Kiss of a Dark Moon

by Sharie Kohler

  She slid the gear into reverse and turned, locking gazes with him through the glass, knowing that while he wouldn’t stop her from leaving, he also wouldn’t stop. They would meet again. EFLA was that way. Relentless.

  “Keep away from me,” she added, “Or you’ll regret it.”

  He gave a small nod of acknowledgment, well-shaped lips curving in a humorless smile. “I look forward to next time we meet.”

  His blasé attitude struck a nerve. Did he think her weak? Easy to kill? Because she was a woman? Familiar indignation spiraled through her.

  “Go ahead. Underestimate me. It will be your mistake.”

  His smile deepened, grooves forming in the planes of his cheeks. The bastard was too handsome for his own good.

  Easing her foot off the brake, she pressed down on the gas pedal and drove away.

  CHAPTER 4

  Darkness had fallen by the time she pulled into her brother’s driveway. Locusts sang, their calls strident and insistent on the warm night. She let herself in with the spare key Gideon had given her, looking over her shoulder and searching the shadows as she unlocked the front door. Her feet shifted in place on the porch, the wood creaking beneath her.

  Flipping on the light switch, she hesitated at the edge of the living room, her gaze sweeping the tidy room, almost expecting someone to jump out at her. It wouldn’t hurt to be extra cautious. There could be other EFLA agents in town besides Rafe Santiago.

  Shaking off her stillness, she locked the door and punched in the alarm code. Striding across the living room and into the kitchen, her eyes drifted over the framed photographs lining the walls. Married only two years, Claire had managed to fill the house with photos of herself and Gideon. Kit shook her head. Before Claire, she had never seen a photograph anywhere in her brother’s house. Not of their parents. Not of her. Gideon wasn’t the type to forage through old albums and hang pictures of the past on the wall. A past that they both fought to remember. And forget.

  Claire had become his family. His present and future. Every framed photograph proclaimed that. Someday they would have children, and more photos would line the walls. Claire would see to that. She was that sort—the kind of mother figure Kit had missed growing up. The sort that baked cookies and read stories. Her brother would have the family Kit had always dreamed of having. And Kit would have to content herself with reruns of The Waltons.

  The thought shouldn’t have made her feel the way it did. Empty. Hollow inside. Bitter with envy. It was an ugly feeling, and she shoved it back to the deep shadows of her heart.

  Lifting the phone off the wall hook, she dialed Cooper’s number. She had tried calling him on her cell on the way home but no luck. But given the amount of times he’d called her a pain in the ass, she suspected he didn’t always pick up when she called. Maybe if he saw Gideon’s number on the caller ID he would pick up. After several rings, the familiar sound of his prerecorded voice filled her ear, and she hung up.

  Hand still on the phone, she hesitated, biting her bottom lip and contemplating calling Gideon. At the moment he was at a cabin in the mountains of New Mexico. Safe with Claire. If she told him what had happened tonight he would be headed home before she could talk him out of it. She could handle the situation without him. It had taken her years to convince him that she could handle herself and hunt lycans. Did she really want to play the role of helpless female now?

  The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet as she climbed the stairs. Once in the room Gideon and Claire used as both an office and guest room, she rifled through her duffel bag for clothes. Stripping, she kicked her grimy clothes into the corner with a grimace. She had bought the skirt for her date tonight. Now she doubted she would get the blood stains out. She had lost more clothes than she cared to recount hunting lycans.

  Still uneasy after the events of the night, she took her gun with her into the bathroom. Rafe Santiago had proven himself an expert on matters concerning her. Naturally he would know where Gideon lived. Her skin prickled at the thought of him standing just outside, staring at the house. Was he out there? Watching with those dark eyes? Waiting?

  She peered out from the small window above the toilet, her fingers parting the blinds as she looked down on the quiet street, dimly lit from the occasional front porch light. A few random cars were parked along the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. He wouldn’t make a move, she decided. Not tonight. Not as long as he needed her brother.

