Alex opened the door. A fresh set of clothes lay on the floor just outside.

She snatched them up without even looking around. The clothes, obviously his, fit badly. The jeans were huge—she threaded a length of what appeared to be telephone cord through the belt loops to hold them up—the tank top, too. She didn't really want to wear his boxers, but what choice did she have? The long-sleeved shirt, heavy socks, and bulky,
tree-hugger sandals were also too large. She managed by pulling the straps as tight on her feet as they'd go.

When Alex stepped into the room again, the first thing she saw was Barlow staring out the window. The night had turned gray as dawn approached. In the distance she caught the twinkling lights of LAX, so numerous and bright they seemed like stars that had fallen to the earth.

The room smelled of smoke—but not cigarettes—reminding her of the small towns she and her father had passed through, places where they'd burned their garbage in the backyard. The scent made her ache with the echo of loneliness.

Every dusk had brought another monster; every dawn had brought another town. They never got friendly. It didn't pay. Who knew when the kid you'd struck up a friendship with might turn out to be the next werewolf victim, or perhaps the next werewolf.

“We should get to the airport,” Barlow murmured without turning. “We leave in an hour.”

Alex opened her mouth to question him, then thought better of it. She'd know soon enough where they were going. All she'd have to do was read her boarding pass.

Except they didn't fly commercial. Barlow had his very own plane.

They also didn't leave in an hour. Something needed to be adjusted, and when dealing with planes Alex was all for adjusting it, however long that might take. She sat in a hard plastic chair and watched Barlow pace. He seemed more like a wild animal now than when he'd been one.

At last the pilot motioned for them to board. Alex reached for her ID, then remembered she'd left her license on the table in the hotel when she'd gone into the shower, then she'd never
seen it again. The scent of burning waste in the room suddenly made a lot more sense.

“You burned my ID?” she whispered furiously.

“You won't need it where we're going.”

“Just because you have your own plane doesn't mean we don't have to show ID.”

He smiled. “It does on my plane.”

“But—”

“If you have enough money you can buy anything. Especially anonymity. I'd think you would have learned that from Mandenauer.”

Barlow got on board, leaving Alex to follow or not. Though she had no doubt that if she chose
not,
he'd make her.

They flew away from the sun, out over the Pacific. Just when Alex had begun to obsess about landing in China or Russia or some Stan country with a lot of caves and disappearing forever, the pilot turned toward land, then tilted the nose north.

“You'll see Fairbanks before you know it,” he announced through the headphones they'd all donned along with their seat belts.

Alaska?

No wonder Edward had never found them.

 

Several hours later they flew over Fairbanks. The pilot couldn't help playing tour guide.

“Fairbanks has one of the largest population centers this far north in the world. About thirty thousand in the town, and another eighty-four thousand in there.” He pointed to the acres upon acres of trees. “Place is surrounded by hundreds of miles of subarctic bush.”

“How cold does it get?” Alex asked.

The guy grinned, enjoying himself. “In January down to sixty-six below; in July it can hit ninety-nine.”

“What about right now?”

“September is a strange one. We've had snow, temps in the teens. Today it's probably forty.” He waved at the western horizon where the sun was falling down. “But it's gonna cool off soon.”

“Kind of early to be getting dark.”

“You're near the Arctic Circle. In December they only see the sun for a few hours.”

Alex definitely needed to be out of here before December.

The plane banked over the city, which appeared fairly modern, full of paved streets, concrete and steel buildings. She even caught the bright flare of golden arches; then they sailed past, headed toward some pretty thick timber. The trees were so tall, the belly seemed to skim the branches.

“Where's the airport?” Alex asked, and her voice shook just a little.

Barlow lifted a brow and mouthed,
Scared?

She turned away.

“I don't need no stinkin' airport,” the pilot answered in a very bad Speedy Gonzales accent.

Alex almost panicked—until she remembered she couldn't die. Unless the vehicle was pure silver, and if so neither Barlow nor she would be flying in it. This damn-hard-to-kill thing was kind of liberating.

The pilot set the plane down on a gravel road that wound among towering pines. They climbed out; he waved and was gone.

“Now what?” Alex asked.

“Now we run.”

“Run?” She turned in a circle. All she saw was trees. “Where?”

“Two hundred miles.” Barlow pointed. “That way.”

Alex followed his finger, which pointed north and a little west.

What was it about this place that was so familiar? She closed her eyes for a second. Trees. Earth. Sunshine and shadow. Ice on distant mountaintops. The very air smelled like him.

“This is home,” she murmured.

When Alex opened her eyes, Barlow stared at her as if she'd just sprouted another head.

“What?” she asked.

He looked away. “The sun's nearly down.”

“Great catch, Sherlock,” she muttered.

The way he watched her, so intent one minute, then dismissive the next, grated on Alex's already taut nerves.

