Moon Shadows (3 page)

“None of the above—that I know about.”

“Good. Life is worth living.”

Outside, Simone walked quickly, working to fill her senses with anything at hand. Exhaust fumes, the aroma of bread from the bakery, the heavily pine-scented aftershave of a man who bustled by her.

Her hands wanted to shake, now that she could relax—a little—that rigid control.

She'd never experienced anything like this before, but she knew what it was. Lust and longing and desperate need.

She'd never seen Gabe before, but she'd known him. Recognized him.

Knowing she couldn't face anyone, not yet, she circled the block, avoiding her own shop and going straight to her truck. Inside, she gave herself one more minute, resting her head on the wheel while Amico nuzzled her cheek in concern.

She'd recognized the one thing she could never have.

A mate.

I
N
eleven years, Simone had lived in seven locations. It had been her hard and fast rule not to allow herself to become overly attached to any place, anything. Anyone.

She had two goals in life. The first was survival; the second to find a cure for the infection that lived inside her. To accomplish these goals, she needed to live apart. Be apart.

She had no family—or those she'd left behind in St. Paul eleven years before were no more interested in her than she in them. She couldn't risk neighbors, friends, lovers. Intimacy, or even the pretense of intimacy, was far too dangerous.

She hadn't expected to become so fond of this little slice of Maine. She'd lived in the wide open spaces of Montana, in the towering forests of Washington, on the windswept coast of Nova Scotia. None of those places, or any of the others she'd settled in briefly or had passed through, had spoken to her like the green New England forest, the long, rocky beaches, the rough cliffs of eastern Maine.

So she had stayed, breaking her own policy, and had begun
to think of the house she'd chosen for specific and practical purposes as her home.

Then she'd seen him, scented him, spoken to him. Now she was afraid she would have to move on, again, rather than risk the consequences.

But she believed she was close, on the brink of finding the answers. She'd believed it before, she admitted. She'd let her hopes rise, only to see them dashed again and again, when the moon took her.

She could avoid him. Avoidance of people was a well-honed skill. She knew how to deny herself. There were other vets. And if her body required sexual release with a partner, she could find another man easily enough. She'd done so before. A quick coupling in the dark, simple and basic as food or drink.

There was no good reason to see Gabe again, and nothing to be gained by thinking of him.

Work was all she needed.

The kitchen of the old house was a hive of activity. Simone made use of the oceans of counters, the bulky stove, the computer with its list of products and their formulas. She liked the sunny brightness of the room as much as its practical layout. The woman she was craved the sun as much as what was inside her craved the moon.

She liked to work here in the mornings, simmering herbs on the stove, infusing them, drawing in the scents as she cooked or crushed or grated. She experimented here as well. Customers could be fiercely loyal to the standards, but they enjoyed, and paid for, new products.

She thought the new hand gel, with its base of seaweed she gathered herself at low tide, was going to be a hit.

The more she made from her business, she reminded herself as she filtered the cooled liquid into a bowl, the more she had to invest in her other work. Her personal quest.

She moved around her kitchen, checking pots, bowls, bottles, with her hair pulled back in an ancient scrunchie, her feet bare, her old shirt draping over the hips of her jeans.

While she worked she listened to Robert Parker's latest
bestseller on audio. Her company consisted of characters in books or movies, songs on the stereo. Those, and Amico, were all she required.

All, she reminded herself, she could have.

Spenser kept her entertained, amusing and intriguing her, until she broke for a walk and a light lunch.

Amico raced away, then ran back again as she wandered into the woods. So, it would be the woods today and not the cliffs. Just as well, she decided, as it had been awhile since she'd checked her No Trespassing signs, and her reaction to Gabe had reminded her of boundaries.

Mosquitoes buzzed around her as she walked. They never bit her. She supposed insect instinct warned them not to snack on her blood.

She sat in the cool shade by her skinny and twisty stream to share with her dog the egg salad sandwich she'd made.

