Crescent Moon

by Lori Handeland

  Damp heat brushed my face along with the scent of rotting vegetation and brackish water. My eyes searched the gloom for something. Anything. Though my watch insisted I had a good hour of daylight left, the thick cover of ancient oaks shrouded me in chilly shadow. I saw nothing but a dock and a tributary that disappeared around a bend. Across the water, hundreds of cypress trees dripped Spanish moss into the swamp grass.

  “Hello?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the note. “Adam Ruelle?”

  The only answer was a thick splash, which halted my stride down the dock. How fast could an alligator travel on land? Probably as fast as I could. I might reach the car, and then again I might not.

  But what if that hadn’t been an alligator?

  Wolves are quick, as are big cats, and when dealing with new or undiscovered animals, anything could happen.

  I might have been raised soft, but before Simon and I started spending so much time in the field we’d taken self-defense classes. You couldn’t sleep under the stars in a dozen different states and not run into trouble sooner or later. However, knowing how to disable a man who outweighed me by fifty pounds wasn’t going to do me much good with a wild animal. What had I been thinking to come here alone, without a gun?

  Except I didn’t own a gun.

  Slowly I backed toward land, keeping my eyes on the flowing water. The muted splashing came closer and closer. I should make a run for it, but I hated to turn my back on whatever lurked in the depths of the lily pad-strewn tributary.

  I heard a rustle that wasn’t a fish, wasn’t even water. More like the whisper of weeds, the snap of a twig. I lifted my gaze to the far shore. A single flower perched atop a waving stalk, the shade of a flame against the dewy blue-green backdrop, as the tall grass swished closed behind a body. Could have been anything, or anyone.

  “Except for the tail,” I murmured.

  Bushy. Black. I tilted my head. Canine? Or feline?

  I walked to the edge of the dock to get a better look at what had already disappeared. When water splashed across my shoes, I started, then slipped.

  I was falling, my arms pin wheeling, my gaze focused, horrified, on the eight-foot alligator, jaws wide and waiting. Someone grabbed me and hauled backward. My heels banged loudly against the wooden slats of the dock, and the alligator let out an annoyed hiss.

  I expected to be released once my feet touched dirt; instead, my savior, my captor, held on tight.

  “Who’re you?” His voice rasped, as if he rarely spoke, and carried both the cadence of the South and a touch of France. I’d never heard another like it.

  “D-d-diana,” I managed, despite a significant lack of breath and a near-painful increase in my heart rate. “Diana Malone.”

  There. I sounded cool, calm, in control, even though I wasn’t.

  “I need a swamp guide,” I continued.

  “No guide here.”

  “I was told there was.”

  “You were told wrong. Take an airboat tour down the way.”

  Cajun, I realized as I strained to understand the words past the sexy accent.

  Sexy? What in hell was wrong with me? I couldn’t even see his face. Maybe I just had a thing for accents.

  I tried to recall what I knew about the culture. It wasn’t much. The Cajuns, originally Acadians, had come to Louisiana from France by way of Canada. Most had settled west of New Orleans, become farmers and fishermen, but that didn’t mean a few hadn’t migrated closer to the Crescent City.

  “Those folks will even let you hold a baby alligator,” he murmured.

  I shivered, remembering how close I’d come to an alligator holding me—and that hadn’t looked like a baby.

  “No, I need—”

  His chin bumped my head; I could have sworn he smelled my hair. I tensed, trying to remember what I’d been taught to get out of this situation, but nothing came to mind.

  He was taller, though not by much, and definitely stronger. With one arm he held me so tightly I couldn’t move. His free palm skimmed up my thigh.

  “Hey!”

  “Woman alone shouldn’t come here,” he whispered. “You might see t’ings you should not.”

  “Like what?”

  Silence settled over us, broken only by the hum of the bugs skimming across the water. I could have sworn I heard a laugh. However, when he spoke, no humor colored his voice.

