Shadow on the Moon (12 page)

An instant later they were yards
from the danger, though snow and rock still fell, clattering and echoing
against the canyon wall. Powder blew relentlessly around their legs. Wind
whipped at their clothes and skin. But all Morgan cared about was Dana, who
dung helplessly to his neck.

"Dana, Dana," he murmured
into her hair, breathing in the live scent of her, listening hard for the beat
of her blood. "I thought—oh, God—I thought I'd lost you."

She nodded furiously against his
chest. "I .. . I wasn't paying at-t-tention. The . . . the helicopter. Oh,
Morgan, they didn't . . . . didn't even see me."

Now that the threat had passed,
Morgan's body began to relax, taking his pain and fear with it. He disentangled
her hands from his neck and stared into her heartbroken eyes.

"I don't understand you, Dana.
You almost fell into that canyon, but you're more concerned about the
helicopter."

"Didn't you see those
marking?" Tears streaked down her face, but her sobs abruptly ceased,
leaving behind obvious frustration and anger. "That was a highway patrol
chopper. They're hunting for the wolves without me." She tried to whirl
away, but her snowshoes caught, scattering powder almost to their shoulders and
revealing Morgan's bare feet.

She stared down at them with a
horrified expression. "Oh, Morgan! You're getting frostbitten."

She squatted, grabbing an ankle
with her gloved hand. The warm touch shot straight to Morgan's bone and he
flinched.

"Oh, God, I've been so silly.
I'm sorry, Morgan. I'm sorry. I know better. I do. I should never have gone to
that ledge. We both could have been killed."

"You almost were," he
said harshly. "Get up. I'll be fine by morning."

"Not unless we treat
this." She scrunched the hand from which she'd earlier removed the glove
into her sleeve and grabbed Morgan's other ankle.

It hurt like hell.

"I said I'll be fine!" He
jerked free, ignoring the surprised and wounded expression that flickered
across her face. "As soon as I put my boots back on."

"Why did you take them
off?" Her emotions already hidden, she rose haughtily to her feet.

"So I could get to you before
you fell!"

"Are you saying it's my fault
you ran barefoot through the snow? Why on earth would you do that?"

"To reach you in time,"
he snarled. "Now if you don't mind, I need my boots."

Full of fury, disappointment, hurt
feelings, and myriad other bewildering emotions, Dana glared into his angry
eyes. For just a crazy minute there, when he'd held her in his arms, trembling
as if he'd recovered something of immense value, she'd almost thought he cared.
Now he acted like she was his cross to bear, a silly creature, barely worth the
effort he'd expended.

"I didn't ask you to play
hero, Morgan. What makes you think I couldn’t have gotten out of there
myself?"

A scornful expression crossed his
face and he gazed off in the direction of the pen.

"Don't ignore me. You don't
know what I could have done."

To her surprise, he answered with a
sorrowful groan. Dana turned to follow his gaze and her heart sank to her toes.

The dogs were gone.

Chapter Ten

The seeming invincibility of the
wer-wolf comes from the alchemization process. When this craven beast is
wounded in either human or wolfish form, the act of transformation brings
instant healing. Thus, all traces of former action is lost. What this means,
brave hunter, is one never knows who is the beast among us. The deadly and
cowardly creature that slinks into the woods with your bullet in its flank at
night may yet walk with you hale and hearty come the morn.

Dana lifted her eyes from the page,
beginning to think she'd be spending the rest of her life huddled under the
blankets of the narrow bed she now called home. Wind again battered the eaves,
snow beat against the windows, and she missed New Mexico like crazy.

Although she saw it pained him to
do so, Morgan had insisted on pulling on his boots without her help, and when
she offered to help find the dogs, he gruffly ordered her to carry wood inside
so they wouldn't freeze during the storm. Although still angry, she had seen
the wisdom of his suggestion. Besides, Morgan wouldn't have failed to secure
the latch if she hadn't been chasing the helicopter.

Alternating between bitterness and
remorse, and heartbroken at failing to catch the attention of the helicopter,
she'd done as he asked. After she'd stacked the wood and fed the fire, she'd
wandered around the cabin at loose ends until she finally picked up the book.

