Beneath a Rising Moon
***
Keri Arthur
She’d seduced him—bound herself to him through this
phase of the moon—to find a killer, but he was turning
the tables on her…
“Your mother was born on the Bitterroot Reservation
over in Idaho, wasn’t she?”
It felt like Duncan Sinclair had punched her. Neva
Grant’s breath left in a whoosh of air, and for several
seconds, she couldn’t even breathe. Couldn’t do anything
more than look at him in horror.
“Did you know,” he continued mercilessly, “that as a
sixteen-year-old she took part in a raid of the Sinclair
stronghold over there and burned it to the ground?”
“No.”
“Yes.” His voice was monotone. Relentless. “Thirteen
people died that night, and many more were injured. Your
mother was never charged because her old man paid off
the right people.”
She slapped her palms on the table and thrust upright.
“Get out.”
His smile was grim. “She’s done it once, Neva. She
could easily do it again.”
“I said, get out.” Her voice shook with the force of the
fury rolling through her.
“A good investigator considers all options.”
“My mother is not an option. Now get the hell out of
my house.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Might have been
made of stone, and she was certain his heart was.
“Then perhaps you should consider your father,” he
said, his rich voice as cold as the storm outside. “Did you
know he’d been questioning Betise about who was dancing
with whom up at the mansion?”
She’d been questioning Betise—and the older wolf had
certainly never mentioned her father doing the same. And
she would have, if only because Betise hated Neva’s father.
It was actually doubtful whether she’d give him the time
of day. “I said get out. I meant it.”
“Your days and nights are mine, little wolf. I’m not
going anywhere.”
“You’re a...” Words failed her. Somehow, bastard just
didn’t seem strong enough.
His smile contained little warmth. “So you keep saying.”
She hit him. Not physically, but emotionally. Hit him
with all the anger and humiliation and pain that had built
up over the past couple of days. Although his shields were
up, the force of her emotive blow still leeched all color
from his face and thrust him backwards, off the chair and
onto the floor.
“It’s not a nice feeling, is it?” His voice was little more
than a hoarse whisper, and beads of sweat dribbled down
his face. “Having your family as suspects?”
She met his soulless gaze and wondered why in hell
this man got to her so badly. Not just physically, but
emotionally. Damn it, if any of the rangers had mentioned
her mother’s past, would they be now writhing on the floor?
Definitely not. She’d be asking them to show her the
evidence to prove it. Or running back to her mother to
confirm what had really gone on.
But right now, that was something she could not do.
She let the power slip away and slumped back on the
chair, covering her face with her hands. After a few seconds,
he climbed slowly to his feet. She could feel the heat of his
gaze on her, but she refused to look up.
“I’ll be back at dusk,” he said softly. “And I will claim
what I am owed.”
OTHER BOOKS
BY
KERI ARTHUR
Nikki & Michael Series
Dancing with the Devil
Hearts in Darkness
Chasing the Shadows
Damask Circle Series
Circle of Fire
Circle of Death
Circle of Desire
(Coming in July 2003)
Beneath a Rising Moon
***
Keri Arthur
One
The music swirled through the darkness, its beat rich,
seductive. Night cloaked the ballroom, a mantle challenged
only by the occasional flicker of a torch burning high on
the rough-hewn stone walls. On the dance floor, couples
swayed to the music, their bodies so close they almost
seemed one. Heat and sweat mingled with the growing
odor of lust and longing. Scents that stirred her senses,
made her hunger.
Neva Grant looked uneasily over her shoulder. Though
the moon was lost to the clouds that crowded the night
sky, she could feel its presence. Feel its power.
The full moon was too close. She shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be doing this when the wildness within was so
close to the surface.
But she’d made her promises. She intended to see them
through, no matter what the cost.
She let her gaze roam the dance floor again.
Somewhere down there, a killer lurked. A man who was
using this secluded, exotic retreat as his own private
hunting ground.
A man she had every intention of finding. And slaying.
She raised her glass and finished the last of her wine.
The alcohol slithered warmth through her body, and
perspiration beaded her skin. Hunger rose, flashing white-
hot through her veins. She closed her eyes, took a deep
breath.
Not tonight. Please, not tonight.
But the pulsing need suggested it was already too late
for such prayers. The wildness had woken. It would not
remain leashed for long.