  “Curious cats should be careful.”

  “Was that a threat?”

  “An observation, cher."

  Cher? I hadn’t laid eyes on his face, and he was calling me dear? Talk about balls. Or maybe I shouldn’t.

  Twisting, I tried to get free, or at least to see him. He tightened the steel band he used for an arm, and I couldn’t breathe. My breasts—not large, but not bad—jiggled against his wrist. Something stirred against my backside before he released me with a shove.

  By the time I’d caught my balance and whirled around, he’d escaped into the cover of the trees, moving with a grace that reminded me of the ABCs I’d been thinking of when he arrived. His white T-shirt stood out in the encroaching night like a flare. The sleeves had been hacked off in deference to the heat, or maybe to reveal tanned, honed arms. Khaki pants hung on slim hips; he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Dark, shaggy hair sifted across his shoulders. I still couldn’t see his face.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, instead lighting a cigarette, cupping the match in such a way as to keep the glow from reaching anything but tobacco. A bronze bracelet, the same shade as his skin, encircled his wrist. I’d never cared for jewelry on men, but on him the adornment only seemed to emphasize his masculinity.

  “Seen any wolves?”

  He took a deep drag, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, or an appointment in this century. Nevertheless, I sensed a wary interest.

  “Maybe a black coyote?” I pressed.

  The very thought excited me. A black coyote just might get me that Ph.D.

  “How about a big cat?” I continued when he did nothing but take another drag. “Cougar?”

  He blew smoke through his nose. “No wolves this far south.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “Got ’em now. Brought in to hunt nutria rats.”

  I’d read about those. Large rodents that resembled beavers but with a ratlike tail. I hoped the coyotes were winning.

  “Cats?” I asked again. “What about bears?”

  “Bobcat. A few bears. Don’t see ’em much.”

  I was constantly amazed at how easy it was for creatures to hide in their native habitat.

  “I’ve heard there’ve been disappearances. Tales of a wolf.”

  “There will always be tales.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

  His cigarette flared red on one end as he drew on the other. “You a cop?”

  “Scientist.” Saying I was a cryptozoologist only confused people.

  He tossed the butt to the ground. The resulting hiss revealed he’d hit water.

  “Can you guide me?” I stepped forward. “Do you know Adam Ruelle?”

  “No.”

  His voice was mesmerizing. I wanted to keep him talking forever.

  A mighty splash was followed by a thud on the dock. I spun, remembering there were more wild animals in the swamp than furry ones, but there was nothing there.

  Just as there was nothing when I turned back to the trees—no man, no beast.

  I couldn’t even find the cigarette butt.

  Chapter 3

  As I stared at the place where the man had been, a long, low howl rose into the night. The hair on my arms lifted. I could swear the noise came from right in front of me.

  I’m a zoologist. I know howls are funny that way. Not only is it virtually impossible for a human to gauge their direction or distance, but often a few wolves can sound like a whole lot more.

  Of course one sounds like one, and that was one more than there were supposed to be around here.r />
  “No wolves in the swamp, my ass.”

  Nevertheless, I headed for my car at the fastest clip I could manage and not trip over my feet. I didn’t plan on proving myself right by meeting a lone wolf—or whatever that was. Being right wouldn’t keep me from being dead.

  Since wolves are nocturnal, my best bet would be to return with the sun, a guide, a gun. Maybe a gun wouldn’t even help. Or at least not one that wasn’t loaded with silver bullets.

  The thought startled a laugh out of me. Since the sound was slightly hysterical, I started the car and fled to town, not slowing down until I planted my butt on a bar stool in a place called Kelly’s. There was always a Kelly’s.

  Several blocks over, the music, the voices of Bourbon Street increased as the night progressed. I waited until the tourists cleared out and the locals drifted in; then I started to ask questions.

  “Ruelle ain’t a guide, ye nuts?”

  I frowned at an ancient man, so brown and wrinkled he must have bathed in sunlight for the past forty years. Why had Frank sent me to Ruelle if he was—?

