Shadow on the Moon (3 page)

Like a great white shark, the wall
opened up and sucked in the four-by-four like a minnow until it jerked to a
halt against the skeleton of solid earth. The jolt threw Dana against the
steering wheel, propelled her up and into the windshield, then rebounded her
back into the seat, where she slumped like a rag doll.

Her head roared with pain. The
coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. Her vision grew fuzzy. Within the
beams of the headlights, evergreen branches swayed and dark, unnameable shadows
danced. Blinking, she tried to bring the sights into focus. She felt
light-headed and giddy.

As a strangled moan escaped her
lips, her world quaked. She watched numbly as snow slid down the windshield. At
first the avalanche only covered the hood, then, gaining momentum, it dumped
huge chunks of snow on the roof, where they clattered, bounced off the glass,
and slid down the fenders. Dana screamed.

Then the windows were filled with
white. All was deadly quiet. The only light inside the car came from the dimly
glowing instrument panel.

Who will protect my wolves? Dana
wondered as she passed into unconsciousness.

And from the shadows of the forest,
a pair of gold-green eyes witnessed her misfortune.

Chapter Two

Beneath a towering pine stirred a
man as huge and solid as the tree trunk that sheltered him. A long wool
overcoat hung to his knees over heavy leggings that were tucked into bulky,
serviceable boots, and his face was hidden in the abyss of a deep hood. Each
item was of a nondescript dark color, not quite black or navy blue or gray,
allowing him to melt into the shadows.

What had possessed him to come this
close to a major road so early in the evening? He knew better. But he'd heard
the screams so often of late, could barely abide them, and a night such as this
was made for death. They would be out, seeking lost travelers, and he felt
somehow compelled to stop them.

He'd been observing the female for
some time, had seen her purposeful and confident

movements. Had seen her become first alarmed, then panicked,
causing her to react so unwisely. Was she even now trying to claw her way out
like a snared rabbit? Surely, she was every bit as defenseless, every bit as
doomed. Without help, she wouldn't last till dawn.

Her vehicle had been so fully
engulfed by the snowbank that only the hood and grille remained exposed. The
beam of its headlights, still vibrating from aftershock, quivered on the road's
frozen surface and made the falling snow look like a shimmering curtain. The
front passenger wheel spun on its axle, several inches off the ground.
Otherwise, he detected no movement.

Nearby, an owl hooted a warning. A
rodent squealed, then scrambled through the forest carpet. The night fell into
deep stillness, save for the purr of the engine and the whap-whap-whap of the
airborne tire. He strained to hear, anticipating what was to come. Soon a
rustle arose from the underbrush. A soulful wail followed.

Why did those creatures howl so
incessantly?

Knowing it was a question without an
answer, he calmly turned toward a tangle of brush and thickets. Within the
dusky shadows, two sets of watchful eyes glinted red in the light from the
woman's abandoned lantern. He returned their gazes with a hard stare, but they
held their ground. Slowly, his lip curled in threat.

"Back off," he snarled.

The eyes retreated, leaving another
squealing rodent in their wake.

He nonchalantly turned his back and
sprinted easily over the wood and stone obstacles littering his path to the
road. With one athletic leap, he scaled the ditch and landed nearly fifteen
feet away beside the vehicle's spinning wheel.

His hood fell back, the wind tugged
at his shaggy hair, and snowflakes struck his brow and nose. The cold troubled
him little; he was well fortified against it, but he didn't want to frighten
the poor woman to death.

Smiling with black humor, he
reached into his overcoat, pulled out a ski mask, and slipped it over his head.
Next, he examined the damage to her vehicle. Over a foot of snow covered the
cab. The snow would act as insulation and undoubtedly would keep her warm, but
the running engine would soon eat up her oxygen. She was still alive though,
very alive. He could smell her in there, the spicy scent of warm flesh, the
tang of hot, rushing blood. Could hear the strong pulse in her veins.

He dug into the snow bare-handed,
heedless of the scratches he put in the paint, effortlessly deflecting the
myriad new chunks dislodged by his movements. When he'd cleared all the snow
from the driver's window, he leaned over and made out the woman's motionless
silhouette through the condensation on the glass.

