Moonglow (2 page)

Around them, couples had paired off, finding their own dark corners in the overcrowded town home to do what they might. Men with the single-minded purpose to win congregated around gaming tables, barely noticing the women who adorned their shoulders. A few danced to the endless tunes played by the orchestra Alexis had hired for the night. As for Alex, Daisy hadn’t yet spotted her.

Being newly widowed herself, Alex had chosen to live among the demimonde. The
ton
, Alex declared, was too tiresome. Daisy agreed. The
ton
had all but turned their backs on Daisy when Craigmore died and left her nothing by way of monetary support. Surely the bloody man had assumed she’d end up in the streets as a destitute wretch. Little had he known about her own resources.

Daisy eyed the man before her, a well-formed youth with a slightly coltish way about him. “Fresh air would be lovely.”

A languid heaviness stole over her as she leaned into him. He smelled of cheroots, fine wool, and young male. His hard body against hers was a wonder. What did it matter that she’d forgotten his name?

His arm locked around her shoulders as he led her through a maze of corridors. Gaslight flickered low. Blue smoke and hot flesh turned the air hazy.

Daisy stumbled, and his grip tightened. “Careful. Don’t want you on your back. Yet.”

A true wit, this one. She cleared the thought away. She didn’t need to think, only to feel.

With a laugh, they burst through the back door. Daisy caught a breath of dank, coal-tinged air and saw the flash of wet pavers glistening in the moonlight, and then her companion shoved her against the wall. Thick ivy rustled against her ear as he leaned in and took, his mouth brutal.
Daisy opened to it, ignoring the pain, looking for the pleasure. So elusive, pleasure. So easy to remember one’s self and lose the feeling. His tongue thrust past her lips, cool and thick. Ought a tongue feel cold?

Clouds scuttled overhead, and the bright disk of the moon shone down, setting the dismal little alleyway to glow like blue daylight. Daisy blinked up at the moon as her lover’s hands drifted lower, catching up her skirts, his breath hot and damp above her breast. Daisy strained against his questing hand as it groped her. This is what she’d been waiting for. Six years of living in hell, she’d waited to be wanted, to be looked upon as a desirable woman and not a thing of disgust.

Temptress of man, harbinger of lust. You are a worthless vessel whose only use is to receive man’s sin.

Anger coiled with her revulsion.
Forget Craigmore, he is dead. His words cannot touch you. Follow the pleasure
. But it skittered away as the wind shifted, brushing ice cold against her bare arms. Ah, but this alley smelled. Queer, like sticky sweet rot, and copper mixed with dirt. The stench sent a finger of ice over her spine. She murmured a protest. They were too exposed here, and she no longer wanted this.

“Easy, pet.” Hard fingers raked her thighs.

“I want to go inside.”

“Relax,” he said.

She pushed at him. “Inside.”

“I’m trying,” he said with a laugh.

She turned her head to get away from him and caught the sight just to the left of his shoulder. A spill of gray satin skirts, the ruffled edges kicking up in the wind, a pale length of arm extended outward as if begging for help, the sparkle of diamonds on a white throat, large,
glassy eyes staring. And blood, so much blood. Black and shining in the moonlight. Daisy’s mind pulled the shapes, rearranging them to form a story. Alex. Alex’s torso torn open. And something bent over Alex, its face buried in the gore, nosing about as if sniffing the body. A scream locked in Daisy’s throat, so hard and cold that she could not get it out. Terror uncoiled, giving her the strength to push her lover away.

“What the devil?” he said.

A whimper broke from her lips as she tripped over her skirts and her companion turned. As if called, the thing lifted its head. A drop of crimson blood dripped from its jaw, and Daisy screamed. It snarled, rising on hind legs that were long as any man’s. Her would-be lover scrambled back, bellowing in fear as the monster charged.

Daisy’s head smashed against brick. Something hot and wet splashed over her cheek and neck. A body fell upon her, jerking and thrashing, grinding her into the hard ground, and then the screams, screams upon screams, pure unadulterated terror. It washed over her, taking her wits, sucking her down into the cool embrace of darkness.

Not far away…

Six whores and six failures were enough to make even the most optimistic of men throw in the sponge, as the Americans would say. There was fortitude, and there was humiliation. Ian knew he crossed that line around whore number three. So then, no more tupping.
Fornicating
as his father would have called it.

“Bloody, buggering, fucking, hell!” Ian’s curse was lost to the night, dissipating like heated steam in the cool, clean air of Hampstead Heath.

Sweating and swearing, he ran faster, his feet pounding
into the soft earth. Defeat never sat well with him. Worse, there was nothing left to him other than this. Running, pushing his body to the limits of endurance. Biting back another foul oath, he ran harder, his blood pumping through his veins like molten glass, as his legs screamed for mercy. Only here did he feel alive.

