New Moon

New Moon

Moon Series – Book 7

By Rebecca York

CHAPTER ONE

THE FOREST AT night was his playground, his domain. And werewolf Logan Marshall ran for the sheer joy of taking in his kingdom. A lithe gray shape, he was one with the night, the wind ruffling his fur and the sounds and scents of the night tantalizing his senses.

Tomorrow he would go back to work, focusing on the project that had brought him to this patch of Maryland woods. Tonight he ran free. Or as free as a man could be who must try to fit into two very different worlds.

His campsite was a mile back, in a patch of woods scheduled to be demolished by developers in the next few months. It made him sick to think that next year this magnificent hardwood stand would disappear—driving the forest creatures who lived here from their homes.

But tonight he could enjoy the ripple of the wind in the trees and the moonlight dappling the leaves.

He was two miles from camp when a new sensation crept into the edge of his consciousness.

No ordinary human would have noticed the subtle difference in the night air. But a werewolf was blessed with senses that no man, except his brothers and his cousins, possessed.

He stopped short, lifting his head and dragging in a deep draft of the humid air. Unfamiliar scents tickled his nose. It was as though a door had opened, letting in dank air that had come from some other time and place.

In this one patch of woods, he sensed a rip in the very fabric of the universe.

A rip in the fabric of the universe?
Yeah, right
.

Yet he knew it wasn't impossible. The Marshall clan had fought a monster from another world. A creature that had lurked in the underground reaches of a private club in Washington, D.C., where the rich and powerful came to indulge their sexual appetites—egged on by the monster who fed on their emotions.

They had killed the creature, although the werewolves had only been the assistants. It was the strong Marshall women who had joined their mental energy in battle.

He had left while they were still celebrating their victory, because watching the other men and their life-mates had made his chest tighten.

In the distant past—some twenty or thirty years ago—the werewolves had ruled their families like despots. Things had changed with the new generation of Marshall women. They were the equal of their men. And Logan could easily imagine living out his life with a mate like that.

But he'd met no women who could be "the one." So he kept to his bachelor existence, carving out a name for himself as a landscape architect who specialized in native plants. Which was why he was camping out this weekend, harvesting ahead of the bulldozers.

Only tonight some outside force had disturbed this patch of Maryland woodland.

A man might have backed away from the danger. The werewolf knew he had to investigate. Or was the compulsion to rush toward danger coming from outside his own mind?

A command below the level of his wolf's hearing seemed to pull him toward the unknown. And he obeyed, taking one step forward and then another, when deep inside he knew that he should turn and run for his life—for his sanity.

Disaster struck like a sharp-toothed animal lurking in the underbrush. But no animal could have possessed the steel jaws that suddenly snapped around his ankle.

The pain was instantaneous—and excruciating, He went down, howling as he rolled to his side, leaves and debris clinging to his stiff fur. For long moments, he was unable to move, the agonizing bite of the claws in his flesh mirrored by savage claws in his brain.

He had to… He had to…

It was impossible to complete the sentence. He was caught in a snare, and the saw-toothed steel that dug into his flesh did more than hold him fast. It made coherent thought almost impossible.

As waves of pain radiated through him, he knew on some deep level that he must free himself or die. He lay panting, gathering his strength, struggling to focus on wrenching himself away. But when he tugged against the thing that held him fast, a burst of agony seared his nerve endings—then shot upward through his body.

All he could do was lie there in the leaves with his eyes closed and his breath shallow, feeling his consciousness slipping away. He would die here in this patch of woods. Or perhaps fate had something worse than death in store for him.

He was trying to remember something important. A prayer his mother had taught him long ago in his childhood?

Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

They had said that together at night as part of his bedtime ritual. It wasn't until later that he had known why she asked God to watch over him.

Still, when he had changed from child to man—and man to wolf—he had come to believe that he was no longer under the protection of the Almighty.

In the back of his mind he knew that it wasn't the prayer he was trying to remember. It was something else. Something vital to his life.

He had to remember… remember the words that would set him free. But he couldn't pull them into his mind.

Not with the horrible burning pain.

A long time passed. Or perhaps it was only seconds. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he drifted on a sea of agony. A noise somewhere close by made his eyes snap open again. Blinking, he saw a shape coming toward him through the forest. For a moment, he was sure he was hallucinating.

He saw a wolf.

CHAPTER TWO

LOGAN HEARD HIMSELF make a gasping sound as the wolf trotted toward him.

Thank God! One of his brothers, Lance or Grant, had figured out what had happened to him, and they were going to set him free from the terrible pain. Or maybe it was his cousin Ross. He was the one who had started the cooperation in the family.

Squinting, he tried to figure out who had come to his rescue. But the longer he looked at the wolf, the more he thought that it was none of them. The size seemed wrong. This wolf was too small, and the coloring was off, too—more whitish than gray. Or were his senses fading?

He stared at the animal. Could it be a real wolf? From where? The forest? A zoo? There were no wild wolves in the eastern part of the United States, as far as he knew. Only his own relatives.

The animal was pretty. And delicate. Definitely no match for Logan—freed from his trap, that is.