  “What is he?”

  “Crazy.”

  “Crazy how?”

  My companion stared into the bottom of his empty beer mug with an expression of such pathetic loneliness that I waved a finger, and the bartender filled it.

  “He owns a mansion at the edge of the swamp, but the thing’s all fallin' down. He lives in the wild.”

  “Then he is familiar with the area.”

  “Better’n anyone. But he ain’t been seen for years. He’s probably dead.”

  Maybe Frank had known Adam before he’d lost his mind.

  “Why would Ruelle abandon the family home?”

  “He went into the army right out of high school. Word is he joined some hotshot Special Forces group. When he came home he couldn’t live in the world anymore, so he went into the swamp.”

  I found myself wondering why a young man with any other opportunity would enlist. Of course I’d turned my back on opportunity, too, preferring to sleep in a tent with the man of my dreams rather than make oodles of money working for Daddy. However, I doubted Adam Ruelle had become a soldier because of a woman. Then again, maybe he had.

  While I considered what I’d heard, I picked up a book of matches on the bar emblazoned with a spooky font that spelled out Cassandra’s.

  The old man leaned over and tapped the word with a nicotine-stained finger. “You wanna learn about voodoo and such?”

  “Huh?”

  “Priestess Cassandra bought Marie Laveau’s old house on Royal Street.”

  “Marie Laveau the voodoo queen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, warming to his subject “Most think Marie was actually two women—a mother and a daughter. When one died, the other took her place, which explains why folks believed Marie had power.”

  “Growing younger and not dying will do that.”

  “No one knows where Marie lived for certain,” the bartender said, “or where she’s buried, neither.”

  “She’s buried in St. Louis Cemetery Number One,” the old man stated. “Second most visited grave site in the country.”

  “What’s the first?” I was betting on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier or maybe the Eternal Flame.

  “Graceland.”

  Well, no one’s ever claimed that Americans aren’t bizarre.

  “Priestess Cassandra lives at Marie’s place,” my companion continued. “Set up a voodoo shop.”

  “Sounds kitschy.”

  “Catchy?”

  “Touristy. Tacky.”

  “Not this one. She’s got things you won’t find just anywhere. Even has a voodoo temple out back.”

  That I wouldn’t mind seeing, but first things first. “I hear there’s been disappearances.”

  “In New Awlins?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t say?”

  His sarcasm was understandable. I’d discovered early on in my search for the paranormal that a lot more people disappeared than anyone realized. With the huge transient population in New Orleans—both homeless and tourists— as well as a river, a lake, and a swamp nearby, I bet they didn’t even have an accurate count of the missing.

  I motioned for a refill and tried a different approach. “Been talk of a wolf in the swamp, too.”

  “I saw a wolf on Jackson Square.”

  I blinked. “In town?”

  The old guy nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  Wolves definitely didn’t venture into highly populated areas—unless they were completely whacked.

  “If ye don’t believe me, ask Jay.” He flicked a finger toward a young man who was quietly consuming a huge hamburger at the other end of the bar. “He works the Square.”

  “Works?” I eyed Jay. He was cute enough, but I couldn’t see him trolling the streets.

  “Police.”

  Well, that made more sense. I resisted the urge to rub my hands together in glee. An off-duty police officer. What could be more convenient?

  If a werewolf walked right into Kelly’s, but I wasn’t going to wait around for that to happen.

  “Was there a wolf in Jackson Square?” I asked.

  Officer Jay looked up from his plate. “No.”

  I turned to the old man.

  “I saw it,” he mumbled.

  “Folks see strange things around here every night,” Officer Jay explained.

  “Like what?”

  Standing, he tossed some money onto the counter. “New Orleans is the most haunted city in America, and there’s a reason for it.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Booze, drugs, loud music.” He headed for the door. “Messes with the head.”

