Taken by Moonlight (46 page)

At first,
he dismissed it as a human girl who’d piqued his son’s interest, but as the
days passed, and the image continuously returned, another thought came to him.
A thought that had him sending his trackers over to the last known address of
Vivienne Bordeaux, the same place where his son had been. As he suspected, the
place had not been renovated, and his trackers were able to bring him what he
needed. The photo albums had revealed much. The girl in his son’s mind was
Drew, the third roommate in the apartment. There was no last name under the
pictures, but he didn’t need one. He had a first name, and her last known
address.

A surname
in such a case was irrelevant, as any of his trackers would be able to find her
in an information database.

The smile
on his face was chilling as he stood, holding two of the pictures between his
fingers. She was a pretty girl, captivating. It was no wonder Max still
remembered her.

Are you
awake?

There it
was again. That voice. Max grabbed his head with both hands. He twisted on the
bed, entangling the covers around his legs and waist.

From the
moment he’d attained consciousness days ago, he’d been hearing this voice. He
knew his name was Maximilian Cronin II, that he was a witch, a tracker, that
he’d been captured on his latest mission, tortured and left for dead, that his
father’s covenant had found him, taken care of him, brought him back. He knew
all these things because his father had told them to him, but he couldn’t for
the life of him figure out who or what the voice in his head was. It usually
asked a question, or made a statement, and then it was gone as if he’d imagined
it. He’d begun to think that he had imagined it, until he heard it again.

Do not
fear me, Max. I won’t hurt you.

Who are
you?
This was the
first time he’d communicated with the voice. In the past, he’d thought to
indulge it meant accepting in his descent into insanity. Now, there was the
possibility it was something else.

I’m your
savior. My blood flows inside you, keeping you alive.

Blood, Max
thought, feeling a twinge of hunger deep in the pit of his stomach. As he
imaged it, he almost hurled. Of the late, he’d been craving something but
didn’t know what. His father had seen to it that he was well fed, and always in
comfort, but there was something missing.

What are
you talking about?

I will
tell you everything but not like this. I’m being held prisoner, and can feel
that you are in the same building as I. Come to me.

Max
released his head, pushed the comforter away, and stood, pacing the large room.
How did he know this man wasn’t one of his previous captors? How did he know
anything with the scattered images he now had as memories? He hadn’t even
remembered his own name.
Max
had seemed right, but he’d only known after
his father had told him the name. His mind was a chasm of confusion and
emptiness. The only constant was a picture of a woman he couldn’t place. She
was pretty, with dark ebony skin, warm eyes, and a wide smile. She
seemed…happy, an emotion he was incapable of feeling. Max felt anger, pain,
failure, depression, but happiness eluded him.

How do I
know you’re not luring me to my death?

Laughter
met the question.

This
connection works two ways, Max. As I can enter your mind, you can enter mine.
It is the connection my blood affords us. I mean you no harm, and give you
leave to search for anything you deem harmful.

Before Max
could contemplate exactly what that meant, he was probing around. He didn’t
know what he was doing, but instinct drove him, and he followed it. A vision of
a tall man with dark hair and silver-blue eyes appeared in his mind’s eye. He
looked much like Max did when he awoke, or when he was deep in thought and
forgot to will himself to look human. Max continued his search, ultimately
finding no ill will in the man’s thoughts.

What are
you? Are you a witch?

He heard a
snort, and then a scoff.
I am one of the last of the pureblood warlocks. My
name is Kyros.

Max nodded.
At times, I look…like you. How is that when I am a witch?

You were
a witch, Max, a hybrid. You are no longer. When I was brought to you, you were
barely alive. I saved your warlock. You are more warlock than anything else.

I don’t
understand.

You
won’t. Come to me, and I will explain in detail.

How will
I find you?

Use the
connection. My blood is within you. You can always find me if you concentrate
hard enough. A word of advice, Max. Without your memories, you would be wise to
trust your father only as needed. He is not as he seems.

A chill
snaked down Max’s spine. Not as he seems. It sounded familiar. What was it? He
tried to remember. Not as he seems. Nothing came.

Find me,
Max, and I will help you.

His door
opened and Max spun abruptly to find his father entering his room.

“How are
you feeling?” Maximilian asked immediately, a look of disappointment clouding
his eyes. Consciously, Max forced himself back into his human skin, seeing the
slight nod of approval his father gave.

“Better.”

“That is
good to hear,” Maximilian replied, stepping farther into the room. His cane dragged
against the carpet, and he came to a halt a few feet from his son. “Your
coloring is much better, and I can sense you’re getting stronger. I think it’s
time for you to begin training again.”

Training.
Tracker training, he knew. His father had mentioned it every day since he’d
awoken.

“I’m
putting together a team to capture the two witches who held you captive,”
Maximilian continued, staring at him intensely all the while.

“Oh?” Max
responded.

“Yes, I
have reason to believe I will soon know exactly where Vivienne and Cassandre
Bordeaux are hiding.”

Vivienne.
Cassandre. Two sparks of memory. Yes, those were his captors. He remembered
those names.

“Do you
think you’re well enough to train?”

Max nodded.
Training sounded much better than lying around and watching the television. His
body still ached, but it was nothing that should keep him from exercising.

“Good. I
know your memory is delicate, my son, so I will have someone escort you to the
training facility after breakfast.”

Maximilian
took a step closer, and smiled. The older man clapped his hand against Max’s
shoulder. “I’ve never told you this, but I am proud to call you son. You’ve
managed to live through torture at the hands of those fiendish creatures, and
already you’re well enough to train.”