“I can't run two hundred miles.”

“Yes.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “You can.”

“You mean—”

“Wolves can run forty miles per hour, cover a hundred and twenty-five miles in a day.” He tossed his shirt into the trees. “Werewolves are wolves, only better.”

Or worse, depending on your point of view.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, and soon the moon would appear. Round, seemingly full to the human eye, Alex still sensed the slight difference. She didn't
have
to change, but oh, how she wanted to.

The howl startled her so badly she jumped. Barlow had already shifted and paced back and forth at the edge of the wood. The urge to join him was impossible to ignore.

Alex threw off the shirts, the shoes, the jeans, and let the
cool silver hum of the moon surrounded her. The power poured into her. She reached for the wolf; her body contorted. She writhed and wriggled, struggled and strained. It took her a lot longer than it had taken him, but eventually she succeeded.

Then together they ran into the night.

Julian ran until the stench of the city no longer filled his nostrils. Then he lay on the pine-needle-strewn ground and rolled until his fur smelled again like Alaska.

God, he hated leaving home. Which was damn funny considering he'd once done nothing but.

Julian had been born in Norway so long ago, his memories should have been hazy. Yet some were so clear they could have occurred yesterday. Burning and pillaging appeared to stay with a man for centuries.

Once his name had been Jorund the Blund. Julian shook his golden fur. Pine needles flew every which way. His hair, nearly white in his youth, and his height, tall even among Vikings, had marked him as different.

In battle, his men could see his pale head far above those of their enemies. Because of that, and his prowess with a sword, they'd followed him to the ends of the earth.

Or what had been the ends at the time. They'd conquered parts of Scotland, England, and Iceland. They'd plundered their way up and down several coasts. They'd done things Julian wished he didn't remember.

He had an excuse. He'd been a
Viking
. What was he
supposed to do, refuse to plunder and pillage? That was a good way to meet the pointy end of a sword. Besides, the concept that taking whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, because he could was
wrong
had never even occurred to him.

Not then.

Paw-steps approached, the slash of a body through the trees. Alex was closing in. He'd run ahead, eager to immerse himself in home. He had no worries that he would lose her. He wouldn't be that lucky.

She burst through the branches, sending the fresh scent of pine into the air. They were going to have to talk about silence and stealth. Perhaps tomorrow when they could actually talk.

Alex, whose snout had been to the ground as she followed his scent, pulled up when she caught sight of him. Her lip lifted; a snarl rumbled.

Certainly werewolves could think like humans—reason, plan—they were faster, stronger, and they didn't die without a silver bullet, but for the most part when they were wolves, they were wolves. Speech was beyond them.

However, they got their message across. Right now Alex was saying she'd kill him if she could.

Julian lifted his lip and snarled back. The feeling was mutual.

In truth, werewolf murder was rare. He'd heard it described as a fail-safe in the virus. Werewolves were selfish and vicious, and many were not quite sane. Therefore, if two met, they would fight to the death. Which would leave very few werewolves around.

Julian and his wolves were different. Yes, they became werewolves because of a virus, but they weren't evil. They
didn't kill for the sake of killing. Excluding the first kill, they rarely killed at all—especially one another.

But they could.

Suddenly Alex tilted her head; her tail stiffened, her snout lifted, and a light breeze ruffled her tawny fur. She quivered once; then she was gone, racing through the trees at a pace only a werewolf would love. If she took one wrong turn in this dense cover she would smash headfirst into an immovable object and break her neck.

Too bad that wouldn't kill her.

She disappeared into the distance, and Julian huffed an annoyed breath through his nose. Was she
trying
to step on every stick in the forest?

He followed, but at a more sedate pace. Julian had run snout-first into a tree before. He didn't plan to do so again.

He found her sitting in a patch of moonlight, head tipped upward, mouth lolling open to catch the fat snowflakes that had just begun to fall.

For an instant he wanted to join her, to tumble her to the ground and wrestle as wolves did. To run and play, to hunt together, then later—

Mounting her as a wolf, again as a man. Fur against fur. Skin upon skin. His breath and hers, coming fast and sharp. Panting. The slick slide, that welcoming heat. She'd be tight, tighter still when she clenched around him and he—

Julian yipped in surprise at the images that cascaded through his mind. Alex yipped, too, startled, then glanced over her shoulder and showed him her teeth.

If wolves could laugh, Julian would have. Even if he didn't despise her, she certainly despised him. He could fantasize all he wanted about fucking her, but it would never, ever happen.

Alex found herself dazzled by everything. The world, when viewed as a wolf, was completely new. Scents swirled around her, and they told her things—a rabbit ahead, a mouse just there, a moose had meandered through not long ago.

The snow pattered like rain upon the ground, upon her, so much louder than snow should be. The night was silver and blue, exquisite, a shadow land that existed only for her.

