Kiss of a Dark Moon

by Sharie Kohler

  “Where I come from, we do not have female hunters,” the stranger said.

  Spinning around, Kit pressed her back against her car, surprised at how close he stood, caging her in. She must be slipping. She had not even heard him move in behind her.

  His warm breath misted her neck. “Little girls who smell of vanilla get gobbled up.”

  “Is that a fact?” She tried to sound calm even as her heart raced.

  He did not answer, only stepped closer.

  Kit’s mouth went dry. He leaned in, his face ruthless and unforgiving, beautiful as any marble sculpture. Those dark eyes of his dropped to her mouth, and her belly tightened.

  Every instinct said that he was going to kiss her, and a part of her began to suspect she was stupid enough to let him—until she felt the cold steel of a gun against her ribs.

  “Vivid and compelling, Marked by Moonlight is an exciting paranormal romance set in a dark new world of lycans and their slayers. Sharie Kohler will grab you by the throat and hold you enthralled from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Timesbestselling author Lara Adrian

  Also by Sharie Kohler

  Marked by Moonlight

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Sharie Kohler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7987-8

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-7987-7

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For the little prince in my life—

  you’ve been a hero from day one.

  KISS OF A DARK MOON

  Prologue

  AD 70

  Fire licked the night sky, shading the air an eerie blood-red glow. The moon, awash in the same red, followed their movements, a great eye staring down at them as they raced through the village, their feet pounding out a trampled path of mud and snow.

  Blood moon.

  They shoved past the gawking, mesmerized villagers. The flames from the burning fortress cast their faces a demonic red. With stricken expressions the peasants watched flame and smoke devour the fortress atop the hill. Watched instead of running. As they should have. As he did.

  His lungs constricted, the cold air a freezing burn in his too-tight chest. Despite the wintry air, his mother’s hand felt hot, slippery with sweat around his. Her breath gusted from her blue-tinged lips in loud pants, clouding the air before them.

  She pulled him along, her voice frenzied, “Don’t stop, Christophe! Don’t look back!”

  They ran. Fleeing the blood, the mayhem, the beast that nothing could stop. Not swords. Not the battle-axes of armed knights. Not fire. Nothing.

  Choking on smoke-laden air, he worked to keep up with her long strides. He tripped over a gnarled root and fell, losing her hand.

  Sprawled on the hard, frozen earth, Christophe could not stop himself. He had to see. Had to look. Throat tight, he looked over his shoulder, feeling like Lot’s wife turning for a final glimpse of the damned Sodom.

  Even after all that had happened, all he had seen, a gasp ripped from his lips at the sight of his home, writhing in a nest of flames, of the great plume of smoke rising, twisting like a black serpent to kiss the moon.

  Even with the parapets engulfed in flame, he made out one figure there, running madly to and fro, screaming a terrible howl that shook the skies. Its large talonlike hands clawed the air.

  Not a man. A beast as large as a bear, black hair covering most of its huge frame. The animal had torn Christophe’s three eldest brothers apart limb from limb, devouring them until only bloodied masses remained that bore no resemblance to men.

  A shrill keening bled into the whistling wind. Christophe scanned the tree-crowded hills, searching for the source, and finding her. A tattered gray cloak whipped around her on a wind of smoke and death. Her ink-black hair flew behind her, a demon’s banner amid the white of winter.

  The lovely face that had weaved spells about many a man twisted with triumph at the macabre scene. A face he would not forget. A face that should have been blank with death. Entombed beneath earth and stone per his father’s edict.

  The sorceress stood on a snowcapped rise facing the castle, one slender arm lifted on the wind, a long finger pointing accusingly at the smoldering castle. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a semblance of a smile, her words a gleeful shriek—a terrible mantra that fell from her mouth again and again and again.

  “Curse you, Étienne Marshan! You and your line shall know only hell’s hunger.”

  “Tresa.” Her name dropped from his mouth, heavy as a stone sinking through water.

  “Burn! Burn! Burn!” she shrieked.

  Horrified, he looked back to the fortress, watching as the monstrous creature, fire licking up its great body, jumped from the flaming ramparts and into the moat below. Holding his breath, Christophe prayed the beast had perished. A long moment passed before a large dark-furred head rose from the flame-cast waters and swam for shore.

  His father lived.

  He snapped his gaze back to the rise, searching for the witch who had wrought such evil—but she was gone.

  Only her curse remained.

  And he. The last of his father’s line. The last Marshan.

  “Not the last,” Christophe swore, stumbling over muddied snow. “By God or hell, I’ll not be the last.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Kit’s attention strayed from the man sitting across from her. Her gaze flitted over the dimly lit bar and restaurant. Only eight o’clock and the place was busy, every table full. The tiny hairs along her nape stood on end, and she shivered as she assessed her surroundings. Her gaze roamed the dance floor, the tables, then back to the bar, checking each and every face, looking, searching for the source of her unease.

