And then, like that, I have it.
It goes against every instinct I have. With grim determination, the scorpion keeps coming for me and, this time, I don’t run. I refuse to maneuver out of its way. I stay perfectly still, presenting the biggest target possible as I let it think it has tired me out at last.
Little closer.
Closer.
Now.
I dodge to the side, allowing the scorpion to race right past me, then turn so that I’m sprinting next to it. I wait for it to start wheeling around to attack me before I ready my weapon, say another prayer, and plunge the stick in.
My aim is perfect. The beady eye pops as the stick goes right through it. Something splashes me. I hope it’s just blood, though I’m pretty sure it’s eyeball goo. I fight not to heave as I throw my weight behind another shove. There’s got to be a brain in there. If I can hit that, I might get out of this in one piece.
The scorpion screeches in agony, tossing its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the stick. I hold on. My arm jerks in its socket but, hell, it’s this thing or me and I’ve got a cat who needs me.
Don’t worry, Dud. Mama’s coming.
The scorpion’s pincers come within an inch or two of grazing my bare arm. This close, I see the sawtooth jagged edges on the underside of the pincer. I have to avoid those things no matter what—even if I lose my stick.
I have one last shot. I make it count, shoving as hard as I possibly can. When the scorpion rears back and up, letting out a screech so shrill that the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, I throw my body to the side, tucking and rolling until I’m far enough away to catch my breath before I struggle to come up with Plan C.
After a couple of seconds, I realize that might not be necessary.
Bouncing to my feet, I watch as its stinger curls up. The scorpion shudders and falls to its side with a thud. It gasps and twitches. It sucks its pincers in. The stinger jabs fitfully at nothing, one last ditch effort to take me down first, before its body gives a last jolt and it finally dies.
Holy shit.
The giant scorpion is dead. And I’m the one who killed it.
Me. Noelle St. James, Ms. Five Foot Nothing. I killed that crazy thing with nothing except a stick and some old gymnastic moves.
I yank my weapon back. The stick comes free with a soft sucking noise and some resistance. A long lick of slime clings to the pointed end, gloppy and clear and thick like raw egg whites. I kind of want to yack all over the place. Since that would’ve ruined my newfound kickass image, I clamp my mouth shut.
Swallowing back the gorge that rises, forcing it down, I bend over and wipe my stick clean on the grass. As soon as I feel a little bit more sturdy, I start to hum Eye of the Tiger under my breath.
I feel amazing.
I am invincible.
I hear a short whistle, followed by an appreciative murmur. “Sweet ambrosia. That was mighty beautiful.”
A chill runs up and down my spine.
I freeze.
I’m so not alone anymore.
5
Hunter
I’m restless.
It’s been like this for weeks now. At least, it feels like weeks. The season hasn’t changed yet, and I’m still wearing the cloak I use for the cooler months. Since I’ve been using it, I’ve felt this way.
Like something’s coming. Soon.
When I get like this, I can’t stand to stay in one place. I board up my cabin, load up on whatever I might need, and take to the woods. I have campsites all over, though I will always sleep under the stars if I can, with the moon as my companion.
I’ve got far too much energy and I attempt to burn it off by focusing all of my attention on the chase and the hunt. It’s the only time I’m alive anymore. My kills bring me all I need. I eat the meat to survive, use the pelts to stay warm, and trade whatever is left for anything else I’m lacking.
It’s a simple life. And if I want more? I’m content to wait.
It’s all I can do.
This part of the forest is full of mirrorside game. They’re easier to hunt than the monsters that claim the darker realms, but I’m not looking for a challenge today. My stores are running low. I’ve spent too much time trying to outrun this expectant feeling. I need meat.
Since I’m hunting deer, I trade my knives for a bow and arrow. That, at least, will make the hunt a little trickier. This particular bow isn’t mine and it knows it. I’m only a guardian until it’s true mistress returns. Whenever I dare remove it from its place of honor in my cabin, it makes me pay for it.
Contrary thing.