Then Barlow blundered in and wrecked everything.

She was staring at the moon, fighting the bizarre urge to howl, when he yipped from just behind her. She nearly jumped out of her fur. Where had he come from? He moved as quietly as a wolf as he had as a man.

She, however, was having a hard time staying silent—and right now she was so hungry, she was wondering how Barlow would taste raw.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of a similar expression in Barlow's too human eyes. He was wondering how she would taste also. But in a totally different way.

Barlow came toward her, and Alex scrambled to her feet, nearly collapsing when they tangled together. She could not get her mind around four feet,
not
two. By the time she righted herself he was gone, and she stood in the clearing alone with the moon.

Her stomach growled so loudly she started. Then she wasn't sure if the skittering sound on the snow had been her own claws or the claws of another.

Her ruff went up, her wary gaze flicked around the open space, and she caught the scent of something “other.”

Scents in this form were so precise, yet she had nothing to connect them to. She knew that once she could put an image with that scent, she would never again forget it. But right now all she felt was an intense urge to run. So she did.

Alex loped alone for miles, and that was fine by her. The less she saw of Barlow, the better. He wasn't going to be able to ditch her. She could smell him on the breeze, the grass. Hell, even the snow—which had begun to swirl heavier and faster, obscuring the tops of the trees—smelled like him.

Then she caught a whiff of something else. Something that made her ruff go back up, along with her lip, and her snarl rumbled into the chill.

Blood.

It had a scent all its own.

Alex hunkered down, crept forward, belly to the ground. She tried to be quiet. But no matter what she did, one of her paws always landed on a stick or a stone—crack, clatter,
come and get me.

She took another sniff. Not just blood but death. Dammit! She'd wanted to kill Barlow herself.

Strangely, the idea of him dead did not make her want to roll across the snow and yip with delight. Instead, panic caused her to pant. She turned a slow circle and saw nothing but trees.

A whimper escaped, and she swiped a paw at her snout in annoyance. Whining would get her nowhere.

She used her human mind, made herself see reason. Barlow couldn't be dead. She hadn't heard a shot. Not that a silver bullet was the only way to go.

Lighten up!
she told herself. If Barlow were ashes she could go back to civilization, find Edward—yeah, right—and make him cure her.

Except no one made Edward do anything.

Alex was starting to catch a clue to something she hadn't considered before. Even if she succeeded at this mission,
would
Edward cure her?

Why, when she made such a perfect spy?

She discovered she was gnawing on her own foot, as if caught in a trap.

Because she was. Damn Edward Mandenauer to hell.

Ferocity boiled inside. Consumed with the need to run and growl and fight, Alex shot out of the undergrowth.

All she found was a freshly killed rabbit, its blood a scarlet splotch against the pristine snow.

 

She finished dinner in less time than it had taken to “make” it. Though the “Alex” inside of her was squirming, the wolf enjoyed the meal. Nothing like fresh meat on an empty stomach.

When she was done she looked around for another, but she wasn't the only one that had smelled blood and death on the breeze. It appeared every small, furry creature in the vicinity had turned tail and run. She didn't blame them.

Alex trotted after Barlow. Miles upon miles she traveled, and the moon began to fall. She didn't get tired, but she did get thirsty. Luckily there was plenty of snow, and in the distance she smelled water. A lot of it.

She increased her pace; the water was close, but she could already tell it wasn't meant for drinking. Her nose was an amazing tool.

The trees became less dense, and she stood at their edge, gazing across the flat land that led to the sea. The glow of the moon banking across the ice floes dazzled her. A soft breeze bristled off the water, frozen and salty, making her think of margaritas. All she needed was a really big lime and an oil tanker of tequila.

The ice lifted and lowered, crashed against other floes and made a strange rumble, the only sound in the desolate land. She skittered beneath the trees. Everything was so different here.

The sky began to lighten, but that only served to send danc
ing gray shadows everywhere. She turned, planning to scurry into the densest part of the forest, and caught a flash of something huge and white. She barely managed to duck the claws that swiped for her head, then she was running.

Being chased by a polar bear has that effect.

How long had the thing been stalking her? She remembered the scent of “other” that she hadn't been able to put a name to, the slight
scritch
of claws on snow that she'd written off as her own.

Hell, he'd been hunting her for hours.

Thank God in this form she was faster. He'd never catch her.
Never.

She gave in to the power within; she ran as she'd never run before. Now that she'd seen what was behind her, her fear faded. The bear was a fool for even thinking it could track and kill her. She was more than a wolf, more than a woman. She was both; she was neither. She was better.

Alex hugged the edge of the trees just as dawn burst over the horizon, and as the sunlight touched her, she stumbled, falling head-over-paws, which became heels and feet and toes as she shifted.