  Her date’s voice faded to a distant buzz. The music from the band playing onstage subsided to a dull throbbing of drums and guitars, the singer’s voice lost entirely as Kit scanned the room. Awareness tightened the skin on her face, made her ears burn and cheeks tingle.

  She knew what she was looking for. It had always been so with her—this intuition, the deep sense of knowing. When it came to detecting lycans, her radar was dead on. Even better than her brother’s. At least, he claimed this.

  Her gaze lit on them then. Three of them sat at the bar, the drinks in their hands untouched as their silver eyes surveyed the room, searching for something besides alcohol to quench their appetites. Four days until the full moon, and they were hungry. Starving. They looked haggard, features drawn and tight. Their bunched muscles corded and flexed beneath their shirts. Even from across the room she sensed their impatience, their desperate hunger.

  The closer the full moon, the more dangerous they became. Some hunters refused to hunt altogether so close to moonrise. Not Kit. Those hunters played it safe. Cowards, in her book, disappearing when mankind most needed protection.

  They flirted with a waitress, their smiles seductive, enticing, as alluring as fire to a moth. And just as deadly. The girl preened at their attention, clearly flattered, unaware of the dangerous spell they were weaving.

  Kit’s eyes narrowed as o
ne of them lifted a hand and ran it down the waitress’s shoulder in a leisurely stroke. Kit read the threat behind that caress, the barely checked hunger. Hungry in the way a beast covets its prey.

  They may not be able to satisfy their blood hunger until shifted, but there were other ways to unleash their aggression, to sate their lust until moonrise. The way their feral gazes followed the young waitress as she moved off, Kit knew the unsuspecting female had just become a candidate for their dark appetites. If she didn’t do something, the waitress would be tonight’s victim.

  “Hello.”

  Kit snapped her attention back to her date. “Sorry,” she murmured, setting her drink down on the table and gathering up her purse. “Would you excuse me? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  Dan nodded, his soft brown eyes clouding with doubt. He was probably wondering what kind of woman he had agreed to meet for drinks tonight that she needed to dive into the restroom five minutes after saying hello.

  She wound her way around tables and waiters, the heels of her boots silent on the carpet as she slipped a hand inside her purse and removed a small bottle of vanilla body spray. She had learned long ago that sweet scents such as vanilla and cinnamon worked best in attracting lycans. With a quick spritz at her throat, she dropped the bottle back in her purse.

  Her heart hammering, she cut a path their way. Pasting a smile on her face, she squeezed between two of them, taking special care to brush against them. Physical contact was important. Anything to make herself noticeable.

  One of them, the most striking of the trio, with dark hair and tanned skin, leaned forward on his bar-stool. She slid him a speculative glance, her smile inviting as she asked the bartender to break a twenty.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, accepting her money and pushing herself off from the bar. She tossed a saucy glance over her shoulder as she sauntered away, catching sight of the dark one’s nearly imperceptible nod to his companions. The movement was slight, but enough. Enough for Kit. The trap had been set. Her brother did not approve of her tactics, but they worked for her. The soulless bastards never expected a woman to fight back. Much less pack silver.

  Inhaling, she headed toward the winding iron staircase that led to the restaurant’s bottom floor, knowing that the three would follow.

  Three. Not an advisable number to take on alone. But then, Kit was accustomed to doing things alone.

  Leaning forward, Rafe Santiago glanced through the windshield. Fingers of red and gold clawed at the graying sky. He inhaled deeply, lowering his gaze back to the building he had been watching for the last half hour. Watching and waiting. Time was running out. Blood already laced the air, rich and pungent as freshly tilled earth.

  The bar’s front door swung open. A woman stepped out. Petite, with a mass of short blond waves, she headed down the sidewalk alone, her short strides quick in sexy black boots. “Fuck-me boots.” The kind a man liked to imagine wrapped around his waist.

  His gaze shot to the seat next to him, to the file there that he had memorized. The photograph within was black-and-white and not the best quality, but he would have recognized her anywhere. He recognized her now. Kit March. Rogue lycan hunter. He grimaced. Or huntress. Whatever he called her, it didn’t change the situation. He’d been sent to terminate her.

  A quick glance at the night sky through his windshield brought forth a frown.

  Four days until the full moon, and the beasts ran restless, almost as dangerous as when the moon beamed brightly overhead, engorged against a dark sky. He’d observed such nights before. Countless times. He knew what was to come, the carnage that resulted when hell’s foot soldiers were granted free roam, their lust for blood and flesh at its zenith.

  It happened all the time. Unsolved murders around the world spoke to that. Mysterious catastrophes throughout history held no mystery for him. Lycan archivists had documented the truth. Villages sacked. Cities razed. The Siege of Jerusalem in 1099. Jamestown. The riverboat Sultana. He knew the truth behind those tragedies. Knew the blame went to lycans.

  He assessed his surroundings, his nostrils flaring. Almost as though his thoughts had called them forth, the door to the bar swung open again and they emerged.