Blood was the issue, she thought. The key. It was blood that ran both man and beast. She'd studied hematology, had countless books and web sites on the subject. She'd spent years researching blood infections and viruses, but she was no doctor.

She hadn't seen a doctor in nearly eleven years. She didn't dare. In any case, she was in perfect health—except for that pesky blood disease that turned her into a mindless, raving beast for three days every month.

But other than that, she thought with a half smile, she was good to go.

She hadn't done so badly for a woman of her education, means, and disability. She had her own business that kept the—ha ha—wolf away from the door. She had her own home, a loyal canine companion. She had an enormous stockpile of audio books, CDs, DVDs, which were often better company than humans anyway.

She'd seen a fair chunk of the world and lived a relatively normal and contented life for a lycanthrope.

She took out the two pills she'd made, studied them. If this latest formula worked, she could be cured. She could be free of the moon.

Or not.

She popped them, washed them down with the fresh
lemonade she'd brought along. She'd know in another few days. And if the newest dose didn't work, another would eventually.

She'd never stop trying.

Once she'd thought she'd go insane. But she hadn't. She'd wondered if death was the only escape, but death was the coward's way. She'd overcome her own disbelief, doubt, and despair. She'd beaten loneliness and anger and grief.

What was left was determination.

“Could be worse, right?” she murmured to Amico, lazily stroking his fur as they both drowsed in the dappled light. “It could be a couple hundred years ago. Then I'd be hunted down by the villagers and shot at with silver bullets.”

She drew out the heavy cross she wore under her shirt. “Or it could've killed me.” She turned the silver so it caught a wink of sunlight. “Being dead's a hell of a lot worse than eating egg salad in the woods in the afternoon. But lazing around here isn't getting any lab work done.”

She gave Amico a quick rub before she stuffed the trash and her travel mug into the canvas sack she used as a lunch bag. Wandering back, she took time to pick some wildflowers, some berries, all useful in her work. When her gathering bag was full, she cut through to take the short way home.

She caught the scent along with Amico. Both woman and dog went on alert, and as Amico let out a soft, warning growl, she laid a hand on his head.

She needed a minute to muster her defenses before she walked out of the woods to face the man she most wanted to avoid.

He stood by a truck, so much shinier, so much trimmer than hers, it looked like a toy. The sun gilded him, or so it seemed to her, so that the light shimmered around him, caught at the ends of his hair and lit him like a flame.

Desire burst through her like a flood, carrying the dangerous debris of love and hope and longing. It would swamp her if she allowed it. Drown her.

So she wouldn't allow it, any more than she'd allow herself to hide in the woods like a frightened rabbit.

She spoke quietly to Amico, releasing him from his guard stance so he could trot forward and greet the visitor.

He glanced over at the dog's approach and grinned the way she knew animal lovers grinned at big, handsome dogs.

“There you are, big guy. How's it going? Whatcha doing?” He leaned over to stroke and scratch, and Simone felt saliva pool in her mouth at the way his hands glided over fur.

“Where's your girl?” He looked up, spotted her. “Hi.”

“Hello.” She crossed the lawn, keenly aware of the warmth of the sun, the tickle of the breeze on her skin. The scent of his soap—just a hint of lemon there.

“Been out for a walk? Gorgeous day for it.”

“Yes.”

There was cinnamon on his breath, sweet and appealing.

“I was about to dig up some paper, leave you a note. I had a house call nearby. Anemic goat.”

“Oh.”

“Nice place. Quiet. Great house. Got any coffee?”

“Ah . . .” She appreciated direct; it saved time. But she hadn't been expecting it. “No, I don't. I don't drink it.”

“At all? Ever? How do you stay upright? How about tea? A soft drink? Water? Gatorade? Any social beverage I can use as a prop to have a conversation with you.”

“About what?”

“Pretty much anything.” The breeze ruffled through his hair like gentle fingers. “Come on, Simone, don't make me slash my own tires so I can ask to use your phone.”

“Don't you have a cell phone?”

