Hunter's Moon

by Rose Marie Wolf

Jason stood with his back still against the monitor wall. He was frozen, just staring. Davis glared at him. He was gnashing his teeth. The shift was overtaking him. Already fur and hair began to sprout along his body. His muscles were bulging, tearing his clothes. There was a horrible pop as his back snapped forward. He shouted in pain and the shift stopped.

  “It’s too much,” he cried out. Glen didn’t release him however; he waited until Davis’s body relaxed before he slipped away. The shift receded and Davis once more looked normal. His spine resumed its normal shape, the hair and fur returning to normal length. He curled up on the floor, heedless of the blood and sobbed anew. It was over so suddenly.

  Jason stared down at him. He looked stunned. Glen glared at him.

  “Thanks for the help,” he said bitterly. He looked down at his hands. He had cut his palms again with his fingernails. Tiny crescent marks marred his flesh, dotted with blood.

  “I couldn’t,” Jason answered. “I just couldn’t.”

  Suddenly, Glen was no longer angry. He was tired, weary. He sighed heavily. Davis remained in the fetal position, facing away from Claire’s body.

  “Don’t worry about it. There are other things we need to deal with here.” He stared down at Davis. “We have to call someone to take care of her…”

  “I know.” Jason finally moved. His face was white. “I’ll stay with him.”

  “Are you sure?” Glen asked. Davis wasn’t going to fight any more. The near shift had worn him out. He would be complacent, at least for a while. He wouldn’t struggle, Glen realized. “All right, Jason.”

  He left the room, thankful to be away from the stifling stench of death and blood. He knew there was a phone in the downstairs hallway and he went there first. It was still intact, the cord still plugged in. He had just reached for it when it began to ring.

  Startled by the suddenness of it, Glen’s heart thudded quickly. He stared down at the caller ID. It was Rose’s cell phone. He had a very bad feeling about it.

  “Jason,” he called, not removing his eyes from the phone. Could this situation get any worse? “I think it’s for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Her cell phone looked small in his overly large, bloody hand and he stared at it for the longest time. It seemed like something foreign. His mind couldn’t comprehend what he was holding, yet he knew. The wolf was still in his mind, making his human perceptions sluggish.

  But he knew what he had done. He had gone to the PRDI, where he had changed. He remembered that. Then he went inside, found Claire and killed her. Simon was still covered in her blood. It had dried, sticky all over him. He stunk, smelling like her, like a human. The wolf hadn’t liked that.

  But something had happened back there. For a moment or two, the wolf relapsed and became human again. It felt strange, the shock of it. He remembered staring at the computer screen and reading words that made him feel sick. He remembered the crumpled paper and the proof.

  The wolf’s hold was beginning to wane and he felt more like himself. His mind was sharper, less clouded. He could see things now, understand them with the logic the wolf did not possess. He was still shocked. There was still so much he didn’t understand.

  The cell phone in his hand looked so small. Technology was a strange thing, both Simon and the wolf mused. This thing could contact others and it was so tiny it fit in the palm of his hand.

  He pressed a button and the thing came to life. He had found it in the pocket of Rose’s jeans. The bright blue LED screen hurt his eyes, but he forced himself to look at it. There were numbers there, words that he understood. With very little difficulty he found what he was looking for.

  It was listed under an obvious heading. PRDI/Claire, the screen told him. He hit a button. A number began to dial. He felt ready to contact them, to talk. After all, he had a lot of questions. There was a lot he didn’t understand, a lot he didn’t want to believe.

  He pushed that all away and held the phone to his ear. As it rang, Simon turned to look at Rose. She lay on the mattress on the floor of the basement, in the gutted, burned place that had once been his home. She too was covered in blood, most of it her own. Her leg, broken from the fall, looked grotesque. The bone jutted forward. He knew how painful that was, having experienced that and a bit more.

  Lucky for her, she was out. She wouldn’t feel any pain until she awakened, but that could be at any moment. He would reset the bone for her, if he could. It would need to heal. After all, he didn’t want a crippled mate.