  Three big bastards stepped out into the warm dusk. Even across the street’s distance, their eyes glowed a familiar silver. Pack creatures. Bold and deadly. Confidant in their power, they had not bothered to don colored contacts as some lycans did, wary of any one of the dozen hunters in the city detecting them.

  They stood still as stone for a moment, not speaking as they lifted their faces to the air, no doubt catching the scent of the female who had gone ahead of them. In moments, they were moving, fast as wind, following her with avid, feral eyes as she turned into an alleyway.

  Little fool likely had no idea there were three beasts on her tail. She would be overpowered in an instant.

  Rafe opened his car door and stepped into the humid night. He treaded silently after them, his strides quick. He couldn’t let them get to her first. If she were attacked…

  He blinked hard, refusing to contemplate the prospect. He would not allow that to happen.

  For all their sakes.

  Quickening his pace, he approached the alley, the sweet scent of vanilla teasing his nose as he followed in Kit March’s wake, another predator set loose on the night.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kit scanned ahead of her, her nerves stretched taut as wire as she turned down an alley three blocks away from the bar she had just quit.

  The steps behind her were undetectable amid the busy city sounds, but she knew they were there nonetheless. Just behind her. She had baited her trap. If she knew how to do one thing well, it was get their attention. After all these years, it had become instinctual to her.

  She imagined the sour heat of their breath on her neck and wiped one sweaty palm against her skirt. Her pulse thrummed hotly at her throat and she fought to steady it, knowing they could sense her adrenaline. Smell it like smoke on the air. She didn’t want them to detect her unease.

  A quick glance up revealed a sun-streaked horizon battling the murk of impending night. Dusk. The hunting hour.

  She cursed to herself when she thought of the date whom she’d left behind at the bar, sitting alone now with his glass of Chardonnay as she strolled between the twin brick walls of a shadow-shrouded alley, grade-A scum hot on her heels.

  Lately the loneliness had gotten to her, and she let her friend Gus set her up with his next door neighbor’s son.

  Loneliness. That growing ache for a connection, like the kind her brother had found with his wife, the kind the whole world seemed capable of finding, except for her. Why should her determination to hunt and destroy lycans preclude her from leading a normal life? From finding intimacy with another human being? Her brother was able to combine both worlds. She vowed to do the same.

  Whether she could find that with Dan remained to be seen. He seemed like a decent guy. At least from what she could tell after five minutes. They hadn’t made it very far past introductions when she had sensed their presence.

  The heels of her boots clicked sharply over the broken concrete. In the cavernlike depths of the alley, the heavy tread of their steps rose over the night, and she knew it was time to make her move. Time to show them they’d picked the wrong woman.

  A hot gust of air expelled from her lips as she began to dig through her purse. Nearing a Dumpster, she slowed her steps, feigning ignorance of the three dark shapes closing in behind her.

  She tensed for the fight.

  Bring it, scumbags.

  Slipping one hand inside her purse, she wrapped her fingers around her gun. The cold metal felt reassuring in her hand as she flicked off the safety. Her lips moved, silently, feverishly, as she issued a quick prayer. The same prayer she always muttered. A silent plea that they not suspect, not realize who she was—what she was—until it was too late.

  Faking a little stumble, she hunkered down low and reached for her boot, as tho
ugh her heel had come loose. Dropping her purse, she pulled her gun free and whirled around in time to see them lunge, teeth bared in a hiss, eyes glowing a preternatural silver.

  She fired. One spun from the bullet to his chest and landed with a hard thud. Caught off guard, the other two stopped, looking in shock from her to the corpse at their feet.

  Without blinking, she used her advantage and fired again, dropping another one. They’d obviously never expected a woman to be armed, to fight back. It had never crossed their minds that she could be a viable threat, an actual lycan hunter. Feed and fornicate: nothing else filled their heads. To them, she was merely fresh meat.

  Forgetting his comrades, the remaining lycan charged her with the speed known to his cursed species. He launched himself at her, a dark blur in the air. Before she could squeeze out a third shot, he knocked the gun from her hand. It skittered across the filth-covered pavement. Out of reach. He struck her a brutal blow, and her head snapped back, sharp pain exploding in her cheek. She staggered, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth.

  Her breath escaped in a hiss of pain. Recovering her balance, she spat out a mouthful of blood and put her training to use. She spun around and delivered a back kick to his head, gratified at the sharp snap of his neck. A diversionary tactic. She could never hope to outfight a lycan. No mortal could. She only hoped to buy enough time to reach her gun.

  As he staggered back from her kick, she spun on her heels and dashed toward her weapon. A hard hand clamped around her ankle. She was slammed to the ground with a cry, inches from her weapon.

  He dragged her back over loose gravel and jagged concrete. Grunting, she clawed for a handhold, straining toward her gun. Ignoring the sting of her palms, she flipped onto her back and kicked the lycan squarely in the face with the heel of her boot. Once. Twice.