  Sighing, she set the gun on the top of the toilet tank and angled her neck in an attempt to ease the tension in her shoulders. Stepping into the shower, she adjusted the valves until a warm spray of water rained down on her body. She worked quickly, soaping her body and shampooing her hair. Turning off the water, she stepped onto the bath rug and rubbed herself dry with a towel.

  Snatching her T-shirt off the counter, she pulled it over her head, pausing at her reflection in the mirror. Her light curls looked dark when wet, a tangled mess that clung to her head and neck like ivy crawling a fence. A humorless smile twisted her lips. Her eyes stared widely, almost too large for her face, making her look haunted. Or maybe hunted. And now she was. The hunter turned hunted.

  Her eyes looked especially green against her tanned skin. A fluke of genetics, she never needed to tan. As if she would even take the time for such an indulgence. Even at Christmas she looked island-gold. Looking down, she snatched the fresh boxers with dancing penguins off the counter—one of many items Claire had stuffed into her personalized stocking last Christmas—and slipped them on.

  Kit and Gideon had never had Christmas stockings before. The whole tradition of a tree, stockings, and turkey with all the trimmings that Claire had foisted on them had been a first in her memory. Her grandmother only ever bought a poinsettia in acknowledgment of the holiday. Christmas morning, Gideon and Kit would sit at the linoleum kitchen table with the poinsettia in the center and open their fifteen-dollar Sears gift cards over a plate of rubbery fried eggs and Spam. The gift cards were for underwear and socks.

  Gideon’s marriage to Claire had only reinforced all that Kit had missed. All that she still missed. Kit both loved and hated Claire for it.

  Dressed, she grabbed her gun off the toilet tank. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten since her power bar at lunch. She’d left straight from work to make her date with Dan. Another wasted evening—at least date-wise. Not to mention the dent to her checkbook tonight would bring. Friday nights brought the best tips. She rarely took off. Couldn’t afford to. Usually she worked the bar until two, and hunted afterward, collapsing in bed at dawn.

  She had tried a regular nine-to-five job after college. It wasn’t hard to land one; keeping it was another matter. When she trolled the clubs and streets all hours of the night hunting lycans, she was late to work most mornings—and often sporting cuts and bruises that convinced her coworkers she was a victim of domestic abuse.

  So what had started out as a part-time gig had soon become full-time. Tending bar was more her scene, anyway. No business suit required. Just a dark, smoke-shrouded club, loud music, and lycans who hunted among the throng of twentysomethings. They never noticed the girl behind the bar; they were too focused on targeting easy prey among the drunken women. But she noticed them—and picked them off later.

  So what if she was twenty-six and still living with her grandmother? Sure, her grandmother wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, but aside from Gideon, she was all Kit had.

  Entering the kitchen, she flipped on the overhead light. It buzzed and flickered before blazing to full strength. She advanced on the refrigerator, her belly grinding with hunger. Shaking loose her waves from her head and shoulders with a drag of her fingers, she peered inside the well-stocked refrigerator, again courtesy of Claire. Two years ago, Kit would have been lucky to find a stale loaf of bread.

  Removing a Lean Cuisine TV dinner from the freezer, she tore into the box and slid the small tray into the microwave. A faint whirring filled the air as the fettuccine
alfredo heated.

  Her grandmother had never been much on cooking. Her kitchen skills ran to canned tuna on Ritz crackers. Fried eggs and Spam appeared on special occasions. Gideon said their mother had been a good cook. Kit thought she remembered blueberry pancakes, but she couldn’t be sure. The memories of her parents had grown dim over the years. Like blurred, faint images glimpsed through water. She tried to remember, to cling to a time when she had stood center stage in someone’s life, to recall what that had been like.

  Her father, a carpenter, had smelled of wood. Freshly cut cedar and pine. And his hands had been large. One alone could engulf half her head. She remembered that. If little else. Remembered him cupping her face as he kissed her good night. And her mother wore a gold cross around her neck. Kit could see it in her mind, nestled in the hollow of her throat—the skin there had been golden brown, like her own. Warm and smooth, puckered with the faintest gooseflesh. Her face was less clear, only a blurry image in Kit’s mind.