 
Likewise, a beast injured while in human
form heals instantly after passing through the fires of alchemization. The neighbor
limping at noontide from a stubbed toe will move freely and easily ere the
night passes. Watch for these clues, so as not to be taken unawares. Many a
dismayed hunter upon finally slaying the beast has soon gazed upon the face of
a loved one. A husband, a wife, a lover, a friend. Yeah, even a parent or
child.

The door burst open, bringing
Morgan and a flurry of snow. Dana's hand flew to her heart. He dropped his
snowshoes beneath the pegged rack and seemed not to notice that he'd frightened
her.

"Did you find them?" Dana
asked, after recovering from her start.

He headed for the mat without
answering, his boots thudding ominously with each step. Snowflakes still clung
to his beard and he knocked them away fiercely, his entire demeanor bristling
with outrage.

"All but Fenris." He
lowered onto the stool.

"Do you think he'll survive
the storm?" Dana blinked back tears. If that sweet dog died, she could
blame no one but herself. Nor could Morgan.

"Hard to say." But the
crease between his eyes had deepened to a chasm. He glanced at the blaze in the
fireplace. "At least you stoked the fire."

At least.

Never in her life had Dana felt
incompetent. She'd always scorn women who couldn't change a tire, carry wood,
or even shovel snow from a walkway. Now she felt an unwelcome sisterhood.

"I'm so sorry." A tear
fell over her lower lashes. Twice in one day. Dear Lord, she was even beginning
to be as weepy as they were.

"Don't cry," Morgan barked.
"It won't change anything."

She nodded and sank deeper into her
blankets. Her head ached and her stomach rumbled. The storm raging at the cabin
walls seemed even harsher than the one before. All was dark out side, and Dana
had no idea what time it was. Her stomach growled again, more loudly this time.

"I'll get you some stew soon
as I'm done," Morgan said.

"You don't have to wait on
me."

He bent to remove his boots, and
Dana remembered his frostbitten feet. She threw off the blankets and climbed
from the bed.

"I'll heat some water for your
feet. I should have done it while you were—"

"That isn't necessary."

"Yes, yes it is. You're a
doctor, you should know that." She hurried to the sink and picked up the
pan under the dripping pump.

"My feet are fine, Dana."

Ignoring his protests, she bustled
to the stove, replaced the venison pot on top of the flickering burner with the
water pan, and turned up the heat.

"They're fine, I tell
you."

"How could—" She glanced
down at his bare foot and gave out a little shriek.

His toes should have been red, even
blistering, but they were as pink and healthy as hers.

"That's impossible," she
said in a shocked whisper.

"I heal quickly." He hid
his foot inside his fleece slipper. "Hunting for the dogs got the blood
circulating. My toes stung awhile, that's all." He bared his other foot
and shoved it into its slipper with considerable haste.

. . . the act of transforming
brings about instant healing.

Dana shook her head.

A husband, a wife, a lover.

She shook her head again. What was
wrong with her? It was bad enough she might have cost Morgan his dog; she
should be glad his feet weren't damaged. Instead, she was having ridiculous
thoughts spawned by a stupid book about creatures that didn't exist.

"Uh, good." Feeling a
little sheepish, she took the water pan back to the sink, then offered to dish
out some stew for Morgan, wanting something, anything, to keep her mind off
what she'd just read, just seen.

"I'm not hungry." He
stood then and stripped off his jumpsuit. Without another word, he stalked to
his bedroom and disappeared inside.

Feeling thoroughly rebuked, Dana
lifted the lid of the stew pot, but the normally delicious aroma turned her
stomach. Returning to the bed, she bundled up.
The Lycanthropy Reader
lay open next to her, to the page where she'd left off.

It was filling her mind with
nonsense, undoubtedly fueled by the fierce storm and relentless darkness, and
belonged back on the bookshelf. But despite these thoughts, she picked it up
again.

 
This author prays, dear hunter, that you
are not among those who have wept over the coffin of a beloved, slain by your
own hand.