Maybe she shouldn’t bother even trying. The killer
seemed to be choosing the more adventurous of this
wanton crowd. Unleashing the wildness might be the
quickest way of attracting his attention.
Bile rose up her throat, and she swallowed heavily.
While she had no real choice about what she had to do
tonight, she wasn’t about to give the wolf within free rein.
She wasn’t like any of the hunters who danced on the
floor below. Her world was one of sunshine and restraint,
of trying to live normally.
These people rejoiced in the night and the power of
the moon. They came to this mansion for the freedom and
the safety it offered, seeking to sate the moon-spun lust
surging through their veins. That was why most of the
men were naked. Why most of the women wore little more
than wisps of material that covered everything and yet
left nothing to the imagination. Only their faces were
concealed. Once the moon’s spell had faded and daylight
returned, they would fade back to their packs, picking up
their lives where they’d left off, not knowing the face of
any of those they’d chosen to mate with the previous night.
Unlike her pack, these wolves were f
ree spirits,
exhilarated by the thrill of the chase, by the excitement of
capture and possession. The belief of one mate, one life
partner, had never touched these dark halls.
But for her promise, she would not be here tonight.
She put aside her glass, then adjusted her ornate mask
and made her way down the stairs. The deeper shadows
that lined the walls were filled with hunters in various
stages of mating. She forced her gaze away, even though
the wildness within yearned to watch. Hungered to join
them.
Her stomach turned again. God, she hated this place.
Hated everything it represented. Given the choice, she’d
rather burn the Sinclair estate to the ground than be
walking its halls. She wasn’t a prude, far from it—she’d
given in to the power of the moon more than once herself.
But if it wasn’t for this place, if it wasn’t for the wanton
and careless behavior of its guests, her twin sister would
not now be lying in the hospital close to death.
Tears stung her eyes, and she took a deep breath.
Don’t think. Just do.
She moved onto the dance floor, inching her way past
the slowly dancing couples. Her pulse throbbed in time to
the music’s heavy beat, and the deep down ache got
stronger.
She clenched her fists and made her way towards the
rear exit. She’d spent most of her adult life fighting the
worst of her desires, and she would not give in now. Not
fully, even here in this place of dark freedom.
And yet at the same time she knew she’d do whatever
she had to—even unleashing the wildness—if in the end
it led her to the man who’d attacked her twin.
She’d studied the files in Savannah’s office before she’d
come down here this evening. The killer had struck three
times, each time near dawn and just beyond the
boundaries of the Sinclair mansion. The victims were
always alone, though forensics had, not surprisingly,
found evidence to suggest each victim had taken more
than half a dozen lovers the night of their deaths.
Savannah and the other werewolf rangers who patrolled
the Ripple Creek Reservation—which was the mountain
homeland of the four Colorado wolf packs—believed the
killer was shadowing his victims as they left the mansion,
attacking once they were well clear of any help. But they
had no proof of this, nothing more than scents and
suspicions—neither of which were admissible in court—
human or werewolf.
Savannah had been following one such scent when
she’d been attacked by a silver wolf. Only the fact that
she’d been in wolf form herself had saved her. The winter
coat of their tribe was thick, and the silver wolf had been
unable to gain any true grip around her sister’s throat.
But even so, her wounds were multiple and life threatening.
Neva had shared the last, terrifying moments of her
twin’s horror. And while she’d never wanted to go through
something like that again, it was the link between them
that had in the end saved her sister. Savannah had
siphoned Neva’s stronger psychic abilities and used them
to finally fend off the wolf.
Neva closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Even
now, her sister’s pain edged Neva’s consciousness. When
she’d left home this evening, the doctors still weren’t sure
if Savannah would survive. Even she couldn’t say with
any degree of certainty. Savannah was hanging on to life
by the slenderest of margins, and it wouldn’t take much
to snatch the lifeline away.
Which is why Neva had touched her twin’s
unresponsive mind and made a silent vow: She’d hunt
down the killer and finish what her sister had started, if
Savannah found the strength to live.
It may have been foolish, but it was better than sitting
at home waiting for the worst.