So who was this guy? Nobody he knew in the Marshall clan. And in the wide world, they were the only werewolves that existed.

Or was that wrong?

He tried to focus on the animal as it walked toward him—with purpose and also with caution, as though it knew he was in trouble and had come to help, yet it didn't want to suffer the same fate.

It stopped a few feet away, sniffing at him and sniffing at the trap, obviously afraid to get too near the thing.

"Don't worry," he wanted to say. "It's already got me. It can't grab you, too." Or could the mind-numbing power of the thing reach out beyond the physical contact?

He tried to puzzle that out. But his brain was too dull to hold any thought for more than a few seconds.

Cautiously, the wolf circled him. He saw the wary eyes, the tense body. Then it moved in, nuzzling and licking insistently against his face as though trying to get his full attention.

He nuzzled back because the contact was strangely comforting. But there was little more he could do.

The wolf made a frustrated sound and stepped back to look him in the eye. He answered with a gurgling noise low in his throat.

Again the wolf ducked in close, grabbing his neck in strong teeth and giving him a shake.

What the hell do you want me to do
? He couldn't ask the question aloud, only hear it buzzing in his head, competing with the pain. There was no way for werewolves to talk unless they were in human form. He and the other Marshalls had worked out a few sign language signals that they could give each other. But his brain felt too numbed by pain for communication. And probably this wolf didn't know the Marshall code.

He kept his focus on the delicate creature. It paced back and forth, then moved a few yards away.

When it looked like it was going to leave him, he felt terror jolt through him.

No
, he silently screamed. He had always thought of himself as strong. But the trap was sapping the will from him. Not just from his body. From his spirit as well.

Logan's gaze stayed focused on the white wolf, and what he saw made him doubt his own sanity. He watched the creature go through a transformation. Not from wolf to man but from wolf to a naked woman.

Impossible. He must have slipped into a fog of unreality. He had wanted a mate—and here she was. Five and a half feet tall, with nicely rounded breasts and gently curved hips. A wolf who was also a woman. Jesus, if that wasn't a fantasy—what was?

He made a sound that would have been a harsh laugh if he'd been in human form. Yet the image of the woman stayed solid and true.

From where she stood looking at him, he saw the uncertainty on her face and knew she was making a decision. She would try to free him, or she would leave him to his fate.

THROUGH long practice, Falcone had learned that controlling people had as much to do with showmanship as force.

This evening, he feigned an attitude of studied unconcern as he leaned back comfortably against the soft cushions and plucked a ripe strawberry from the bowl on the table in front of him. After eating the juicy fruit down to the nub, he tossed the hull onto a plate beside the serving dish. He was one of the most powerful men on the Sun Acres city council, and today he wanted to give the impression that he had nothing more pressing to do than enjoy the spring bounty that had been prepared for him.

In reality, his nerves were jumping as he waited for word that his plans had fallen into place.

He dipped his fingers into a bowl of water, then dried them on a soft towel before reaching to stroke the burnished hair of the woman who sat next to him on the couch.

She gave him a knowing smile. Later he would take her to his bed and enjoy her lovemaking talents. And later still she would go back to her quarters and talk about his supposed state of mind.

He could easily manipulate her reactions, but he couldn't be sure of the other occupant of the room, a wizened little man named Avery, who sat across the table.

Avery might secretly be working for someone else on the council, since you could never be sure of the quick, convenient alliances and shifting loyalties in the power structure of Sun Acres.

You had to stay alert and watch your ass—or you might end up in a back alley with a knife in your heart.

Falcone had seen too many murders, including the ones of his own parents. When he was only twelve, he had vowed to do what it took to keep from ending up the same way.

Of course, he could have opted for a safe, meaningless existence if he'd kept his head down and paid tribute to whoever was running the city. But he wasn't just out to protect his own hide. He'd watched things go from bad to worse, and he intended to change the government with strong leadership and a dynasty that would insure the stability that Sun Acres needed.

Casually, he kept one eye on Avery. The old man had sparse white hair and plum-colored robes that had once been rich and impressive. Now they were wrinkled and stained. Because the fellow had no sense of pride. No ambition. He was content to serve others, as long as his life was reasonably comfortable.

As a boy, Falcone had been at the mercy of the Elders, just like all the other children with special talents. But he'd quickly started learning to use his powers and his political skills to advantage. He'd shown the guardians what he could do—while acting modest about his abilities—and that had earned him a place in the circle of power by the time he was twenty.

But he needed something more to take over the city. And he had figured out that the shape-shifter named Rinna was the key.

Falcone brought his attention back to Avery. The man sat very still, his head cocked to one side. He seemed to be listening to some inner voice or some faraway sound. When he shifted in his seat, then made a small gesture with his hand, Falcone turned to him.

"You have something to tell me?"

"The trap is sprung, my lord," he said in a quavery voice.

Falcone studied the man. "I sense that you disapprove."

"You don't need my approval." Avery clasped his hands together in his lap.

Falcone leaned back into the soft cushions. "True." He gave the older man a direct look. "You're sure it didn't catch a deer or a bear or something else in the forest?"

"The teeth only open for a shape-shifter. Only one of their kind would be pulled toward the snare."