The sentence filled Dana with
inexplicable sadness, and for the third time that day her eyes brimmed with
tears. She replaced the book on the table, blinking hard, trying to make sense
of her feelings. Soon she dozed off.

When the knock came, she'd been
dreaming. Someone was shouting "With a huff and a puff," and she felt
like a slab of pork about to be devoured. She came awake with a rush of terror,
head pivoting, searching the room, trying to make sense of the noise. The
sturdy outer door was virtually quivering from the force of the blows from the
other side. The tingle she'd come to associate with extreme danger vibrated
from her head to her toes.

She ran to Morgan's bedroom and
pounded on his door.

"Morgan," she cried.
"Someone's here."

His door cracked an inch.
"What?"

"Someone's knocking on the
door." Her mind whirled with confused thoughts. How could that be? No one
could travel in this weather.

Morgan shut the bedroom door in her
face. Seconds later, he came barreling through, nearly knocking her over as he
headed for the front entrance. He yanked it open to reveal one of the most
striking women Dana had ever seen. Shorter than Dana, she was exceedingly
slender, with a narrow face and round, tilted dark eyes. She moved out of a
swirl of snow and stepped imperiously over the threshold, whipping the skirts
of a Cossack-style coat around her legs.

"I wish to speak with you,
Morgan." Her voice held chilling self-possession.

A nondescript person, made more so
by his contrast with the striking woman, shuffled in from the whirlwind behind
them. His eyes were downcast and his shoulders slumped pathetically as he
dragged in a snow-caked bundle.

The bundle whimpered.

"Fenris!" Dana dropped to
her knees, reached out for the dog's frozen collar, and dragged him to her
chest. Ice crystals clung to his poor coat and he quivered against her breast,
leaving chilly, wet spots on her thermal shirt. His cold tongue lapped at her
cheek.

"Leave him!" the woman
commanded. "He's for Morgan."

Dana glowered. "How did you
get him?"

The answer came in the form of a
feral smile. Although it had to be her imagination, Dana thought she heard the
man growl. She shot him an angry glance and he withdrew, seeming to hide in the
woman's skirts.

"For Christ's sake, shut the
damned door!" roared Morgan. "Snow's getting all over the
floor."

The pathetic man scrambled forward
and nearly collapsed in his effort to close the door against the driving wind.
But the woman was undaunted.

"I've returned your runt,
Morgan. Unwise to leave him roaming about in such weather." She winked, as
if there was a secret joke between them.

If there was, Morgan didn't seem to
get it. He drew his eyebrows together, deepening the crease between them to a
gash. "Is that supposed to earn my gratitude?"

"This we need to
discuss." She gave Dana a meaningful and malevolent glance.
"Alone."

Morgan looked incensed and
apprehensive at the same time. His gaze flickered from Dana to the woman to the
man, who huddled near the door. Finally he cocked his head toward his bedroom.

"In there." He took a few
threatening steps in the direction of the woman's companion, then glanced down
at Dana. "You get my meaning?"

"
Si, si
," the man
said obsequiously.

Morgan took the woman's arm and
ushered her into his room.

Dana stared at his closed door,
fuming. She didn't like that woman's proprietary air toward Morgan one bit! And
what was he doing taking the visitor into the room he'd declared off-limits to
her? But Fenris was still shivering in her arms and needed her care. She led
him to the mat where she told him to sit, then she pulled some towels from
beneath the sink. Sitting beside him, she roughed up his soaked gray coat,
dislodging the clinging crystals. He wiggled happily beneath her touch and was
soon sitting in a puddle on the mat. Dana took him to the fire, instructed him
to lie down, then began heating some drinking water for him.

All the while the man followed her
movements with cunning dark eyes. Dana wasn't much good at hospitality,
especially to such unexpected and unwelcome guests, but supposed she should
offer him something.

"I could heat up some
cider," she said. "Would you like some?"

"
Si
." His sly eyes
flickered with momentary gratitude. "It would be, uh, be
bueno
."

So he spoke very little English. That
explained his odd behavior.