(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  "So are you going to send for the guys with the butterfly nets to take me away?" he asked when he'd finished.

  Ross's hesitation had his heart pounding.

  "I never met a man who had his feet planted more firmly on the ground than you," he finally said.

  Jack exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "So—you've got all those books on paranormal stuff. Myths. Vampires. Werewolves. Did you ever run across anything like this?"

  "There's always Einstein's theory of relativity."

  Jack laughed. "Maybe I should study physics."

  "Time distortion isn't so strange. When people are under stress, their sense of time can speed up—or stretch out. Megan told me it happened to her when she took care of me after I got shot. She was sitting on the bed, and I was delirious. I started to change into a wolf. Thank God, I didn't get very far. But she told me later she felt like she was living in slow motion."

  Jack hung on his friend's words. "So it was associated with something paranormal. I mean, with your shape-shifting."

  "Yeah." It was Ross's turn to laugh. "Let's hope the FBI isn't recording this conversation. They'd haul us both in."

  "You and Megan have straightened out your problems."

  "That's relative. We've still got some stuff to face. Like, how many of our children the wolf gene is going to kill."

  Jack winced. "Yeah. Sorry."

  "Megan's doing more genetic studies down at the lab. After hours, when her staff's gone home."

  Again they were silent.

  Finally, Ross asked, "Did you talk to Kathryn about the dream?"

  "Not yet. I was going to rush over there this morning. I came here instead."

  "Talk to her."

  "I was hoping you could offer some insights. You're the one with the special talents. Do you think Kathryn is a witch—that she's doing this?"

  "What's her motivation?"

  "Hell, I don't know. Maybe she likes to play with men. Drive them crazy with lust—then suck the life out of them."

  Ross laughed, but his hands were rigid on the mug of tea. "Crazy with lust. That's a good description of the werewolf when he meets his mate."

  "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

  "I'm trying to tell you I understand. At least the sexual part. The rest of it—I don't know. I've never read about anything like what you're describing. And I've read a lot—trying to relate my problems to the literature of the occult and to the literature of human experience."

  "Yeah."

  "One comment I can make. You're uncomfortable, and you're trying to pin it on her."

  Jack nodded, acknowledging it was true.

  "I don't think I've been much help."

  "Actually you have." Jack heaved himself out of the chair. "I'll leave the tee shirt with you. Her address is in the bag. And the boyfriend's address, if you have time to do some snooping around for me."

  "Do you want to borrow some books? General stuff on the occult and witchcraft might give you some ideas."

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  They went back in and found that Megan had returned the baby to his bed and was warming some homemade cranberry-nut muffins in the oven. Ross and Jack both polished off two while they inspected the bookcase.

  He left with an armload of volumes including Visions of the Occult, The Golden Dawn, The Black Arts, Creatures of the Night, The Ways of the Sacred, and several volumes from the Time-Life series, Mysteries of the Unknown.

  Time-Life! Maybe he should call the Psychic Hotline, too.

  After locking the books in the trunk of the car, he started down the long driveway, then paused at the bottom, checked his messages—and found that Kathryn had called him twice.

  Well, he'd been deliberately ignoring her—although there was no way to stop thinking about her. Now he knew that putting off a confrontation any longer only spoke of his own cowardice. And nobody had ever accused him of that. So he checked in with headquarters, then drove back to Davenport Street in Rockville.

  AFTER the exercise in the woods, Simon slept for a few hours and woke refreshed.

  He'd made a mistake. He'd been too confident. Now he must go back to his textbooks and study the rituals—as soon as he conditioned his body.

  He spent an hour in his home gym, splitting his time between the StairMaster and the weight machines. After that, he showered and carefully combed his hair, checking with two mirrors to make sure his bald spot didn't show.

  Next came a simple but nourishing breakfast. Blueberry yogurt with a quarter-cup of granola. Half a grapefruit. And a cup of orange spice tea sweetened with a teaspoon of honey—no more.