Unconscious.

This came as no surprise. He'd seen
her strike the windshield, seen her forehead turn crimson, knew she probably
had a concussion.

Doomed. Without his help, the
others would finish her off before dawn. A guttural protest escaped his lips.

 
He must walk away. The risk was too great. Yet
it had been written. On such a night, a maiden would come.

With a resigned sigh, he stepped
back from the window and hurled away the remaining snow. When he was done, he
pulled the door open and reached to shut off the engine and lights. They
offended his sensitive ears and eyes.

He looked down at the slumped form.
Blood was clotting in her dark, curly hair and the beginnings of a bruise
already stained her forehead, yet he still saw how striking she was. High,
well-defined cheekbones. Smooth, golden skin. A slender, well-developed body. A
dislodged comb hung in her hair, letting her curls fall forward, which gave her
a tumbled, morning-after look.

His heartbeat quickened and he
realized then how long it had been since he'd touched a mortal woman. Fingers
trembling, he moved a hand toward her fragile throat.

The wound still bled, the fresh
blood trickling slowly down her face in tiny streams. He inhaled the tart odor
and instantly salivated.

He jerked his hand back.

Do no harm. The ingrained dictum
sprang to his mind and lodged there. He tried to dismiss it. Surely it didn't
mean he also had to prevent harm. This wasn't his doing. How could he be
blamed, when the female had foolishly driven down an unmarked dead-end road and
bogged her truck?

A trill of laughter traveled
through the night. He glanced up, sniffed the air. Was he even now being mocked
by his indecision? Watched, to see if he'd leave the unconscious female so they
could fulfill their dark needs? Or worse, far worse, use her to fulfill his
own?

He looked up the storm-darkened
path, seeing things that would escape a mortal's eye. A doe stepped out of a
stand of trees, nibbled on some half-frozen grass, withdrew. A squirrel poked
up its head beside a tree. A hawk swept down and the squirrel retreated.

Maybe if he covered her with warm
blankets, rangers would dig her out in the morning. In a few days she'd be
sharing her adventure with all her friends.

Right, he thought dryly. Why would
the Forest Service check a dead-end road during what appeared to be the worst
snowstorm in decades? He looked up. Nor could a helicopter see her—not through
the dense pine overhang.

He was her only refuge. Shuddering
from the effort of quelling his instincts, he reached over her slumped figure
and picked up a duffel bag from the storage area behind her seat. She was a
mortal woman, after all, and he had not yet forgotten that they needed fresh
clothes and other necessities.

He hesitated for another heartbeat,
again tempted to leave the female to her fate. His gaze drifted aimlessly,
taking in the provision-packed interior, moving to the space he'd cleared on
the windshield and onto the patches of lantern light reflecting off the red
hood.

Red. The color brought memories of
flickering firelight. Long talks with White Hawk, old tales from ancient
tribes, that all aligned with the promises in The Book.

Was she the one?

Absurd. The Book contained nothing
but legend—old wives' tales to pacify wretched creatures like himself. With an
impatient jerk, he turned, bent, and lifted the female from the seat as easily
as if she was a doll. A moan passed her lips. He froze. But she merely wriggled
deeper into his arms and collapsed against him like a dozing kitten.

Holding her firmly against his
massive chest, he broke into a rhythmic lope and started the long trek up the
stormy mountain. And all the while a subtle question of which he was barely
aware repeated itself.

Was she the one?

* *
*

Dana's head hurt. Bad. So bad, she
hardly noticed the lesser aches in the rest of her body. Thoughts wandered
through her fuzzy mind; she stirred and turned. Dreams . . .
 
bizarre, disturbing dreams. A white tomb enclosing
her. Dancing lights full of ominous shapes. Something black and hideous bending
over her. Claws touching her neck. Then . . .

Someone carrying her, holding her
gently against their warmth, a reassuring voice.

