Marked by Moonlight (27 page)

“Let's go.” Gideon crawled through the grass, calling over his shoulder in hushed tones, “With any luck you'll be back in that room of yours before moonrise.”

 

Claire dozed in and out of sleep with Nina's head cushioned in her lap. She had quickly gotten over her fears of touching Nina and used a length of rope to bind Nina's arm to her chest. The basement grew colder as the day faded, disappearing into shadows, and she covered Nina with a tarp.

“Miss Morgan,” Nina whispered in the stillness.

“Hmm?” Claire asked, trying to fight the hunger pains clawing her stomach.

She trailed her fingers through Nina's hair, soft as a child's. With a pang she realized Nina was just that—a child. Sometimes she forgot that her students, trapped in their almost grown bodies, were still children. Lenny had been only a boy. A lost boy whose sad life met an even sadder end. She blinked at the tears springing to her eyes.

Her inadvertent role in Lenny's death pressed down on her chest, an invisible weight. No matter what happened she would never forget how Cyril had used her. Even if she succumbed to the curse and lost her soul, she would remember. Somehow she would cling to a shred of humanity, a bleeding scrap to bury deep and pull out one day when the chance arose. On that day she would make Cyril pay for all he had taken from her.

“Does it seem darker to you?”

Claire glanced at the single window. The muted beam of light was higher now, hitting the wall and not the floor.

“Just a bit.” Her voice quavered on the lie.

“I've been thinking about the way I'm gonna die—”

“Nina, don't—”

“Please, let me say what I have to.” Nina grabbed her hand. Claire gasped at the unexpected coldness of her slight fingers. Her dark stare demanded she listen. “You could kill me before you change.”

She shook her head and pulled her hand free of Nina's grasp, the horror of what she asked too much to contemplate.

Before she could voice her protest, Nina rushed on to say, “Over there. Take one of those.”

Claire followed her finger to where several pipes lay stacked near an old furnace. Instantly, she understood what Nina would have her do.

“One strike—”

“No,” Claire broke in, shaking her head from side to side, horror wringing her heart. “I'm not a killer.”

“Listen to me,” Nina insisted in a surprisingly steady voice, her sad, solemn eyes so adult as they looked up at Claire. “It could be over. Quick. It's better than—” Her voice lost its steadiness and she choked on a sob. She covered her face with her one good hand. “I don't want to die that way.”

“Sshh, I know.” Claire stroked her long hair, the strands silk under her hand.

Nina swiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her fingers and sniffed, her voice rising strong again. “The pipe.”

Claire shook her head, strands of hair clinging to her tear-soaked cheeks. “I can't.”

“You have to.” She squeezed Claire's hand with her chilled one. “You owe me that. Don't let me die the way he intends.” She shook her head side to side vehemently. “Not that way.”

Claire stared into her face for several moments, the weight on her chest now too tight to draw air into her lungs. How could she refuse Nina a humane death?

Standing, she made her way to the pile of pipes, her heart an aching throb beneath her breastbone. Bending, her hand closed around the smooth steel. Staring at it in horror, she tested its weight in her hand.

Oh God, how can I do this?

She recalled her fright when Lenny attacked her. The horror, the pain. And Nina would endure so much more than that. Claire couldn't put Nina through that. Not if she could help it. Claire had to offer her whatever relief she could—even if that relief was a swift, merciful death.

With slow, measured steps, she approached the girl, the heavy pipe clutched tightly in her hands.

Dogs possess exceedingly long memories; they never forget a kindness or a wrong.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

G
ideon stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around his hand. With one plunge he sent his fist through the window, the cotton fabric of his shirt muffling the sound of shattering glass. He dropped back down on top of the air conditioning unit, shaking shards of glass from his shirt before shrugging back into it. Pressing his back against the house, he waited, breath suspended.

Below him, Darius crouched in the dirt. Satisfied they hadn't been discovered, Gideon went first, rising up on the faded green unit to peer through the window. A narrow, empty hallway stared back. As quietly as possible, he cleared the remnants of glass from the window and slipped inside. His booted feet thudded quietly on the carpet. Darius followed, dropping down silently beside him. They stood side by side, tense and vigilant as two jungle cats.

Shadows crept along the long length of hall. Dusk hovered in its final farewell, fading from the window behind them, casting a red pall over the shadowed interior of the house.

Muscles tense, Gideon stepped forward. Then he stopped, freezing as a pair of rottweilers rounded the corner. They stood together, legs braced wide apart, glossy black hair standing on end as they bared their teeth and growled.

“Uh, Darius?” Gideon spoke between unmoving lips, eyes never wavering from the dogs.

“Did I mention packs frequently use dogs as protectors of the den?” Darius asked in an offhanded air.

“You left that bit out.”

“Sorry. Don't let them get their teeth around your neck,” Darius advised just before the dogs charged, nails clattering against the hardwood floor.