  The phone rang in his ear several times, but no one answered. No one was there yet. No one knew. Simon chuckled a bit, finding some humor in that. He knew. He knew all about it.

  He shut the phone off and closed his blood stained hand around it. If he applied just enough pressure, he could crush the device. It would then be nothing but a handful of plastic, glass and microchips. He hated these things, but he resisted the temptation. He needed it still, if he was going to get his answers.

  Rose uttered a soft moan. He returned his gaze to her. Her face was pale. Her eyebrows came together, forming a line between them. She opened her mouth and groaned again. She was waking up.

  Simon knelt beside her, placing the phone aside for the time being. Rose began to stir more. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “What?” Her voice sounded hoarse. She tried to sit up but the pain hit her all at once. She cried out, biting on her bottom lip to silence it. She was fully awake now, her eyes wide. The first thing she looked at was her leg.

  “Oh God, oh no,” she whimpered. The ruined leg of her jeans was thoroughly saturated with her blood. Her hands shook as she lifted them to touch it.

  “Lay still,” he told her, keeping his voice low.

  Her gaze turned to him. She hadn’t realized he was there until that moment. Her eyes went wide and fear stunk around her.

  “Lay still,” he repeated. He reached out a hand to her, to keep her steady. “I have to reset it.”

  “Get away from me.” The fear was gone, replaced with pure hatred. Rose’s face contorted, looking ugly in her rage. Shadows spread across her face. She recoiled from him instantly. “Get away from me.”

  Her voice was dark. Simon moved back an inch from her, but that was it. Rose couldn’t get far even if she tried. She was backed against a wall and her injury too serious. She wouldn’t make it five feet.

  “You killed Claire,” she spat at him. Her eyes became golden and feral. “You murdered her.”

  “It’s what I do,” Simon said. He didn’t feel calm any longer. He felt angry, upset, hurt even. “I just want to help you. I need to reset the bone or it won’t heal.”

  “No, don’t touch me,” Rose answered fiercely. Her mouth became a thin, colorless line. She tried to back herself up farther, but she winced. The pain became evident on her face for a moment, clouding any anger. She quickly recovered and stared at him, as hardened as ever.

  “You stupid bitch,” he snapped and pushed himself away from her, annoyed. He turned his back on her and walked a few steps away.

  It was full daylight outside and he couldn’t venture out there. He had been lucky that no one had spotted him, naked and covered in blood that wasn’t his, carrying her back here. He counted his blessings. He wouldn’t let her goad him to go out into the light. He knew that’s what she would do. She had a way of pushing his buttons. He wouldn’t fall for that.

  Rose was holding her leg. She made a noise, a whimper of pain, as she tried to move it to lay out straight in front of her. It wouldn’t move at all.

  “You would rather suffer than let me help you?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she lowered her eyes to her leg and continued her fruitless attempts.

  Suddenly, Simon was infuriated. In a second, he was at her side, kneeling once again. He had tried to be nice, he had tried to help, but the stubborn bitch was resistant. There was only so much hardheadedness a person could stand and he had reached his limit.

  Without giving her much lee
way, he grabbed hold of her leg. She cried out, right in his ear. She thrashed, trying to hit at him, claw at him.

  It only took him half a minute. Once he had hold of her blood-slicked leg, he pulled it straight out. Rose screamed louder and dug her nails into his shoulder. He wasn’t a doctor and he knew there were better ways to do this, but he did the only thing he knew would work. He wasn’t squeamish about it at all, plunging his fingers into the flesh and moving the bone around. It would be an unbearable pain, he knew.

  Rose no longer tried to fight him. Instead, she had slumped back against the wall. A drop of blood dotted her lips where she had bitten down against the pain. She was out again. The pain had been too much. It was just as well.