“Thank
you…Father,” Max replied, testing the word on his tongue.

“Good. I
will see you at the training compound. Eat hearty. You won’t remember it, but
training is very intense.”

With that,
Maximilian walked slowly from the room, favoring his right leg. When he was
gone, Max collapsed against the bed, lifting his hand over his face and
watching as the light tan color of his skin gave way to blue.

Shaking his
head, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Where was this Kyros anyway?

Vivienne
stared out the window at the groups of laughing children as they exited the
building and ran into the street. They all looked between the ages of six and
sixteen, but she’d learned from Zahira that looks on werewolves were highly
deceiving. As an example, Zahira had told her that Eli, who looked eighteen and
acted the part, was actually in his thirties. Closing her eyes, she leaned
against the cold window pane, and tried to cheer up.

From the
moment she’d awoken this morning to find that her monthly friend had arrived,
she’d been in a bad mood. It had brought on a wave of sadness so intense she’d
almost cried, before anger had replaced it. After scouring the veritable
bachelor pad for a box of Stayfree or a pack of Always, she’d snapped at a
confused, but understanding Conall. She’d demanded pads, new panties since he’d
ripped almost all of hers, and a long list of other things she didn’t even
need. After, she’d taken a warm shower that left her wrinkled from neck to toe,
and when she’d emerged, Conall was gone, and a few packs of Always were on the
bed. It was their first fight, and it was over sanitary napkins! Vivienne would
find it humorous if she were in a humorous mood. She wasn’t.

“Are you
feeling well, Vivienne?” Zahira’s voice intruded on her reminiscence, and
Vivienne pulled her head from the window.

“Yes, I was
just looking at the children—”

She broke
off when she recognized the children were no longer there, and the street was
now dark and empty. The only light came from a dimly lit street lamp a few houses
up. Werewolves didn’t need light to see in the dark. They were natural energy
conservators.

“Oh, which
children?” Zahira came to stand beside her.

Shaking her
head, Vivienne felt a twinge of anger at Zahira’s question but she hastily
pushed it away. It wasn’t Zahira’s fault she was acting like a pre-menstrual
freak! She wasn’t even prone to PMS. This had to be a first in twenty-three
years of regular and painless periods.

“I must
have closed my eyes for a while,” Vivienne managed tersely, stepping away from
the window. She pasted on a smile for Zahira, who along with Verity, who was
currently in the kitchen, had been doing everything over the past days to make
her life easier. They were her staunch supporters outside of Conall, his
nephew, and his betas, and very appreciated in times like these.

Brennus,
Samia’s father, had taken his request for a blood rite to the pack, and it had
been approved. If Vivienne thought she’d been treated as an outcast before,
she’d obviously been wrong. The pack now went to extreme lengths to avoid her.
Before, they would remain where they were, and act as if she weren’t there, but
now they left whenever she approached. No one had spoken offensively to her,
but they didn’t have to. Zahira had explained that the pack was torn between
respecting their alpha and his chosen mate, and offending Brennus and Samia. As
such, they avoided all parties involved. It gave Vivienne a little pleasure to
know Samia was being treated similarly, but today that pleasure was forgone in
place of anger.

That was
the emotion that pulsed through her, and only seemed to pulse stronger with the
passing hours. It was joined by sadness, frustration….

“You’re
bleeding,” Zahira said, as if they were talking of chocolate and candy, and not
something so personal. “Oh, save your shock for your human friends, Vivienne.
Werewolves have no couth, and certainly no shame, especially in these matters.”

“That’s
really none of your business—”

“You’re
sad, depressed, and most of all, angry,” Zahira continued, as if Vivienne had
not spoken. “It’s been so long I did not recognize it at first.” She gave
Vivienne a little smile, which only prompted the already angry druid to scowl.

Zahira
chuckled before walking back over to a brown sofa. “I now see why my pack sisters
found it amusing to watch as I went through this.”

“What are
you talking about?”

“Have a
seat, Vivienne. You’ve been standing by the window for almost an hour.”

She lifted
her brows as she looked to the grandfather clock above Zahira’s fireplace. It
was after six. The werewolf was right. “I’m sorry, Zahira. I haven’t been
myself. I’m tired. I should leave now.”

“Vivienne,
what you are experiencing is very normal.” Her brows furrowed and she added
curiously, “Well, it is normal for a
were
female who has recently been
mated. Although you are not
were
, and the ceremony has not been
completed, it seems you are experiencing it as well.”

“What am I
experiencing but a bad day?” Vivienne snapped, running a hand over her eyes.
She really needed to leave before she went off on Zahira. That would be
unforgivable.

“You’re
sad, depressed, and angry because with your bleeding comes the recognition that
you have not conceived for your mate…yet.”

Vivienne
scoffed, even as that truth settled in her heart. When she’d first seen her
period, she’d been ecstatic for the span of thirty seconds. Of late, she’d
begun to recognize that the amount of sex she indulged in with Conall could
definitely result in the possibility of a baby. Or two. Her period had
symbolized that despite her stupidity for foregoing protection, she was being
given a second chance. And then had come the wave of sadness.
Why
wasn’t
she pregnant? That had led to indiscriminate anger at everyone and everything
around her.

“I’m going
home,” she announced, heading for the coat rack where her fleece was. “Please
tell Verity I’ll come back soon.”

She’d just
shrugged into the garment and had turned to say her goodbye to Zahira when the
Elder touched her wrist. An encouraging smile graced her lips.