The dog on the left flew through the air toward Gideon. Bracing himself, he focused on the snarling one hundred forty pounds coming his way.

The beast slammed into him with the force of a tank. Stumbling back several steps, Gideon grabbed the dog by the head just before his steel-trap jaws clamped down and tore his nose from his face. He twisted the animal's ears and felt a stab of satisfaction when a sharp whimper pierced the air.

Gideon glanced over his arm to see Darius snap the other dog's neck. “Mind helping me?” he grunted.

Darius stepped over the dead dog and strolled toward Gideon as he might on a walk in the park. Bending, he wrapped his hands around the dog's neck and broke it like a toothpick.

Gideon shoved the dead animal off his chest. Looking back and forth between the two prostrate dogs, he felt himself grin. “Damn glad to have you with me.”

Darius pulled Gideon to his feet, motioning to the dogs. “There may be more.”

Suddenly, a soft, melodious voice spoke. “Normally I would be quite put out with anyone who killed my pets—”

Gideon's head swiveled in the direction of the voice. Jesslyn stood in the hallway, two lycans framed on either side of her.

“Do you know how long it takes to properly train them?” Jesslyn gestured to her pets, her look aggravated. “It's all in the breeding, really.” Her silver gaze flowed over Darius, warming to dark pewter. “But since it's you, Darius, I'll find the forgiveness.” She held out both arms. “Welcome home, darling. It's been a long time.”

“Jess,” Darius acknowledged, staying put.

After a moment she dropped her hands, her plump lips pouting, marring her lovely features. With a light shrug, she shifted her attention to Gideon and smiled again. “Lovely. I see you brought a snack.” Her gaze swept over Gideon in appraisal. “A bit more than a snack,” she amended, a hungry gleam entering her silver eyes. “He looks like Brad Pitt. Delicious.”

“You know who I've come for,” Gideon announced.

“Indeed?” She tossed her thick blonde hair over her shoulder. The fading sunlight cast her face in a fiery glow. “Our Claire is the popular one. Cyril is quite taken with her, too.”

Her gaze swung to Darius, and Gideon heard the jealousy in her voice when she asked, “Don't tell me you've come for her as well? Perhaps I should take lessons from our little Claire. She attracts mates like bees to the honey pot.”

Impatience reared its head. Gideon pulled the gun from his holster. He was finished chatting. “How many of you have to die before I get what I've come for?” Lifting the gun, he fired.

The lycan to Jesslyn's left hit the floor with a howl. The other one charged, and Gideon fired a second time, watching numbly as he collapsed at his feet. He swung the gun back at Jess, cocking an eyebrow. She stood cool and composed.

“Where is she?” he asked, his words dropping like heavy stones into the charged air.

She stood calmly, as if members of her pack were wiped out in front of her every day. Her glittering gaze turned on Darius, ignoring Gideon entirely. “You've come to kill us? Your brethren? Your old pack?” she accused, her voice low.

Darius lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Should have done it a long time ago. Would have if I'd known where to find you.”

She made a clucking sound with her tongue and thrust her bottom lip out. “You're still angry. Over
her
.”

“No,” Darius corrected. “I don't feel anger anymore. I don't feel anything at all. I am quite content on my own.”

“All this time? You haven't fed?” She shook her head in wonder and laughed, the sound brittle. “Fool.” Smiling, she tilted her head, gaze narrowing thoughtfully. “And have you found salvation yet, Brother Darius?”

Darius didn't answer.

“Of course not.” Her smile melted away and she gestured to the fallen two, her gaze drilling into Darius. “You'll stand by and watch this human annihilate us?”

“No,” Darius responded quickly.

She smiled in satisfaction, but Gideon glimpsed the hint of relief behind that smile. She extended a hand to Darius, elegant fingers curling in a beckoning wave. “Welcome home, my love. I've missed you.”

Darius plucked the gun from his hand. Before Gideon had time to react, Darius pulled the trigger.

“Sorry I can't say the same,” he replied, his voice flat.

Jesslyn fell to her knees, a hand pressing over the hole in her chest—as if she could staunch the blood blooming on her cotton print dress. “Darius?” she whispered, her look bewildered.

“I haven't come to
watch
him kill my old pack.” Stepping closer, he pressed the gun to her forehead. “I've come to help.” Then he pulled the trigger. Her body jerked and hit the ground in a soft thud. Turning, he tossed the gun to Gideon. “Better reload. They know we're here.”

Gideon reloaded and tossed it back to him. “Looks like you're going to need one, too.”

Pulling out a second gun, he stepped around the bodies. They resumed walking down the hall, opening every door they came to, systematically searching the rooms, closets, and adjoining bathrooms.

“Is it possible he's not here?” Gideon asked as he opened yet another door, this one leading to a linen closet. They had to find Cyril. Cyril was the key.

“Oh, he's here. Lying in wait.” Darius nodded grimly. “I can feel him.”