  Simon didn’t muse on it very long. He worked quickly. With one strong pull, he ripped the torn cloth away from her leg. He used it as a tourniquet, tying it off just above the wound. The bone was back inside, where it belonged. Using the rest of the cloth, he formed a makeshift splint using some boards lying around. It wasn’t professional, but it was sturdy and would do until the necessary and quick healing process began.

  It was easier to do it when she was unconscious and didn't struggle. When he was finally done, he sat back to view his work. The leg looked horrible, but not half as horrible as before. The skin around the wound was red with dried blood and horrendously purple from the bruising.

  He wiped his bloody hands on his legs, smearing it all over him. Claire’s blood had dried and was beginning to flake off his skin. He stared down at his arms, at his hands. Like all the murders he had committed over the years, he felt no remorse, but he was nostalgic.

  There could’ve been better ways to do it. He could’ve let her suffer longer, prolonged it. She deserved it, after all, for betraying him as she had. But it was over with and done. Claire was dead. Thinking about what could’ve been was not going to change anything.

  Simon, realizing he was grinning at the thought, suddenly felt superior. He felt powerful and strong. He felt like the alpha male after all. So many years, so much hunting, so much killing and the day was finally here.

  It didn’t matter if his father had another child, and it didn’t matter that the child was Jason Barnett. It would be over soon. Jason would be dead and Simon could put this whole mess behind him. No one else had to know that he was related to a half-blood. No one needed to know.

  Simon stepped out of his thoughts and grabbed the cell phone from the floor. It was time to try again.

  Lowering himself to the floor, Simon sat next to Rose. He punched the redial option on the phone and held it to his ear again. The battery was still fully charged. He had a while before it would go dead. Until then, he would keep trying. He would get his answers. He would get his revenge.

  Simon listened to the phone ring, redialing when necessary and patiently waiting for someone to answer. There was no one there yet, but he would keep trying until someone answered. He hoped it would be Jason. They had much to discuss, much unfinished business.

  He was sure by tomorrow morning, it would all be over. He could hardly wait.

  * * *

  Jason heard Glen calling him from downstairs, but he couldn’t move. Davis still lay on the floor, curled up. He looked vulnerable, like a small pup.

  He kept his eyes focused on Davis. He didn’t want to lift them and look at Claire’s mutilated body. He didn’t want to see the blood. The smell of it was bad enough.

  The ringing of the phone downstairs went silent. When it stopped, he lifted his eyes and turned toward the door. Glen was yelling at him, but he couldn’t make out the words. It was as if he was in a dream. Everything moved slowly. He couldn’t will himself to take a single step. He was numb.

  It couldn’t be true and yet it was. He was related to Simon Conner. His own worst enemy, the man he wanted dead more than anyone in this world, was his brother. Jason looked down to the floor, avoiding the trembling, whimpering Davis and Claire’s corpse. The yellow papers lay there, crumpled. It must’ve been dropped. Jason couldn’t remember having done it.

  Finally, he began to awaken from his stupor. He grabbed the papers and smoothed out some of the wrinkles as best he could. It was hopeless. The paper was torn, blood-stained.

  Again, he looked over the words. He saw his father’s name and his mother’s. He had always known their names. His mother had been in a mental hospital. She was psychic, but this he had always known. He had known it when he had met Joshua Conner for the first and only time.

  It was something he kept to himself, something no one else knew, something he hadn’t thought on in ages. Now, it was all he could think about.

  He had been seventeen years old then. He had left his last foster home in a fit of anger. He was a werewolf. He couldn’t be the normal child they wanted. Living on his own, Jason had been desperate to discover his place in the world.

  He walked down the streets late at night, like he always did. It wasn’t as if he had a place to stay. He roamed, staying in one place for maybe a week, maybe two. He didn’t like to linger.

  Jason had only a backpack full of clothes and a few other belongings to his name. He did what he had to in order to make a few bucks. It was mostly odd jobs, but he did get involved in a brief drug career. He didn’t like the stuff personally, but it was a quick way to earn cash.