"Good." He felt a glow of triumph. The trap had done its work. He had Rinna firmly in his grasp, and she wasn't going anywhere until he released her.

He could scoop her up any time he wanted. First he would let her suffer for a while as the metal teeth bit into her flesh and the psychic probes sent needles of pain into her brain. Then he would haul her back where she belonged and make her sorry that she had ever defied him.

RINNA stood looking at the gray wolf who lay curled on his side, the cruel iron jaws holding his ankle fast.

He was in pain. And she could come up with only one explanation for his predicament. Falcone must have figured out where she had gone—and set up an ambush for her. But this other wolf had blundered into the snare.

Which could mean only one thing. He was a shape-shifter. And she thought she recognized which one.

Months ago, she had helped people from this world kill Boralas, one of the mind vampires, or Suckers as they were called. She had relived that battle many times in her memory. And she knew that this wolf had been one of the pack protecting the women who joined their minds to fight the monster. Then she and the wolf had been on opposite sides of the portal between the worlds. Now they met face-to-face, and the circumstances were the worst possible.

She had to put as much distance as she could between this trap and herself—and quickly. Because the longer she stayed here, the more chance she had of being dragged to Sun Acres in chains.

She took a step back, then stopped abruptly. She couldn't ran away and leave this werewolf. He was in terrible pain—because of her. And when Falcone caught him, he would likely torture him to get information. The wolf couldn't tell him anything. He didn't know where she had come from or where she was going, but he would still die a painful death because of her.

No matter how desperate she was, her conscience wouldn't let her fade back into the forest, even though she was naked and unarmed—a woman at her most vulnerable in a land where she only vaguely understood the rules of existence.

Slowly she approached him, ready to jump back if his infirmity was just a trick.

But he only watched her with dull eyes, and she knew the iron teeth and the psychic probe embedded in the trap were sapping the strength from him.

Wishing she were wearing clothes, she went down on her knees beside the wolf. Even though the metal of the trap didn't touch her flesh, she could feel its power reaching toward her like a huge psychic spider sending out impulses to its prey—drawing her closer and closer to its web.

But now that she knew what it was, she could fight the pull. And the thing had already caught a victim, which lessened its power.

She forced herself to ignore her own terror as she spoke quickly and urgently to the wolf. "We have to get out of here before the warriors come. Falcone has adepts working for him. He'll know when the trap is sprung. So we don't have much time. You have to help me free you. You have to change."

He opened his mouth and closed it again, but he stayed in wolf form.

"Do you understand me? Do you speak my language?"

She thought he would. Back at the castle, she'd understood the women when they'd joined to fight the monster.

When he gave a small nod, she let out a sigh of relief.

Still, they didn't have much time.

"Change!"

He looked at her as though he wanted to ask, how? And she struggled to keep from shaking him in frustration. His mind must be too damaged by the trap to make the transition. Which meant she was going to have to help him—no matter what the cost to herself.

She whispered a prayer under her breath—a prayer to the Great Mother who had sometimes protected her, and sometimes not.

With shaking fingers, she cupped her hands around the wolf's head, stroking his cheeks, feeling the coldness of his skin beneath his fur as she gave him a direct order. "Change from wolf to man. Let me help you."

His lips moved and his body jerked.

She called on old powers that she had been afraid to use—with good reason. The moment she began to tune her thoughts to his, a great pounding started up inside her own skull.

The pain was Falcone's present to her. She struggled to break through the impediment he had placed in her mind, even as she fought the sickness rising in her throat.

At first, keeping her concentration on the wolf was almost impossible. But she fought to call on the skill that her teachers had helped her develop. Ignoring the pain, she forced her thoughts into the wolf's head and felt the substance of his mind, soggy with the poison seeping from the trap.

The poison sent out tendrils toward her, and she reared back in shock.

As her terror bubbled up, she pulled her hands away. Was this the real snare? This wolf, lying here on the ground. Had Falcone trapped him and laid him out for her to find—so that she would be caught in the same sticky mental fog that held him fast?

She could believe it, and she wanted to get up and run—as far away from the wolf and the trap as she could get.

But she stayed where she was and thrust the fear aside. Reaching for the wolf again, she forced herself back to the task.

"Change," she murmured. "Change to your human form. Do what you need to do."

In response to her words, he stirred on his bed of leaves, and she thought she caught strange syllables whispering in his mind. She didn't understand them, but she knew they must be part of his ritual of transformation. Not her ritual, but that didn't matter. He must use whatever worked for him.

Yet she knew the words were garbled in his thoughts, knew that he could barely put one syllable in front of the other.

Gritting her teeth, she helped him focus, forced him to stay with the task of changing from wolf to man, even as she sensed dark forces closing in around the two of them.

Under her hands, she felt the wolf's body shape begin to morph, and she moved her hands downward, sliding along his fur-covered body, skimming along his hip, avoiding the male part of him as she reached for the place where the metal jaws held his leg fast.

Thrusting aside her own fear, she fought to keep her focus—her concentration on the task that she must accomplish—even when it felt like the cells of her brain were going to explode.

She sensed the crucial moment approaching. If she failed now, they were likely both doomed.