  A few moments later I said my good-byes, then meandered down a quiet, dark side road in the direction of Bourbon Street. Within minutes I had the distinct impression I wasn’t alone. Perhaps one of the ghosts had decided to follow me home. Or maybe it was just a mugger. I’d almost welcome the opportunity to kick some low-life ass after allowing myself to be embarrassingly manhandled by—

  Who?

  I paused and could have sworn whatever lurked behind me paused, too. How’s that for paranoid? I glanced to the left, the right, the rear, and saw nothing but shadows. So I walked faster, and as I did, I distinguished a clackety-clack, like nails tapping on a desk. Or claws clicking along the pavement.

  Now I was really losing my mind.

  Heated breath brushed my thighs, a growl rumbled the air, and my heart stuttered. I was afraid to turn, afraid of what I would see, or not see.

  Up ahead, someone had left open the gate to a private courtyard. I ducked in.

  Something scooted by, something low to the ground and furry. I was so amazed, I scrambled forward to get a better look and caught my toe in a crack. My knees hit the pavement, then my hands. I waited, expecting hot breath to brush my face instead of my thighs.

  Nothing happened.

  I climbed to my feet, using the wall for support, and stepped onto the street. A car whooshed past. Laughter drifted on the wind. A dog barked, but the sidewalk was deserted.

  Except for the man who lounged against the building a block away. Beyond him lights flashed, music pulsed, people danced in the street. His bicep flexed as he leaned forward to light the tip of the cigarette just visible beyond the long, dark fall of his hair.

  I started to run as he slid around the corner. By the time I reached Bourbon Street, all that remained was the milling crowd.

  That night I dreamed someone climbed onto my balcony. I’d left the French doors open. I’d known he would come. He moved to the bed with the grace of an animal. His eyes were so blue, they made me gasp, even before he reached out a rough, calloused hand and touched me.

  In the dream I saw him, and he was beautiful. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, long eyelashes—an aristocrat’s face and a workingman’s body. No man of leisure would ever possess scarred fingers, bulging muscles, or tanned skin.

  Naked he stood ab
ove me, the faint silver light shining across the ladder of his ribs, a taut, rippling abdomen. The desire to trace my fingers along the flow, feel the heat and the strength, press my mouth to those ridges, then move lower and taste him, nearly overwhelmed me.

  “Goddess of the hunt, moon, and night,” he murmured, his voice spilling down my skin like a waterfall.

  I wanted to lose myself in that voice, in him.

  The bed dipped. He did things I’d only imagined, whispered suggestions in a language I didn’t understand.

  I cried out, “Loup-garou,” and the breathy, hoarse rasp awoke me.

  A breeze fluttered the curtains. Heat poured in, along with the rumble of the party that still rocked the street below. I got out of bed, slammed the French doors, flicked the lock, still trembling with the memory of a dream that hadn’t seemed like a dream.

  I couldn’t blame myself for an erotic fantasy. I was a young, healthy woman who’d denied herself sex for four years. Suddenly confronted with a mysterious man, unlike any I’d ever known, I’d have been worried if I didn’t dream of him.

  Nevertheless, I was annoyed with myself—frustrated, sweaty. Too wide awake for this time of the night, I didn’t relish what was to come. Hours in the dark, lonely and guilty, because even though Simon was dead, within my dreams he’d been alive.

  Until tonight, when another man had taken his place.

  I spun away from the window, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  At the foot of my bed, stark against the creamy satin bedspread, lay the bright red flower I’d seen on the far shore of the swamp that afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  I stood near the window shaking my head, unreasonably spooked by a flower.

  Well, maybe not unreasonably. I hadn’t brought it here. My gaze flicked around the room. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, except—

  I glanced at the floor, and the breath I’d been holding streamed out in relief. The wooden bed frame ended at the carpet. There was no “under the bed.”

  I crept toward the bathroom. Why I didn’t just call security I’m still not sure. Perhaps I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I found a flower. Save me!”