  After rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher, he repaired to the library, feeling a serenity descend over him as he pulled out one of the old volumes.

  The Golden Dawn, as revealed by Israel Regardie. Complete with a comprehensive index. He didn't need a road map. He'd read and reread the volume so many times that he knew it by heart.

  Going back to the basic rituals always soothed him. Just for the pleasure of it, he went through the Banishing ritual of the Pentagram, focusing on eliminating any negative energy that still clung to him.

  He was calling up the positive aspects of the Astral Light when a shudder went through his body as the woman's image came to him again. The woman in the ancient setting.

  He hadn't seen her face, but it wasn't Patience, he realized, as he focused again on the wild red hair. Of course. That hair was the giveaway. It was Kathryn Reynolds—the one he'd wanted in the first place. He didn't know much about her except that she owned the house where DeYoung had rented an apartment, lived alone, and didn't have a lot of friends.

  He'd made it a rule to vary his victims. An older woman. A child. A teenage boy. A younger woman—but a completely different type from his last female victim.

  He'd told himself he couldn't have another redhead. Not yet. But now…

  Now she was involved. She was dangerous. The demon had dragged her into it. He'd turn that back on the creature—and use her in the next ceremony.

  He felt excitement coursing through his veins as he began making plans. He'd drive out to Davenport Street this morning. Maybe he'd even be able to scoop Ms. Reynolds up and ask her what the hell was going on. Of course, maybe she didn't understand that the demon had its hooks into her and the man. But that didn't matter. Simon was sure she could give him some information before he sacrificed her.

  He stared across the room at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, but his vision was focused inward. When he'd been in her neighborhood before, he'd been posing as a workman. He'd driven his white van and been dressed in blue coveralls. It would be dangerous to go back in the same persona. He was as careful with locations as with his victims. He never repeated a disguise in the same place. And this was a rule he had no need to break.

  The white van was still in the five-car garage. It sat beside the Saab, the Dodge SUV, the Mustang, and the old navy-colored Crown Victoria with the dent in the front bumper and the scratch on the driver's door. Yes, that was the one he'd drive, dressed in a gray wig and a blue striped suit. If anybody asked, he'd be an old guy looking for his nephew's house. But he didn't quite have the address right. Yeah, that would do. Trying to suppress a feeling that bordered on glee, he hurried toward the dressing room where he kept his costume wardrobe and his makeup table.

  CHAPTER TEN

  « ^ »

  AYINDRAL BLINKED AWAKE. He had averted the ultimate disaster, but after the ordeal of the ceremony, he had been too weak to do more than drift. Now he knew he must reach out again. Slowly, tentatively, he cast his consciousness into the world of mankind, and a jot of fear dug its talons into the soft, vulnerable part of him, the hidden core that held his essence. He was spent from the terrible effort he had exerted to break the magician's spell. It was vital that he renew his life force now in the way of his kind. Yet his enemy was on the move again. The human—who called himself Simon Gwynn—was even now making plans.

/>   He was strong. And he was determined. And he was preparing for renewed conflict.

  A tremor seized Ayindral, sending currents through the thickened cloud that made up his being. He felt that cloud dissipating, drifting apart into the ether. He wouldn't let that happen. And he would never allow Gwynn to enslave him. If he knew there was no way to avoid defeat, he would gather all his remaining power and send, his life force out in a great destructive wave, wiping away a large chunk of Gwynn's universe.

  But that would be his last resort. The thought of his own death was fearful; he had always been. He had expected that he always would be. He would try to prevent the end of his existence.

  He must resist Gwynn. But for now, he must gather his strength. For this space of time, Jack Thornton and Kathryn Reynolds must cope with the magician on their own.

  GRIPPING the handles of the wheelbarrow, Kathryn trundled a forty-pound bag of topsoil out of the old garage at the end of the driveway. The structure had probably been built for a Model T. It wouldn't hold a modern car, so she'd turned it into a storage shed.