They descended the stairs, stopping before a large sunken living room. Empty. A large rock fireplace dominated the corner of the room. Gideon motioned with his gun to the large sectional couch. Darius nodded in understanding. They moved to opposite ends of the couch and peered over it. Nothing but carpet.

Gideon heard a strange scrabbling sound and looked over his shoulder. Nothing. But the sound grew louder. He swung around the precise moment a lycan dropped down into the hearth from inside the chimney, stirring up a huge cloud of soot. With an inhuman shriek, he launched himself on Darius.

Coughing through the foul air, Gideon squinted and aimed, praying he didn't miss.

 

The cold seeped through Claire's clothes, numbing her skin and penetrating her bones as she knelt on the floor beside Nina. She carefully set the steel pipe beside her—gently, softly, so Nina wouldn't hear the steel clank against the concrete floor. No need for an audible reminder of what was to come.

Despite Nina's brave front, she was tense as a board, staring up at Claire with wide eyes.

You can do this. You promised Nina
.

“Relax.” She smoothed a hand over Nina's brow. “We have a little time.”

Some of the tension eased from Nina's rigid shoulders. “You'll let me know when it's coming?” she asked.

“Of course,” Claire lied, easing the worry lines from Nina's forehead with her fingers, determined to make her relax and drop her guard. Her skin was soft. Like a newborn's.

Claire watched the gentle rise and fall of Nina's chest. When Nina's eyes drifted shut, Claire knew the time had arrived. Her hand closed around the pipe. Ever so slowly she lifted it, her fist tightening around the pipe until her fingers ached. She raised the pipe high above her head. Sucking in a silent breath, she jammed her eyes shut and prepared to swing.

God forgive me.

The door at the top of the stairs flung open the second before she brought the pipe crashing down. Claire froze and watched Cyril descend.

“There's been a change in plans.” The wood steps creaked beneath his weight. Two other lycans followed behind him. “We've decided to join you.”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze landing on the pipe in her hand. “Claire,” he said, tsking, shaking his head in reproof. “What are you doing? Depriving yourself of a warm meal? We can't have that. I know you must be starving. Perhaps we should show you how it's done.”

Nina clutched her wrist in a bruising grip. Claire looked down, translating the silent plea in Nina's gaze.
Kill me
.

A plea she couldn't refuse.

With an agonized cry, Claire swung.

 

Damn
. Gideon couldn't get a clear shot through the haze of soot, and he couldn't afford to miss. Not with a gun loaded with silver bullets. If he so much as clipped Darius in the shoulder, he'd be dead.

He watched, eyes stinging from the polluted air, waiting for his chance as Darius and the other lycan crashed through the glass coffee table. Glass rained down on the carpet, crunching beneath them as they rolled in the shards. Finally, Gideon got his chance. Praying he didn't move at the last second, he squeezed the trigger.

“About time!” With a grunt, Darius threw the body off him. Standing, he dug a jagged piece of glass out of his arm and flicked it to the carpet like it was a piece of lint.

“Come on.” Gideon strode out of the living room, Darius fast on his heels.

A sound reached his ears. He paused, angling his head to the side. There it was again. A thudding noise. Like someone banging on a wall. Or door.

“What's that?” Darius looked at Gideon.

Hope, desperate and burning, swelled to life in Gideon's chest.

Claire
.

They ran in the direction of the sound, following it through a swinging door that opened to a large, airy kitchen outfitted with an industrial-size stove and stainless steel fridge. An old medieval-style trestle table with a battered and scarred surface stood in the center of the room, at odds with the rest of the very modern, utilitarian kitchen.

The back door hung open, swinging lightly in the still air, as if someone had just rushed past it. The slow creak of its hinges raised the hair on his arms. Gideon rotated on the balls of his feet, the barrel of his gun sweeping the kitchen. He took careful note of that open door, half expecting a lycan to charge through it.

The pounding grew louder, accompanied by shouts. The racket came from a bolted pantry door. Gideon flung back the bolt. The breath rushed from him in disappointment.

Darius stepped beside him to eye the pantry's occupants. Amid several twenty-pound bags of dog food, two teenagers stared up at him with mixed expressions of fear and hope. The other three were still unconscious on the pantry floor.

“Help us!” A girl with badly smeared black eyeliner glared up at him.

“We'll get you out of here,” Gideon promised.

Her face softened in relief, and she hugged the weeping girl beside her.

“But you need to wait here a little longer.”

She shook her head fiercely. “No! You have to get us out of here now!”

Gideon waved a hand in the air to calm her. “I promise I'll get you out of here.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “For now you have to stay quiet, okay? No more pounding.”

“Hell, no! Listen, you asshole—”

He closed the door on her protests and set the bolt back in place. The pounding resumed with gusto.

Gideon's gaze shot to the open door. The air outside had deepened to an opaque purple. Time was up.

“We're not going to get me home in time,” Darius announced, his words echoing Gideon's grim thoughts. “You're going to have to kill me.”