Shadow on the Moon (8 page)

When had she come to fear things
that went bump in the night? It was only a tree branch scraping the roof, not a
banshee. With another laugh, she straightened the wood on the sled, then turned
for another load.

The rumble came again.

Dana paused, searching for its
source. This definitely wasn't a scraping branch. Gingerly inching around, she
picked up the shovel and angled it across her body, then scanned the snow as
she turned.

Her heart gave a wild leap when she
saw the large white canine loping along the horizon. Was it a wolf?

What else could it be, up here, so
far back in the wilderness? She froze, not wanting to frighten it away, and
fervently wished she had a camera. It was closing in on her now, but she knew
the minute it caught her human scent it would turn tail and disappear to
wherever it came from.

Could it really be true? Had her
instincts been correct?

She waited in excited apprehension
as the animal rapidly narrowed the distance between them.

Chapter Six

Morgan quickly climbed into his
clothes, shivering and feeling a pang of regret. He rued his wolf curse, true,
but to his everlasting shame he also savored its invincibility, and always
hated the nip of the cold after he'd returned to human form.

With an irate jerk, he tightened
the fastenings on his parka and turned from the chilling breeze to the cause of
his annoyance. He regretted the impulsive growls he let escape when he'd seen
her out in the open, easy prey for the white bitch and her groveling servant.
What kind of woman was Dana Gibbs? The ones he'd known during his New York life
wouldn't have dreamed of going out in the wilderness on a dark, blustery night.
Hell, many of them didn't go out in the city at night, nor risk their precious fingernails
digging snow and loading wood. But this one was oblivious to the danger around
her.

Immediately, his psychiatric training
rose to defend her. Dana wasn't a New York businesswoman. She was a scientist
who was used to wild country. From her point of view, what did she have to
fear? Werewolves? They would hardly be in her frame of reference.

His rationalizations only served to
fuel his annoyance. He didn't think in those terms these days. What good was
psychological insight to a hermit? He could view her behavior any way he
wanted, but one fact remained. He'd made a mistake bringing her up here.

So why didn't he take her back? If
she could shovel snow and load wood, she could make the hike just fine.

With a final tug on the drawstring
of his parka, Morgan shook off that question and rounded the cabin to deal with
his errant houseguest.

His heart stopped the instant he
cleared the corner.

"Dear God, no!"

Dana was rolling on the ground with
a large white creature, who was emitting guttural noises that chilled Morgan's
blood. His joints immediately started to ache and swell. His eyes blurred, and
he knew there was little time before he became temporarily immobilized. Using
all his willpower, he forced the changes back and broke into a run.

In the next instant, he realized
there was a complete lack of fear in Dana's squeals. Then he saw why.

"Aphrodite!" he cried
angrily, feeling the frailer human emotions now. The creaks of his joints
subsided. The dog jerked away from Dana, who sat up and tried to drag her back,
laughing all the while.

Morgan stopped and stared.

How long was it since he'd heard a
woman's laughter? And what a rich, full-bodied laugh she had. It came from deep
within and held a joy he'd forgotten existed. He almost doubled up from the
sudden pain of his loneliness

"Aphrodite! Come!" he
commanded harshly.

The dog cringed and slunk toward
him.

"We were just roughhousing,"
Dana said indignantly. "Why are you treating her like that?"

By that time, Aphrodite was at his
side, looking full of remorse. Morgan's anger ebbed, but he still had a
headache, and the light from the lantern irritated his eyes so much he could
barely see Dana. He squinted through the glow, trying to find some excuse that
didn't include admitting he had thought Lily was attacking her.

"She escaped from her pen and
she knows better." His words came out gruffer than he'd intended, but the
explanation apparently mollified her.

"I know what you mean. I have
a couple of wolves that do that. Smart little devils."

She rocked lithely to her feet and
brushed the snow from her clothes.

"Go inside," said Morgan,
in a more gentle tone. "You didn't dress for this cold. I'll put Aphrodite
away."

"Why don't we take her with
us?"

"To the cabin?"

