Shadow on the Moon (5 page)

 
"You're disoriented, too. It's natural
after a head injury." He picked up the penlight he'd left on the table,
sat down on a wooden chair and flicked it on.

 
"Hold still." He lifted one of her eyelids.
"I want to check your pupils."

 
He aimed the light into Dana's eye and she
flinched.

"Hold still!"—

"You're shining a floodlight
in my eye!"

 
"I see you're one of those cranky
patients." He let go of her lid and began the procedure on her other eye.

"Are you a doctor?"

"It doesn't take a medical
degree to see you might have a concussion. You took a nasty blow."

"It's not a concussion. I'm
sure of it." As if in protest, her head throbbed again. "Okay. How
bad is it?"

He clicked off the penlight, put it
down, and looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes reminded her of a stag she'd
once seen cornered by a pack of wolves. It had regarded them, not with terror,
but with resignation to its terrible fate. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she
glanced away.

"Your pupils are no longer
dilated, but you were unresponsive for quite a while." He poured
disinfectant onto a cotton ball, then lifted the bandage from her forehead and
moved the cotton toward the gash beneath. "This may sting a bit."

"I wasn't able to get much
sleep during the last few days," Dana offered, steeling herself against
the bite of the antiseptic. "Maybe that's the reason I was out so
long."

"Looks like you're going to
live." Morgan resettled her bandage. "Hungry?"

Dana nodded.

 
"I'll fix you something to eat." He
went back to the kitchen and turned a burner on under a porcelain saucepan,
then began nervously pacing in front of the stove.

A bit unsettled by his
restlessness, Dana examined the cabin again. It was built almost like a fort.
All the doors were set in frames over a foot in width and reinforced by heavy
crossbeams. Oddly, only the bedroom door had steel plates, and Dana wondered
why. Wouldn't it make more sense to fortify the front door?

She got up and began circling the
room, touching this and that—the corner of the sturdy dining table, a chair,
the refrigerator, a bookcase—wanting to make it all familiar, in some sense
make it hers. As she passed the kitchen, Morgan shoved a bowl toward her.

"Porridge," he said as he
handed it over.

"Not very exciting, but it's
easy to digest and sticks to your ribs."

Dana peered down. "You have
milk and sugar?"

"Will goat's milk do?"

Dana smiled. "I haven't had
goat's milk in years."

"Appetite good. The patient's
recovering." Morgan's remarkable smile emerged.

Dana met his smile, but it faded
immediately. He stared thoughtfully for the space of a breath, then opened the
refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher of milk. Dana poured out the porridge along
with several teaspoons of brown sugar found in a bowl on the table, then sat
down and dug in, surprised to discover how hungry she was.

"That was good," she
informed Morgan after she'd cleaned out the bowl.

"Want more?"

Dana shook her head, watching
Morgan with curiosity as he continued prowling the room. When he circled the
table for the third time, he picked up her empty bowl and carried it to the
sink. Then he moved to the open pantry and picked up a bottle.

"Tylenol," he said,
placing it on the table. "Take a couple if it hurts too bad. But no
aspirin. It exacerbates hemorrhaging." He paused for a moment, then began
pacing the room again. "You seem healthy enough, but you were out of it
long enough that I'm concerned."

"Like I said, I've been
skimping on sleep."

He eyed her thoughtfully, stopping
at a bookcase where he picked up a slim volume. "I'd rather err on the
side of caution."

Dana touched her forehead. The
bandage was tidy and secure. A real professional job. "You sure you're not
a doctor?"

"Did I say I wasn't?"

Dana sighed. Why must he always be
so obscure?

"I'm a psychiatrist—that is, I
was." He let out a bitter laugh. "I switched from internal medicine
after I found out I fainted at the sight of blood."

"I guess I'm lucky you stayed
conscious long enough to treat me." Dana smiled, wanting very much to ease
the tension between them.

"Are you?" he'd completed
yet another circle and now stood in front of her, looking down. "You may
come to think differently, Dana."

Her smile faded. "Is that
supposed to mean something?"