  The beep of the microwave broke her thoughts. With fork in hand, she removed the tray and peeled back the plastic cover. Stabbing into the pasta, she brought a bite of creamy noodles to her mouth.

  Her gaze drifted to the kitchen phone, giving a small start as she noticed the blinking light of the answering machine on the counter. Swallowing her bite, she set down her food and punched Play.

  She settled a hip against the counter as Claire’s voice emerged.

  “Hi, Kit! It’s Claire. We just got to the cabin this afternoon. It’s so beautiful here. Hope everything is okay there. I forgot to ask you to water the little plant in the upstairs bathroom. Phone reception is bad up here. We’re in town for dinner right now, but give us a call. Love you. Bye.”

  Cooper’s voice came next, the deep timbre of his voice oddly sharp in the kitchen air.

  “Kit, I just got your message. Nice work tonight. I’ll send a cleaning crew out for housekeeping and documentation. Call me as soon as you get this.” He paused before adding, “We need to talk.” Another pause. His heavy breathing filled the phone line, and she thought she detected an underlying thread of anxiety. “In person.” Then the phone clicked dead.

  Kit rolled the tines of her fork against her tongue. Did he know EFLA was in town? Frowning, she stood still, her mind spinning as the machine rolled into another message.

  Picking up the phone, she dialed Cooper’s number first. After several rings, his answering machine picked up. Hanging up, she tried his cell phone. His voice mail came on.

  “Coop, it’s Kit. Where are you?” She hesitated, about to say more, then instead ended with “Call me back.”

  She tried Gideon next, ready to warn him about EFLA. He and Claire weren’t expected home for another week, but she wanted to make sure they didn’t return sooner. At least until she’d hooked up with Cooper. She was sure he could straighten out the mess with EFLA and Rafe Santiago.

  Setting the phone back on its hook, she took a few more bites of the pasta. Finding herself too distracted to finish, she tossed the fork in the sink and chucked the small tray into the trash can. She turned off the kitchen light, then the one in the living room.

  Upstairs again, she headed for the bathroom. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she watered the small fern at the edge of the counter, going through the motions of being normal, unaffected—as if her mind wasn’t playing over her encounter with Rafe Santiago.

  Once in the guest bedroom, she paced the floor for several moments before abruptly stopping and staring unseeing at the tidied desk.

  She could handle Rafe Santiago. He couldn’t run her out of town. Perhaps in time he would see just how tough she was and reconsider his position on female hunters. Right.

  With a snort, she flipped off the light and climbed into bed, tucking her gun beneath her pillow. The mechanical clock’s numbers turned before her eyes. Ten twenty-eight. Pathetic.

  Twenty-six years old and she was in bed alone. Only a gun for company. She shouldn’t be going to bed alone. Hell, she didn’t want to be going to bed alone. She missed men. Missed sex. Hot, heavy, grinding, man-straddling sex. It had been too long.

  And yet she had chosen this life. Could not imagine doing anything besides hunting the monsters who had stolen her family from her. Sighing, she stared at the ceiling for several moments, not the least bit tired.

  Flipping back the covers, she plucked her gun from beneath the pillow and strode to the window to peer out one more time. A nagging sense of unease wouldn’t let her fall asleep just yet.

  Maybe it was the night’s adrenaline still thrumming through her veins. But she’d never had this problem before, and there’d been plenty of nights like tonight, when she’d left lycans rotting in an alley. It had to be Rafe Santiago. He had rattled her. He had been, well, something.

  Her toes flexed against the unyielding hardwood floor as she surveyed the still and silent street, her shoulders tense, her muscles tightening with battle-readiness.

  Her gaze narrowed on a dark Hummer that had not been there before. Moths circled the streetlight high above it in an excited flurry.

  The streetlights tinged the night blue, outlining the man sitting behind the driver’s wheel: a dark, faceless figure.

  Her finger curled around the trigger. She dropped one shoulder against the window jam, keeping herself out of view.