Dana returned Morgan's hard stare
without hesitation. What was with him, anyway? So the dog got out. It wasn't
like she'd be annoying the neighbors. A big dog needed plenty of exercise. And
that matted coat could use a good brushing. A warm fire wouldn't hurt, either.

She told Morgan so.

"Aphrodite lives in the pen
with the rest of the team, Dana," Morgan replied coldly, leaning down to
take the dog's collar. "She's a working dog, not a house pet."

"Doing what?" Dana waved
her hands at the empty space around them. "Herding all the sheep out
here?"

"They carry supplies I bring
up by sled. How do you think I get the fuel and food?"

"Oh? Well, uh, I did
wonder."

Morgan nodded and started forward,
leading Aphrodite with him.

"What is she? A wolf hybrid?
She sure—"

"Dana, look at your legs.
You've got to be chilled."

She glanced down. Snow was caked on
her jeans. Now that Morgan mentioned it, yes, she had to admit she was cold,
although she hadn't noticed until he brought it up. He had a way of making her
notice unpleasantness. Now, Aphrodite, there was a creature who appreciated
simple pleasures.

"You took a big risk coming
out here with that concussion," he continued in a scolding tone. "And
that roll in the snow didn't help any, either. Go inside and put on some dry
clothes."

"Let me go with you to see the
other dogs." She trudged over and gave Aphrodite a pat that was rewarded
by a lick on the cheek. She glanced up, laughing. "A hybrid. Right?"

"Dana!"

"All right, all right."
She bent down for the rope attached to the front of the sled. "Just let me
get the wood."

"Go. I'll bring it."

"Morgan, I'm not an
invalid."

"Please, Dana." He
brushed his gloved hand through his bushy hair and looked so distraught that
Dana felt a pang of sympathy. She'd pushed him pretty far and she knew he
thought he was looking out for her welfare.

"Okay." She dropped the
rope and headed back for the cabin, leaving the lantern for Morgan. The moon
gave plenty of light for a simple walk on a shoveled path. Every now and then
she let out a laugh of pure joy.

She dawdled so much, Morgan wanted
to scowl, but all he could do was drink in her laughter. She was so vital, so
glad to be alive.

He wanted to keep her that way. No
easy job when she ignored his simplest request. What was so hard about staying
inside at night?

When she finally entered the cabin,
he let go of Aphrodite's collar and waded through the snow toward the fences
that protected the kennel. Snow was piled high against them. He'd have to clear
them before going in, which was just as well. He needed time to cool down
before speaking with Dana again.

The dog loped easily beside him,
sinking then rising in the blowing flakes, sniffing now and again, veering off
course. Each time she did, Morgan called her back and thought of how badly he
now needed her.

She'd been part of the first pair,
brought up for companionship, or so he'd told himself. But when he began
breeding them, he knew that hadn't been his true purpose.

Seven dogs, said The Book. Not six,
nor eight. Seven. All unusually large, all named after ancient deities. It had
taken three years to breed them, with failures taken into the little village of
Alpine and handed over to eager kids who had no idea what kind of monster gave
them away. For the past year, he'd worked with them until they could sit still
in a circle for hours.

Lily had never attempted to harm
them. According to The Book she couldn't. The protective power of the numeral
seven kept them safe. But should even one dog die . . .

The rest wouldn't live another
night.

* *
*

Captain Will Schumacher of the
Arizona Highway Patrol was glaring at his communication officer. "Try them
again," he barked, as if the unresponsiveness was the fault of the
officer.

"Unit thirteen-twelve, this is
Mission Lobo. Come in." The man waited a few seconds, then looked up.
"They still don't answer sir."

"I know! Don't you think I
have ears?" Schumacher whipped his head around to scowl at a group of
officers gathered behind him. "Damn fools wandering off like that. Just
like those wildlife people. And if that wasn't bad enough, there's this."
He waved a piece of paper impatiently. "I told that wolf professor not to
come. Now I learn she's lost out here somewhere. As if we didn't have enough on
our plate. Well, they're not getting in our way. Hear? I want teams out looking
for wolves, not idiots who don't have enough sense to come out of a
storm."