Of course, she was no ranger. Far from it. She had no
idea how to load a weapon let alone shoot, and she only
had a wolf’s natural skills when it came to tracking. But
she was far from defenseless. Like most of the wolves of
her tribe, she rated high in telepathy, but she was also
almost off the scale when it came to empathy. The two
abilities combined could be a deadly weapon if one knew
how to use them properly—as the wolf who’d attacked
Savanna had found out.
So far tonight, Neva had kept her shields well up.
Skimming the minds of hunters when the moon bloomed
was far too dangerous and would attract the kind of sexual
interest she was trying to avoid. Besides, she might just
alert the killer she was here, seeking him.
The rangers believed it was probably one of the
Sinclairs behind the killings, but they were a large and
closed-mouthed pack and had yet to provide the rangers
with any real help. And while the Sinclairs were all silver
wolves, they did not have a monopoly on the coat. Even in
her pack, which were primarily golden-coated, silver could
be found.
She’d never find the killer roaming the outskirts. It
was doubtful if even the rangers could. It had to be done
from within the Sinclair stronghold. And there was only
one way she could achieve that. Goose bumps skated
across her skin, and she sent a silent prayer to the moon
for strength.
She’d spent a good part of the day studying the Sinclair
lineage. The wolf she’d chosen to seduce was the pack
leader’s third son. By all accounts he was the wildest of
them all, but he was the only one who’d been away when
the first two murders were committed. Safe—or as safe as
any of the Sinclairs could be.
She’d also spent time studying the mansion’s floor
plans before coming here, and she had talked to Betise, a
regular customer at her family’s diner. Though barely
thirty-six, Betise had been attending moon dances at the
mansion for a good twenty years and knew the place almost
as well as the Sinclairs themselves. It had been Betise
who told her that Duncan Sinclair rarely joined the dance
before midnight, and that before then he could usually be
found close to his rooms on the west side of the mansion.
She hurried out the rear doors. The night breeze
stirred her flimsy skirt. Its touch was cool against the
fever-kissed skin of her thighs. She glanced skyward again,
judging the time by the position of the moon she could
feel, not see. Close to midnight. She had to hurry. She
tugged the delicate material clear of her bare feet and ran
to the back of the mansion.
A cherub-filled fountain came into sight. She slowed,
scanning the windows until she found his. Her heart was
beating so fast it felt as if it would tear free of her chest,
and she knew its cause was fear, not exertion. She’d never
done anything like this before. Didn’t know if she even
had what it took to attract, and hold,
a wolf with Duncan
Sinclair’s experience.
But she had to try. It was the safest way to gain full
access into the mansion.
She could only smell one wolf in the rooms above,
and there were no others in the immediate area. Betise’s
information had certainly been accurate. If she pulled this
off, she was going to keep the woman supplied with free
coffee for the next year.
She walked over to the fountain and stripped off the
flimsy excuse for a gown. Then she stepped into the icy
water, avoiding the worst of the water-tossing cherubs as
she turned her attention to his window.
Everything she’d learned about him suggested he liked
a chase and preferred his mates to be sexually
adventurous. While she could never claim to be that, she
was a wolf and the moon was high. And Betise had offered
more than a few tips.
But she couldn’t exactly send out a blatant invitation
to the man. The rules of the moon dance said no names,
so she had to be a little more devious. The Sinclairs were
the only other wolf pack who were strong telepaths, so
she just had to make it seem he was catching her thoughts.
Lord, I ache tonight.
She kept her mindvoice breathy, wistful. For several
tense seconds, nothing happened, then his presence stirred
and walked across to the windows. She dipped her fingers
into the water and wet her neck, letting the cool droplets
dribble between her breasts.
Hunger surged through the night, a force so strong it
almost knocked her over. His need for the dance was high.
Very high. The thought churned her stomach, but she
was here now and would not back away.
She let her gaze roam the windows until she saw him.
If his shadow was to be believed, he was big. Bigger than
she’d expected. She cupped another handful of water,
sipping it quickly to ease the dryness in her throat.
Why do you ache? The moon is high and the night free.
His mind voice was rich, husky, and stirred her senses
with longing. She clenched her fists. She had to remain in
control. She couldn’t let the wildness free.
Perhaps I am choosy.
You can be choosy as many times as you like on a
night such as this. Amusement swam across her senses,
warm and sensual.
Perhaps I long for a more careful seduction once the
initial fire has passed.
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