She heard the snap of resin,
smelled mesquite. Her eyelids fluttered open. Above her, an oddly familiar
ceiling of golden logs glowed in the light. A man bent over a weathered stone
fireplace.

"Dad?" she mumbled.
"Dad? Did Mother come back?"

The man got up, crossed the room, a
blur in Dana's foggy vision.

 
"Dad?" she cried again, lifting her
head. Large, gentle hands touched her shoulder. "It's okay, Dana. Lie back
down."

Her eyelids fell closed and she
drifted off to dream again.

The next time she stirred, her
images were crisper. The wrong road. The stuck tire. The crash.

The howls.

She awoke with a start. Gingerly,
she levered onto her elbows and looked around. She was alone in a spacious log
cabin that gave her the sensation of stepping back in time, into the cabin in
which she'd grown up. Wind whistled in the eaves. Across the room a fire leaped
in the hearth of a stone fireplace. To one side she saw a rough-hewed padded
rocker and ottoman. Wood flanked the other side. In the center of the room was
a crude wooden table with a couple of chairs tucked underneath.

Where was she? How far from Mission
Lobo base camp?

Who had brought her here?

A door opened and she cautiously
turned her head. A man in a flannel shirt and loose denim jeans stepped into
the room. His body filled the door, top to bottom, side to side. A wild bush of
black wavy hair fell over his shoulders, and his thick eyebrows were separated
only by a scar like crease. Two deep grooves bracketed his nose, and the rest
of his face was hidden beneath a ragged beard. His overall appearance made Dana
think of the legendary logger, Paul Bunyan.

"How are you feeling,
Dana?" he asked, chasing away that image. This was no lumberjack's voice.
It was smooth and cultured, hinting at a privileged Eastern education.

"Okay, I guess." Dana
tentatively touched her aching head. Someone had neatly bandaged it. "Did
you do this?"

"As well as I could."

She saw now that he held a metal
basin and some medicinal supplies. He crossed the room in two long strides and
put them on a table beside the bed. His shoulders cast her in complete shadow
and his hands were as large as the iron frying pan her mother once used. A
brotherly pat on the back could send her flying across the room—not an easy
task, since she was no featherweight herself. She supposed she should be apprehensive,
but all she could think was—

"My wolves," she said,
abruptly swinging her feet to the floor.

A mistake. She grabbed her head and
leaned forward.

"Don't move so suddenly,"
he directed, shifting to her side.

"But. . . "but, my
wolves. I have to. . "

"Wolves?" He smiled, his
face transforming as if a light had come on behind it. The crease between his
eyebrows disappeared, the brackets softened. For the first time, Dana noticed
his eyes. Gold, flecked with dancing lights of green. Soft, gentle, immensely
sad. But he'd asked a question, and she must answer it and immediately get his
help. The pain in her head was a nuisance, of course, but nothing she couldn't
ignore.

"I'm here for Mission Lobo,
just in case there really are wolves. I have serious doubts, because the
killings aren't consist— "

"You've lost me. What are you
talking about?" His smile vanished, leaving Dana to wonder if she'd
imagined the transformation.

"Are you a hermit or—"
She stopped abruptly. He was obviously a friendly man who'd come to her aid.
Not that she'd needed it. She would have woken up eventually, dug out the
Ranger. Nevertheless, she had to quit biting the hand that fed her, or in this
case, pulled her from danger.

"I'm sorry. I get so involved
I forget the whole world doesn't revolve around my profession. The bang on my
head didn't help, either.

Anyway, people have been killed in
the Blue Range and they're blaming it on a pack of wild wolves. I'm a biologist
and I've come to disprove those claims."

He frowned skeptically. "There
are no wolves up here. People have big imaginations. Some say pterodactyls
still fly through the canyons."

"I'm not getting through to
you, am I?"

"I know you have someplace to
go, but I also know you're in no condition to go there." He put a hand on
her shoulder. "I'll help you to the bathroom."

"It's okay. I can do it."
Annoyed by his dismissal, she struggled to her feet, despite the protests of
her bruised muscles. But her head wouldn't be ignored. Her vision blurred and
she groped blindly for the headboard.