"Captain Schumacher?" A
man wearing aviator-style glasses stepped from the crowd. Schumacher's gaze
lingered malevolently on the Fish and Game Department emblem decorating the
pocket of the man's vest, which covered a non-regulation hunting jacket.
Everything about the wildlife people grated on Schumacher's nerves, but the ones
who ignored code annoyed him most of all.

"What do you want,
Fishman?" Schumacher snapped, glad to find a target for his ire.

The man appeared oblivious to
Schumacher's insult. Instead he planted his feet under his disgustingly fit
hiker's body and said, "Maybe we should rethink our priorities. I doubt
Charlie and Deek would wander off without notifying us, and that concerns me.
As for Dr. Gibbs, she's one of the foremost wolf biologists in the country. She
was instrumental in the reintroduction of the red wolf and—"

"I
know
who the hell
she is!" Schumacher looked up at the dome of the tent. "Why doesn't anyone
ever tell me something I don't already know?"

"What's more," Fishman
continued, as though Schumacher hadn't even spoken, "she's used to the
wilderness and has probably pulled off to wait out the storm. As far as the
wolves go, it's the opinion of my department that they don't exist."

"Don't exist? Then what do you
suppose killed those people?"

"There are any number of
explanations that don't involve wolves. Regardless, I think our priority should
be to search for the missing men."

"Did anyone ask what you
thought?"

"Yes, Captain. The governor
did."

That stopped Schumacher in his
tracks. He couldn't remember Fishman's real name, but he did remember that the
man's opinions were backed up by a strong reputation in his field. Much as the
captain hated wasting what little time the break in the storm gave them, he
couldn't ignore someone so well connected.

At that moment, another officer
rushed into the tent. "The copter's coming, sir."

"Good. At least something's
working around here." Without another word, Schumacher followed the
messenger out the tent door.

Less than half an hour later,
yielding to the wildlife officer's advice, he had assembled a squad to search
for the missing Fish and Game van.

"Move, move," he ordered.
"Hurry up."

The men loaded a small arsenal of
handguns and semiautomatic weapons into the back of the helicopter, then
scrambled for their seats. As Schumacher began boarding, his communicator ran
out of the tent.

"Did you contact
thirteen-twelve?" Schumacher asked, wanting any reason to abort the
manhunt.

"No, sir," answered the
young officer. "But someone sighted Dr. Gibbs."

"Humph. The least of my
worries. So what's the word?"

"Her Ranger was spotted
heading south on the Coronado Trail." He gave the captain the number of
the closest mile marker.

"Send out a unit." It
didn't set well with him to dispatch badly needed officers. But what could he
do?

The lieutenant nodded and
Schumacher climbed into the helicopter. With a buzz of blades, they were
airborne.

By chopper, the distance to the
van's last known location was short. Soon the captain was ordering the pilot to
duck down between the trees, merely scowling whenever the man said a move was
too dangerous. Schumacher didn't much care for chopper pilots. They were a
rebellious breed. Yet in matters of safety he had to defer to them. In one
apparently "safe" dip, they spotted the Fish and Game van.

"Take us down,"
Schumacher shouted into his communication headphone.

"As soon as I find a
clearing."

Schumacher bobbed his head and
mimicked the pilot's words, but the man had shut off his headphones and the
captain's voice was lost in the whir of engines and blades.

"There," the pilot said,
having deigned to reestablish communication. He pointed to a field of black
rock towers. "It's a hike back up to the road, but there's plenty of room
to land."

After second-guessing the pilot for
a while, Schumacher gave the order to land. Although the man was only doing his
job, Schumacher was ready to discipline the bastard by the time they touched
down. He wasn't used to helicopters, and the rapidly approaching earth filled
with all those eerie black outcroppings had scared a year of life out of him.
Someone ought to pay.

Before he could voice displeasure,
his men were out of their seat belts, and he was forced to disembark so they
could toss down the weapons.