Still, even when it’s sulking as I am, it allows me to shoot. I don’t wear it strapped to my back, though, because it ain’t mine and, any time I try, it snaps its bowstring at my fingers.
Since I don’t know how long I’ll be away from my camp this time, I douse the fire and slip inside my tent. I go to retrieve her bow and, the second I approach it, the air thickens. A hum buzzes just out of my reach. The anticipation grows almost unbearable. I take a knee and reach for the bow, tucked securely under the hides and furs I use for a blanket.
The hum I heard? It’s her bow, singing out for her. The string is vibrating in place.
My hand closes on the wood. My restlessness vanishes, absolute certainty taking its place.
“Artemis.” I breathe out her name. It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to say it out loud in ages and it whispers on the wind like a prayer.
She’s here.
And, if my sudden knowing is right, she just landed herself in the middle of a scorpion den.
I should’ve known better. She doesn’t need my help.
After tossing the bow aside and checking to make sure I’m armed, I take off. My campsite isn’t so far from the darker, more dangerous part of the woods. Long legs eat up the ground as I race to find her before the scorpions do.
I spit. Vicious dang monsters.
Besides, I know what it’s like to land here, alone and afraid and unprepared for what the Other can throw at you. For many reasons—and most of them because of my memories—I’ve always avoided the scorpions. No point in tempting fate, yeah?
So it’s almost fitting that her portal would land her in the midst of their nest. I pour on the speed, dodging past trees, almost flying with my cloak flapping out behind me. For her, I’d risk facing off against a scorpion again.
For her, I’d do anything.
Despite my speed, despite my desire to reach her in time, I know as soon as I come upon the clearing that I’m too late. But not to save Artemis. She doesn’t need my help. Damn if I didn’t miss a hell of a hunt, though.
A silver glow clings to her pale skin. Dark hair is knotted out of a face that makes my blood start pumping. Or maybe that’s the way she’s twisting her lithe and limber body, flipping over the monster as it charges. My heart stops at one close call—I haven’t forgotten the pain of its stinger—but Artemis dances away at the last second, spinning and turning to strike out at the monster.
She takes my breath away. Stunned, I stay in the shadows, watching her in action. Once, when I was a boy, a dancing troupe came to town. There was the prettiest ballerina, with dark hair like this Artemis, who moved like her feet hardly touched the ground.
Squaring off with the scorpion, Artemis’s grace and movements are even more magical. If it wasn’t so clear that this is a solo, I’d jump in and make it a duet.
Instead, I tug my hood closer and watch her with an unblinking stare. I don’t want to miss a parry or a strike. And when she goes for the kill, stabbing the monster right through his eye and into his brain, I fold my hands into fists to keep from clapping.
Later, I swear. There will be time enough for that before—
A rough shake of my head knocks that thought right out of it. No. Not going down that road. Not yet. Not ‘til I have to. After waiting all this time, doubting that this moment would ever arrive, I’m not gonna sabotage myself. It’ll end di
fferently this time.
It has to.
Moving forward, I check to make sure my hood is in place. If she recognizes me, it won’t be because of this face. Besides, I’m not sure I can hide how badly I want her and we haven’t even spoken yet. I tug my cloak closed. At least that should hides most of the, um, obvious evidence.
Ah, Hades. I’m blushin’.
Then the words slip out—
“Sweet ambrosia. That was mighty beautiful.”
—and she’s gotta know.
Her immediate reaction is to freeze. From across the clearing, I can see the way she grips her stick, readying to use it on me. She turns slowly, each step exact. Precise. The strength of her aura, a silver so bright it’s almost white, is blinding. When she warns me to stay back, her voice raw and strong, there’s no recognition in it.
The ominous look in her dark eyes isn’t the challenge I’d been hoping for. It’s a warning.
Beneath the hood of my cloak, I blink in surprise.
She… she doesn’t remember me at all, does she?
My heart sinks down to my boots.
Oh, darlin’.
6
Noelle
The whisper is one of reverence. One of awe.
And male. Whoa. So very, very male.