The great black dome of the night sky soared overhead. Beyond lay London, a jagged landscape of church spires and haphazard buildings bathed in the silver light of the moon. A shiver of feeling danced over him. The moon. That glorious seductress. Her power pulsed through him like so much wine. She fueled him, and in return, the beast stirred.

For decades, Ian had ignored this part of himself. He’d kept his beast so tightly leashed it had become nothing more than a faint echo in his mind. And he had suffered for it. Grown weak and apathetic. Now its howl rattled about in his skull, growing louder and stronger.

Part of him reveled in the beast. Why not? He’d lost all other sources of pleasure. Why not let the beast at last have its fun? Why not let it out to play? Even as the thought rolled over him, an innate sense of self-preservation protested. He had not struggled through one hundred and thirty years of life to let a little thing like temptation suck him into total annihilation.

Swearing again, Ian turned toward London, away from the wild things that called to the beast, the small scurrying rabbits and the fearful does that, even now, Ian could scent. A bitter laugh escaped as his feet ate up the ground, leading him into London with uncanny speed. Perhaps one day he’d be back to take down a deer with freed claws. Would he soon find himself muzzle deep in hot, wet blood, eating warm flesh with mindless pleasure?

Earth gave way to stone, clean air turning thick and fetid as he pushed into the city. Around him, the buildings were a blur, the odd pedestrian little more than a streak of color and the stir of air as Ian ran past. He was that fast. Faster than he would be all month now that the full and glorious moon fed him.

A dray loomed before him, plodding along with its load of coal. He leaped, arcing over it, to land on quick feet and run onward. It was more populated here, throngs of idle humans mixing with street traffic. He wove around them without care, his feet splashing through some unholy muck and kicking up the scent of rot.

His shoulder brushed past a coffee monger pushing his cart along. What would he see? A man in leather moccasins brought back from the American West? The loose gray trousers and cotton shirt of a laborer? Items Ian Ranulf, newly titled Marquis of Northrup, would not be caught dead wearing. Surely not that trussed-up dandy. Lord Northrup would never be confused with this wild man running amok.

All at once, the strength left him, and he slowed. His breath puffed even and steady. The beat of his heart was as strong as ever in his chest. Unstoppable. Unending. The thought nearly brought him to his knees. Around him, the chatter of men and women enjoying the clear night scraped against his nerves.

Slowing to a stroll, Ian wandered down a twisted street where the press of bodies thinned out to lighter foot traffic. To his left, yellow light poured in wide blocks from the windows of an older town home, still beautiful but shabby in this unfashionable neighborhood. The strains of a reel and feminine laughter rose above the din of London nightlife.

Ian moved away from it, into the shadowy mouth of an alley, when through the thick mash of human sweat, rotting water, and sewage came the distinctive tang of blood. Human blood. Just below that, a finer note, that of wolf.

It was that scent, the wild, rangy stamp of wolf that had his hackles rising and a growl rumbling deep within his throat. Seventy years of doggedly keeping away from his kind was almost lost as he instinctively turned toward the scent, ready to tear into whoever dared to encroach upon his territory. He came to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t his territory. Not anymore.

Fight or flight, it warred within him until his chest felt ready to rip in two. A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. He nearly moved away when a sharp feminine scream rent the air, followed by a snarl of rage. A man bellowed in pure terror. The snarls grew and then came the distinctive sound of tearing flesh, a man gurgling as though drowning. Blood, the perfume of it washed over Ian, making his knees buckle.

“Bugger!” He ran toward the scent without another thought.

Men were already spilling into the alley as Ian charged headlong into the fray. Someone shouted in shock. A woman fainted. A ripple of terror went through the throng of onlookers, heightening the sharp smell of fear. Men both retreated in horror and shoved forward in fascination. Women were quickly ushered away.

Ian shouldered a rotund man aside. The scent of wolf overpowered his senses. Wolf and blood.
Jesus.

When yet another gentleman stepped in his way, Ian found his voice and said words he hadn’t uttered in years. “Move aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming
amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his rusty services would not be needed.

The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man—what was left of him—lay in a tangled heap against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated. Just beyond, a woman suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her, and the body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.

Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the mix. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf imbued with something off, bittersweet yet sulfuric. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell, but it was well-developed. An odd fact indeed, given that werewolves weren’t susceptible to disease.

“He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled deeper.

Beyond the filth came a fainter scent—rose, jasmine, vanilla, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him sit up and take notice.

A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk beneath the man’s twisted legs.

“Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched
over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood and, oddly, vines, thick and deep green as they flowed down from the town house wall to envelop her.

“Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.

“Lud! Is she alive?”

Ian made quick work of the vines, extending only the very tips of his claws to rake through them, but his hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers and vanilla arose. Her features were lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and ran his hands over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she appeared untouched. It was the man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen the attack, however. Of that, he was certain. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.

He glanced about the alley and imagined the events unfolding. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.

She was a handful, lush curves, neat waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.

“She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.

“Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”

The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.

Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core. Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And it would do you well to get out of my way.”

Another murmur rippled among the men, but they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her. And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.