"No. Nothing in
particular." He turned to the metal bedroom door and, after palming the
knob, looked back at her. "I won't be out again tonight. If you get
hungry, help yourself. The wood's a bit low, but should last the night."
"Thanks."

"Remember." He opened the
door slowly. "My music's a bit odd. Pay no attention."

How odd could a man's music be?
Dana wondered as the door closed with an ominous click.

She got up then, roaming aimlessly
around the room. Without Morgan taking up so much space, she saw the cabin was
bigger than she'd thought. Still, she felt trapped. She hated storms and the
way they kept one boxed up, sometimes for days and days. On the other hand,
this was Arizona, where storms usually blew over rapidly. And at least she was
warm and dry and under a doctor's care.

Her wanderings took her into the
kitchen nook. The pan that contained the oatmeal was neatly covered on the
stove. On the burner next to it, another covered pot simmered over a low flame.
Dana lifted the lid, saw chunks of meat bubbling in a thick broth, inhaled the
sent of rosemary and sage. Maybe she'd have some later, if she got hungry
again.

She replaced the lid and wandered
toward the pegged rack where her parka hung alongside Morgan's winter wear. He
certainly lived a simple existence, almost Quaker-like. He could also be surly
enough. Although, considering he was burdened with an injured and unwelcome
houseguest, she supposed he was treating her pretty decently. For heaven's
sake, she couldn't have lasted twenty-four hours unconscious in that Ranger.
When was she going to admit he'd saved her life?

A vague saying floated to the
forefront of her thoughts. Something about saving someone from death and
thereafter being responsible for them all their life. The way Morgan hovered
over her made her think he might believe something of that sort. Well, she'd
discourage that line of thinking. Somewhere out there, a highway patrol team
was waiting for a break in the storm so they could go out and sharpshoot some
wolves.

If they existed. She couldn't
pinpoint what lay behind her unscientific conviction that the wolves were out
there, being badly maligned by both government officials and the press.
Everything she knew about the wolf told her that no pack could exist for this
long without being discovered. Yet her instincts urged her to be there, make
sure, protect those animals. And she couldn't do that languishing in a mountain
cabin. Action was required, not introspection.

It was then that she noticed
several pairs of snowshoes stacked neatly beneath the rack. There were some
traditional webbed shoes, but also two slim, modern metal sets. She picked up
one of the sets and grabbed her boots, which were stored alongside Morgan's,
then sat on a low stool near the door. After lacing up her boots, she fiddled
with the adjustments on the snowshoes, eventually managing a perfect fit. Then
she took them off and hid them behind the webbed shoes.

She then went to her duffel bag, to
see what in fact she'd packed in there. More long underwear, a set of nylon
leggings, some thick socks. With the snowshoes to aid her, she could make the
hike by herself. No matter what Morgan said, the minute the weather broke,
she'd hoof it down the mountain.

The decision made her feel more in
control, but she remained restless. She wandered about, threw another log on
the fire, stoked it, and continued to roam. Finally she stopped in front of the
tall bookcase where Morgan had picked up the book he'd taken into his room with
him.

Fascinating reading, Dana thought.
One section was filled from top to bottom with novels of all kinds. A host of
survivalist books, on subjects ranging from planting organic gardens to using
solar power, were crammed into another group of shelves. There were medical
books and magazines and a section devoted to psychiatry.

Strangely—she was usually more
interested in the behavior of animals than that of men—this drew her attention.
She saw books by Freud and Jung and other names she didn't recognize. Several
had ominous titles: The Divided Self, Sanity, Madness and the Family, The Wolf-Man—Sixty
Years Later. Leather slipcases held various publications. She picked up a case
labeled American Journal of Psychiatry and took out an issue. It had been
addressed to Morgan at a post office in Alpine, Arizona, and was over two years
old.

So he hadn't given up his devotion
to psychiatry entirely. She wondered why he had left the field. She was about
to pick up another magazine case when a small leather volume caught her eye.
The spine was badly chipped and she couldn't make out the title, so she opened
it to the flyleaf.
The Lycanthropy Reader: The Wer-wolf in Moderne Times
.
Underneath was a publication date of 1826.