I’m super glad I already yanked my stick out of the scorpion’s eye. Riding high on adrenaline, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll use my makeshift weapon in a heartbeat if I have to.
Show no fear. I don’t know who’s behind me or how they got there. My stomach clenches, my breath coming quick. I force myself to calm. Something tells me it’s a mistake to let him see me afraid. I take my time turning to face him.
“Stay back,” I warn, then blink slowly when I hear myself. Okay. That’s weird. My voice has a throaty, vibrate-y quality that doesn’t sound like me at all. I’m normally a dead ringer for Minnie Mouse, my voice is so high. Bad Ass Noelle sounds hoarse and raspy. I kind of like it.
Someone is standing on the edge of the clearing, hiding in the shadows of the trees. Despite my warning, he takes a few sure steps closer.
I gulp.
Holy. Shit.
Seriously? I tighten my grip on my stick until the wood bites into my fingers. Right when I think I can’t be more surprised, this guy shows up.
Giant scorpions exist. Why not giant men?
I’m short. I know it. I accept it. Growing up, my friends used to call me a midget. I need a step stool to reach the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet. Most people are tall compared to me.
I’m not kidding when I say giant. This guy is massive. He has to be pushing six and a half feet at least. A pair of sturdy leather boots cover his feet. The rest of him is hidden in a dark leather wrap thing. A cloak? It looks like a cloak. It’s wrapped around his shoulders and fastened under his chin, flowing all the way to the forest floor, hiding everything except the tips of his boots. The cloak thing is hooded, and he wears the hood pulled high so that even his face is masked in shadow.
“Don’t be afraid, Artemis,” he soothes. He lifts his hands, a calming gesture. His cloak falls away, separating enough to reveal his hands to his elbows while keeping the rest of him shielded. “I’ve come to join you on your hunt.”
My jaw clenches. I can’t explain why his calling me Artemis rubs me the wrong way. It does, though. So my white nightgown looks like a toga. And my, um, hunting style is rather unique. Still. I might not know anything about Greek mythology, but even I know that she’s the goddess of the hunt. And I’m certainly no goddess.
“Don’t call me that.” I scowl at him. “I’m so not in the mood to be teased right now, pal.”
“Tease? Pal?” There’s a strange note to his voice. “Oh, darlin’, no, I was bein’ serious. But you…” He lowers his hands. “You really don’t know. You— ah, Hades. You’ve just arrived, yeah?”
His voice has changed, too. It’s grown softer, and what was a hint of an accent becomes a full-blown Southern drawl by the time he’s finished his sentence.
“Just arrived? Yup.” I glare down at the scorpion corpse at my feet. “Can’t say I liked the looks of the welcoming committee, though.”
“Don’t blame ya. But you can best believe I’m gonna do all I can to make you feel more at home.” He pauses, then takes a step forward. “Artemis. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Oh boy. “First off, don’t call me Artemis. My name is Noelle.”
“I’m sorry—”
I’m not done. “Look, I don’t know who you are, or who you think I am, but this… this place ain’t my home. I don’t even know where I am. And you—” I wag my finger in his direction. “—you’ve got a real Southern thing going on. Deep South. Right?”
The hood bobs up and down. “Born and raised in Georgia.”
Georgia. Okay. My geography isn’t that much better than my grasp of mythology. Still, I'm pretty sure that Georgia is kind of far from New Jersey. On the plus side, at least I know I haven’t left the United States. Even if this whole thing is way impossible.
“Okay. Sure. So somehow I ended up in Georgia. Perfect.” I glance around. Trees, trees, and more trees. I’ve got to find a way out. “Now I just have to figure out how to get back home.”
The hood is shaking from side to side before I even finish my thought. “We’re not in Georgia.”
“You just sa—”
“I said I was from Georgia.”
Huh. He’s got me there. “So then where are we?”
“Somewhere else.”
Because that’s helpful. But what should I expect from a hooded stranger who pops up in the woods?
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. So, hey, it’s time for me to go, and—”
“Behind you! Move!”