He grinned again, and shot a few more holes in her shield. “I'll claim the battery's dead. It might even be true.”

Safer, smarter to send him away, she reminded herself. But where was the harm, really?

“I have fresh lemonade.”

“I happen to love fresh lemonade.”

She turned toward the house, careful to keep the dog between them. “I don't know of any goats, anemic or otherwise, in the neighborhood.”

“I only had to drive eight or nine miles out of the way to be in the neighborhood. It really is a great house. Kinda spooky
and mysterious with those gables and their witch's-hat roofs. I like spooky old houses.”

“So do I, apparently.” She took him around the back so they'd enter directly into the kitchen. When she took the key out of her pocket, he made no comment. But she could see in his eyes he wondered why she'd bother to lock up just to take a walk in her own woods.

“Wow.” He took a long, sweeping glance at the kitchen, its long counters, sparkling enamel pots, the hanks of hanging herbs, the bottles and bowls all lined up like a military parade. “Some room. Smells like a garden, and looks like one of those kitchens you see on TV cooking shows.”

There were two backless stools at the center island. Gabe slid onto one comfortably, while he continued to study. The cabinets were all fronted with pebbled glass. Through it he could see more bottles, all precisely labeled. More of what he assumed were cooking tools, supplies, ingredients.

Dishes were limited to a couple of plates and bowls, a few glasses and cups. From the looks of it, he thought, the lady didn't do much entertaining.

“How'd you get into herbs?”

She took down one of the glasses before going to the refrigerator for the pitcher of lemonade. “An interest of mine I decided to turn into a profit.”

“I went by your store yesterday. Classy place. Interesting, too. The main thing I know about herbs is oregano tastes really good on pizza. Thanks.” He took the glass she offered. “What's that?”

He nodded toward one of the hanging herbs.

“Prunella, also called heal-all.”

“And does it? Heal-all?”

“In a gargle, it's good for sore throats.”

“He's watching you—and me.” Sipping lemonade, Gabe glanced at Amico. “Waiting for you to tell him if he can relax or if he should stay ready to escort me out. I've never seen a dog more tuned to its master.”

“Meaning I haven't decided whether to relax or escort you out.”

“Pretty much. The thing is, I felt, well, this pop the other
day, soon as I saw you. This kind of It's-about-time-you-showed-up deal.” He shrugged, bumped the toe of his high-top on the side of the counter as he shifted. “Sounds weird, but there it is. And it seemed to me you felt something, too.”

“You're attractive,” she said evenly. “My dog likes you and his judgment's excellent. Naturally, there'd be some interest. But—”

“We don't have to get into buts, do we, and muck it all up?” He propped his elbows on the counter. He had long arms, she noted, and a few fresh scratches on the back of his left hand.

“Let me give you a quick rundown. Thirty-three, single. Brushed close to the concept of marriage once, but it didn't stick. Grew up a city boy with a country boy's heart, and can't remember not wanting to be a vet. I'm a good one.”

“I saw that for myself.”

“Doesn't hurt to reinforce. I like baseball and action flicks, mystery novels. And I'm probably a little overattached to
The Simpsons
, but I don't see anything wrong with that. Hurts no one. I can cook as long as it means a microwave, and the biggest crime that I'll admit on such short acquaintance is copying Ursella Ridgeport's answers for a U.S. history final in high school. We got a B.”

She wasn't used to being charmed, or surprised. He was managing to do both. “But . . .”

“Tough nut.”

“I don't really socialize.”

“Is that a hard and fast rule or more of a blueprint? Because there's this restaurant up on Bucksport—you are a carnivore, right?”

“And then some,” she murmured.

“Well, they have these amazing steaks. Nice change from the local seafood. It's just wrong to sit down to one by yourself, so you'd be doing me a big favor if you went with me.”

Oh God, did she have to like him as well as want to rub her naked body all over his? “And I should do you a favor because?”

“I can't concentrate properly on my work for wondering
about you. You don't want my patients to suffer because you won't chow down on a steak with me.”