  She let down the legs of the wheelbarrow with a thump. So far this morning, that bastard Jack Thornton hadn't called her back. Her cell phone was in her back pocket, just in case he deigned to communicate with her.

  She'd been pacing back and forth across the living room, her nerves screaming, when she'd finally decided she had to get out of the house. So she'd called the school and asked if any classes might be interested in some art instruction. The secretary had been sorry. She'd love for Kathryn to come over—but not this week or the next, since the kids were prepping for standardized tests.

  So she drove to Frank's Garden Center and bought a couple of flats of pansies, one of the few annuals that could withstand the chill of a Maryland spring. By June, the summer heat would fry them. But right now, they were lovely.

  She'd picked light blue and yellow, a combination she loved. Still silently cursing Jack Thornton, she set the flats on the edge of the patio while she brought fresh dirt to fill the pots.

  She'd learned the rhythms of planting from her grandmother. In the fall, you emptied clay pots so they wouldn't crack from the soil inside freezing and thawing. In the spring, you filled them with fresh dirt and started planting.

  She dug the sharp point of her shovel into the plastic bag of dirt, then spaded the dark soil into the pot. A tingly feeling at the back of her neck made her look up quickly. Across the street she could see Marge Blanco raking leaves that had collected on her lawn during the winter.

  Marge waved to her, and she waved back. Then the view was cut off by a navy boat of a car driving slowly down the block. The driver was an old geezer with silver hair and a lined face. He had a slip of paper in his hand, and he was peering at house numbers, then back at the paper.

  He slowed to a crawl, staring at her, then rolled down his window. She was sure he was getting ready to speak to her, and she took a step toward him. Then he turned his head in the other direction, and speeded up.

  What was that all about? Had Marge spooked him?

  With a shrug, she went back to her work. Picking up one of the pansy flats, she began considering where she'd place each plant in the pot. The deliberations were interrupted by the sound of a car door closing. The old guy again?

  She looked up and saw Jack standing on the sidewalk, watching her with unnerving intensity. Her hands turned numb. Unable to hold on to the flat of flowers, she felt it tumble to the ground at her feet.

  He came toward her, walking slowly.

  She'd spent the morning cursing him for leaving her twisting in the wind. Now she was helpless to do anything but speed across the lawn toward him, reach for him the way she had the night before.

  Her need for him was beyond her understanding, beyond anything she had experienced in the past. Yet it existed on some deep, instinctive level.

  He reached for her at the same time, and she sighed as he folded her into his arms.

  "Jack." She had time to gasp his name before his lips came down on hers. Time to clasp his shoulders as his mouth ravaged hers. He tasted of need and passion and some dark seductive ambrosia, sweeter than any wine. The kiss was as potent as it had been in the dream—primal and intense—as if the two of them were caught in an earthquake, clinging to each other lest they lose their footing and tumble to the center of the earth.

  When he silently demanded that she open her lips, she did his bidding—then made a low sound of pleasure when his tongue took possession of her mouth, like the Roman warrior from the dream, seizing the spoils of victory.

  There was no safety with this man. No way to go slowly. Without conscious thought, she was carried into some dark, erotic realm where nothing but passion existed. In the space of heartbeats, she was lost to everything but Jack Thornton.

  He angled his head, his mouth hungry and demanding, demanding more than she had ever given to any man.

  Unsteady on her feet, she clung to his shoulders, pressed her body into the heat of his, borrowing his strength to stay erect.

  The world contracted around her, walling them off in some private place of their own.

  She sensed his toughness and his vulnerability. Tasted his masculine essence. Felt his hard muscles beneath her hands. She forgot they were standing on her lawn, forgot everything but the man who held her in his embrace.

  But it filtered into her consciousness that somebody was speaking. Not Jack. Somebody with a high, annoyed voice. An old man, she realized dimly.