His voice is sharp in its shouted command. It never even occurs to me to disobey. Behind me? I launch myself to the side, hoping I don’t end up getting trampled by whatever he’s warning me about.
I haven’t lost my stick yet. It’s pure friggin' luck that I don't stab myself as I roll a few feet away before landing on my belly, my nightgown hiked up so high that I feel a breeze on my buttcheeks.
I scramble onto my knees, wielding my stick like a sword. And I stare.
Inhaling sharply, I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing. It’s a second scorpion. This sucker is bigger and uglier than the one I already killed. Its shell is darker, more black, and those monster claws look like they could snap me right in half if I get too close. It stinks, too. My nose wrinkles. The scorpion carries a bitter scent with it, like burning paper.
I fight back my gag. No time for that. This thing is bigger which means it might be slower. I beat the last one. I still have my stick. I can—
Whoa.
I watch as the stranger takes three precise steps forward. Reaching beneath his cloak, he grips something shiny between his fingers. Moonlight dances across the item with a blinding flash. Ten feet separates him from the charging scorpion when he leans to his left. After taking an instant to aim, he rears his arm back and lets it fly.
A heartbeat later, a long throwing knife is buried to its hilt in the monster’s right eye. Death is nearly instantaneous. The scorpion staggers, still fighting to get to us, before it drops.
It lands close enough to me that I can poke it with my stick if I reach. I don’t. I clutch my weapon to my chest, my breath coming out in a rush. I’m wound up tight like a spool of thread. I was ready to fight for my life again.
Except I don’t have to. A hooded stranger sprang into action, protecting me before I even had the chance.
I don’t know what to make of that.
I look over at him. He readjusts his cloak until he’s completely covered, then makes a circle around the second dead scorpion. I get the impression that he’s waiting for it to spring back to life and, if it does, he’ll find another way to dispatch it as easily.
It’s a small struggle before I eventually manage to pull myself back up again. I give my
shoulder an experimental stretch. My last fall was a hard one. I’m pretty banged up all over and I know I’ll be feeling it later. It could’ve been worse, though.
My eyes are drawn back to the scorpion’s stinger.
A lot worse.
“You saved my life.” I swallow roughly. “I… Thank you.”
“Just repayin’ an old debt. Trust me. It had it comin’.”
The stranger finishes his circle, satisfied that his target is sufficiently dead, before nodding at me. “I took a leaf out of your book. Straight through the eye. I’ve never seen one of ‘em go down so quick. Nice work, darlin’.”
Darling. I cringe. If he hadn’t just saved me from that second scorpion, I would’ve told him where he could shove his darling. It’s better than him calling me Artemis, but not by much.
“Thanks. I guess. I mean, I only did what I—oh.”
I thought it was weird how he’s wearing a cloak and a hood like he has something hide. After being attacked by scorpions, weird becomes a little relative. So when he shakes back his cloak and reaches up to grab his hood by the hem, I’m not really paying attention to what’s he’s doing.
And then I see what he was hiding.
It seems I’ve got one more ‘holy shit’ left in me because holy shit.
Moonlight shines down through the trees, giving me just enough light to get a good look at the stranger. From his size and shape, I expect a big hulk of a man and it takes one peek to show me I was wrong. So very wrong. The only word for him is beautiful. Unless I go for gorgeous.
Wow.
His face is a blend of sharp angles—a sharp jaw, cheekbones that could slice through paper—and softness—plump, pink lips and a set of lovely dark lashes—that remind me of a sculpture I’d once seen in a museum in the City. His complexion is a deep tan, the sort of bronze skin you’d expect from an outdoorsman. White teeth gleam in the moonlight. I can’t tell what color eyes he has except they’re light and big and surrounded by those beautiful lashes.
He runs a big hand through a shaggy mane of sandy-colored hair. He ducks his head so that he's not quite towering over me. A boyish grin tugs at his lips. I get the impression he doesn’t let too many people see him without his hood.
Stalk the Moon Page 4