Certainly a subject off the beaten
track. She carried it to her bed and curled up to read.

As she flipped to the first page,
she heard a horrible moan. She bounced up like she'd been shot from a cannon,
cringing from the ache her sudden motion caused. Several more moans and cries
followed. She rushed to the window, sure the sounds had come from outside, and
stared through the streaked pane. It was black out there, a dark swirling
morass. Nothing could be seen, and with all that wailing wind, she was sure
nothing could be heard.

But still the moans and groans
continued.

Heart pounding, Dana raced to
Morgan's door and lifted her fist. Just as she was about to knock, she realized
the grotesque noises came from there.

Morgan's music.

How odd could a man's music be? She
grinned wryly, thinking she'd never heard anything odder—or more unsettling.

Feeling a sudden need for
protection, she returned to the bed and cocooned herself in its layer of
blankets. After a moment, she picked up the book.

The wer-wolf
, it opened,
is
the bane of all mankind. Caught in a blood frenzy akin to that of the loathsome
shark, this vile mixture of man and wolf is driven to kill and maim by forces
beyond its control. The urge is most irresistible on the eve of the full of the
moon.

With a raging storm outside, a fire
blazing in the hearth, and the theme of the Marquis de Sade playing in the next
room, Dana certainly couldn't have picked more fitting reading material.

A short while later, still
clutching the book, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Four

Morgan stood outside the window and
watched the firelight kiss the curves of the female's sleeping face. The
flesh-splitting agony of alchemization had passed, as it always did upon
assuming beast form. He felt strong now, relaxed yet alert, able to shift from
werewolf to wolf, wolf to werewolf, in the blink of an eye. He was presently in
the werewolf man-shape. Although it was less agile, it was much more powerful
and felt more familiar

His thick winter undercoat
protected him from the swirling wind and snow, and his eyes, ears, and nose
were keen. Night sounds, storm sounds, surrounded him, and he noted each and
every sound distinctly, like a musician hears each instrument in an orchestra.
Now he heard the female stir and he pricked up his ears, absorbing the slow,
regular thump of her heart as it propelled rich blood deep into her body, then
brought it up, close to the skin. He saw the tiny pulse in her exposed neck.
Fragile, so fragile. How easily his sharp canines could—

The wind began to ebb; the snowfall
lightened. The smells inside drifted to his nose. He sniffed, caught the
familiar aromas of smoke and venison. Beneath them were newer scents, feminine
scents—thick and musky, laced with the sweetness of soap and lotion. His pulse
quickened.

How would it feel to hold her in
his powerful arms, bend back her slender body, slice that smooth throat and
feel her hot blood?

The impulse brought back every
agonized moment of the last five years. Before Dana's arrival he'd almost
forgot his loneliness. Time had ceased to exist the moment he arrived in remote
Ebony Canyon. Often it seemed Lily had bestowed this curse on him just
yestereve. At other times, it seemed a cruel eternity ago.

After Lily had worked her magic on
that barren mountain, he'd ignored her directions to stay by her side and fled,
covering ground with a speed that amazed him. Immune to cold, assailed by
sights and sounds and scents he'd never known existed, he'd streaked through
the icy night, between twisted trees and angry brambles, over rock and boulder,
leaping, nearly flying, driven by dire and irresistible impulses he little understood,
both savoring and despising his new form. He wanted blood, living flesh. He
yearned to use his new and terrible teeth and claws.

The next morning he'd shivered
awake near the base of the mountain, naked, his hands and face covered with
blood, unable to remember where he'd gone, what he'd done. Lily was there, in
human form, staring down at him with those huge dark eyes. She covered him with
a thick fur robe, then took his hands and lifted him up.

"Come," she said.
"I'll teach you control."

She led him to the little rental
car, drove him back to Paris. He stayed with her nearly half a year. During
that time, he learned to shape-shift at will, rather than allowing it to come
unbidden upon him. But searing pain continued to accompany his alchemization.