  No wonder she couldn’t sleep. Some SOB was sitting out there watching her house.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, stroking the barrel of her gun against her thigh as if she had a particular itch. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Rafe settled back in his seat, watching the house he knew belonged to Gideon March. For whatever reason, Kit had been staying there for the last two nights. There was no sign of Gideon March or his wife, Claire—a woman who, sources claimed, had been infected by a lycan a little over two years ago. A death warrant to most, but, unbelievable as he found it, Gideon March had helped her in tracking and killing the alpha of her pack and breaking the curse before she shifted and fed, damning her.

  The narrow red-brick two-story sat still and silent in the warm night, the leaves of the large oak in the front yard rustling in the breeze. Its roots, thick and gnarled, protruded from the green lawn like bumpy tentacles. The yard was large, like its neighbors, the grass verdant from the muggy Houston climate.

  In the far distance, someone had fired up a grill. Charcoal burned on the air, the scent smoky, pungent in Rafe’s nose. He inhaled harder, guessing fajitas were on the menu.

  One by one the house’s lights turned off, first the front living room, then the porch light. Minutes later, the silhouette of a woman appeared in an upstairs window. His heart raced, all his senses kicking into high gear as he studied the slight shadow as it drifted before the window. The blood rushed in his veins and Kit March’s face flashed across his mind. The wavy blond hair framing her face had looked soft as a child’s, adding to her whimsical, otherworldly appearance. Her elfin features reminded him of the tales of sprites and fairies his mother had whispered him to sleep with years ago.

  His brother, Sebastian, almost always fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but Rafe used to lay awake, his mother’s soft voice weaving a spell about him, making him believe in romance. In the power of love. That good always defeated evil. Because it was right. Because it should. He had believed in such nonsense until the summer of his twelfth year. The summer his mother had been forced to reveal the truth.

  The shadow moved from the window, and seconds later the light vanished like a candle snuffed out.

  Kit March was not what he’d expected. Her vanilla scent still swirled around him, wrapping him in a seductive fog.

  Hell, he had not really thought about her as a person. He had never thought of any of them as individuals. Damned inconvenient to start doing so now. They were a job. A mission he dispatched with cold precision. They departed from his life almost as quickly as they entered it. He made certain of that. He
had to. But for some reason, he felt in no rush to get rid of Kit March. Something stopped him from closing in on her now—while she slept, at her most vulnerable. She intrigued him, and he wanted to know more about her.

  He stared up at the darkened room, the unmoving blinds covering the window. Ten thirty and she was already in bed? Alone.

  He thought about the date she had left at the restaurant. Sacrificed in pursuit of a kill. A story he knew well. He had lived it for years. The job came first. Always.

  Still, he couldn’t imagine her suffering an empty bed. Her small size might make her look delicate and subdued, but a moment in her company had dispelled that notion. She was tightly wound, a fireball of energy, with green eyes that gleamed with light, like a shock of sunshine on dew-dappled grass. Passion hummed through her.

  Watching her in action tonight, he’d seen that she could handle herself. And yet she walked a dangerous line. Strong women fell victim to lycans all the time. One slip and she could become a lycan’s plaything. A risk he could not take. For her sake—and the world’s.

  With that thought, he dragged a hand over his jaw, determined to forget how she intrigued him, and committed to remembering his purpose.

  Sebastian would never let a pretty face distract him. In many ways, his brother was stronger than he.

  Rafe drew a deep breath. He would convince Kit March and her brother to give up this hunting business and lead a quiet life. A safe life away from NODEAL, EFLA, and cities where concentrated populations of lycans thrived. And if she refused…

  Make no mistake. He would do what he had to do.

  A subtle change in the air made him sit straighter in the seat. He scanned the neighborhood, the house, the window of the room where she slept. The skin of his face grew tight and itchy as awareness slid over him with the insidiousness of creeping fog.

  He was no longer alone on the street.

  She moved silently over the dark street, walking a brisk, determined line to the parked vehicle, ready to tell whoever lurked there to get the hell off her street.