  He was down to his last three dollars and he was hungry. He stopped beneath a streetlight, adjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulder. It was past midnight. Most places were closed, but there was an all-night diner. The neon sign in the window burned brightly, welcoming him. He hesitated there. It had been two days since his last meal. His stomach gurgled loudly, deciding any opposition he had against a cheap sandwich and maybe a drink.

  He hitched his pack more firmly on his back and started to cross the street. That’s when he first caught the scent of his kind. It stopped him dead in his tracks. He sniffed the air. He had smelled it before, faintly. He recognized it as the scent of his own kind, but that was about as far as he could go.

  Quickly, Jason scanned the area around him. The scent grew stronger. The other were was close. He didn’t like it. He felt as if he was being watched. Someone was out there, someone like him, watching, waiting. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  Again, he searched the darkened shadows lining the street. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the light. He saw movement from the corner of his eye and jumped.

  The figure stepped more into the light, where Jason could see him better. He had never seen this man before, but he looked familiar.

  His hair was short and dark, either black or dark brown, he couldn’t tell in this light. He had a strong face, with a square jaw and narrow, upturned nose. His mouth was set in a straight, thin line and his thick, dark eyebrows set off a high forehead. He stopped on the other side of the street, yellow light from the overhead lamp illuminating him. He appeared to be an older man, middle-aged.

  He narrowed his eyes at the man, taking in his scent. He was a were all right. His strong scent confirmed it. Was he a rogue were? Was this his territory? Jason had encountered only a few other weres. Most of them were territorial and he had trespassed. Not wanting to fight the aggressive males, Jason would always leave. For some reason, he didn’t want to run this time.

  He watched the stranger as he walked the sidewalk closer to him. He stopped a few feet from him and studied him. Jason didn’t like the way the man’s eyes appraised him.

  His entire body tensed under the piercing stare. He lifted his eyes, locking them onto the stranger’s. The eyes were a startling shade of blue and Jason found himself transfixed, briefly. He let go of that mysterious hold and clenched his fists.

  “Who are you, old man?” Jason broke the silence, quick and to the point. Something flashed in the stranger’s eyes. It was something dark and mysterious, like hurt or anger. It went away quickly as the man regained his composure. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jason interrupted.

 
“I know what you are. You’re just like me—”

  “Not just like you,” the man said suddenly. His voice was rich, low. Jason thought it sounded cool and calm.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not just like you,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. His eyes darted from side to side. There was no one around and he continued. “I’m a full-blood.”

  Jason was confused then. He didn’t know what a full-blood was, much less what it meant. He narrowed his eyes a bit. The stranger spoke again.

  “We share a lot in common, it seems, but not that much.” His voice faded into silence. He continued to regard Jason with his inquisitive stare.

  Jason couldn’t take it much more.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, old man. I don’t even know who you are. Leave me alone.”

  Again, that look crossed the stranger’s face and Jason was once more confused by it. It faded again.

  “My name is Joshua Conner,” he said. His voice was so low now, Jason, even with his advanced hearing capabilities, could barely catch it. There was a long pause. The man sighed. “I’m your father.”

  At first, Jason thought he had heard him wrong. He tilted his head in a curious way. He even grinned disbelievingly.

  “Did you just say—no, you didn’t.” Jason shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

  Joshua watched him carefully. Jason tried not to meet his eyes but he couldn’t help it. He lifted his gaze and stared at him. There was something about those eyes, something truthful in them. Without saying anything, Jason knew. He knew the truth.

  It came as a harsh blow. It stunned him like a physical slap to the face. He stood there, slack-jawed. He stared, really studying him. He realized why he looked so familiar. Some of the features of his face, like the nose and the eyebrows and the eyes, most assuredly—it was almost as if Jason was looking into an aging mirror. This could be him, in about fifteen years.

  “No,” he said, “that can’t be. I don’t have a father.”

  “How do you think you came into this world?” Joshua answered. There was a slight hint of mirth in his voice, but he didn’t laugh.