  "Hey, lady, you too busy to help me out?"

  Her head jerked up as she struggled to focus her eyes, then saw the dark blue car that had come down the street before. The old geezer at the wheel was scowling at them, and she felt her face heat.

  Jack stiffened, looking as disoriented as she felt. He sucked in a draft of air and waited several seconds before turning. But he didn't break the contact with her. Instead, he slung an arm around her shoulder as he faced the street.

  She saw his eyes narrow as he asked, "Can I help you?"

  "I hope so. You know this address?" The old guy slammed the gear lever into Park, then slid across the seat, waving a small square of paper at them.

  Jack strode forward and took the paper from the man's gloved hand. Gloves, she thought, with one corner of her mind. It was too warm for gloves—unless maybe you were an old guy with thin blood.

  Embarrassed at getting caught in public in the grip of a passionate embrace, she hung back, watching Jack shake his head.

  "You're a cop, right?" the old man was saying. "A big shot detective."

  "I'm a detective, yes. How do you know?"

  "Your government license plate is a clue. Plus, you look like a dick. So you should know this area."

  Kathryn folded her arms across her chest, listening and watching the exchange, sure that the old guy was enjoying himself. He'd liked interrupting their kiss. He liked being rude to a cop—without doing anything illegal.

  "That address isn't in this neighborhood."

  "Some help you are!" The old guy gave him a caustic look. "What's your name?"

  "Detective Jack Thornton."

  The man gave him a satisfied smile, then slid back behind the wheel, slammed the gear lever into Drive, and eased away from the curb. In seconds he had disappeared.

  Kathryn stared after him, wondering what kind of guy took such pleasure in deliberately interrupting a very personal encounter. At least he hadn't asked Jack if he was on duty—which she suspected he was.

  She glanced across the street, relieved that her neighbor was no longer outside. If she and Jack were lucky, maybe Marge had departed the scene before they'd started kissing.

  She turned her face toward him. "Maybe we should go inside."

  He slipped his hands into his pockets, regarding her with narrowed eyes. "If we go inside, we're going to end up in bed," he said, his voice flat and hard, as though he wasn't very happy about that prospect.

  She shouldn't be happy about it either.
She didn't know him well enough to make love. That hadn't stopped her in the dream. It was Jack who had stopped then. Jack who had stopped now, and that knowledge was embarrassing. The moment she'd seen him, she'd been out of control. So had he. But he'd pulled himself back.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "About what?"

  "Getting you in trouble. Do you think that guy is going to call the police department and report you?"

  Jack shrugged, but she could see from his face that he wasn't happy about the prospect.

  Figuring she had nothing left to lose, she said, "About the other part—ending up in your arms. I'm not sorry about that. I liked it. Are you going to pretend you didn't?"

  Instead of answering the question, he said, in a voice that was less harsh, "We need to talk." He walked around the house toward the gazebo, and she followed.

  Stepping inside, he leaned his shoulder against one of the posts that held up the roof, looking at her, his hands in the pockets of his dark pants once more.

  She leaned against a post opposite him, returning his gaze, thinking again how good he looked to her—whatever he was wearing. He'd been devastating dressed as a Roman general. He was still devastating in his detective's clothing. Above and beyond the sexual compulsion, he had a basic appeal that drew her to him.

  Realizing she was too shaky to stand, she sat on one of the benches, drawing her legs up under her, suddenly aware that was how she had sat on the marble seat in the dream. From the expression on his face, she suspected that his thoughts were paralleling hers.

  She could dance around the subject. Instead, she said, "You're thinking about the painting."

  "Yeah."

  "So we both agree that we were there?"

  "Tell me something you didn't know before then. I mean something I told you when theoretically we were both sleeping in our own beds."

  She looked down at her hands. "You have two children—Craig and Lily. Craig is nine and Lily is seven." Trying for a light note, she added, "And you look very sexy dressed like a Roman general."