Kiss of a Dark Moon

by Sharie Kohler

  Deciding not to take a chance, she stepped around her chair, her movements clumsy, almost drunken. “Get away from me.”

  “It’s true, Kit. Trust me. I know.” Rafe rose, following her, stalking her like a cat, his movements lithe, predatory. Hadn’t she noticed before the way he handled himself? More animal than human? Because he was.

  He was this thing he claimed to be—a dovenatu. A monster.

  “Stay away from me.” She held out a hand as if to ward him off even as heat continued to wash over her.

  His features hardened, marblelike and beautiful in their fierceness.

  “Kit.” Her name fell softly from his lips, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice, a ruthless glint to his eyes. As though he were feigning mildness in order to coax a wild animal near. She grimaced at the comparison.

  Her mind worked feverishly, searching for logic. Strange, considering she had long known the world to be far from sane. Nothing was black and white. Gray colored everything. The sight of her mother—a beast one moment and a corpse the next—had taught her that.

  And he was telling her he was one of them. A man she had slept with? A man who had brought her body such incredible pleasure?

  No.

  Shaking her head savagely, she spun around, ready to flee him and the horrid reality he was shoving at her.

  He caught her. A hard hand dropped on her shoulder and spun her around. She balled her hands into fists and pounded on his chest.

  One arm snaked around her waist and slammed her close, trapping her fists between them.

  “Stop it,” he growled.

  She looked up into his face, gasping at the change in his dark eyes. She had not imagined it those times before: His eyes did not change to silver, but they did change. The darkness ebbing, the centers glowing like a candle’s pale flame.

  That wasn’t the only change.

  The lines along his face blurred for a split second, shifting, sharpening, hardening into an almost felinelike aspect. Not ugly. Not the monstrous appearance of a lycan during moonrise, just not human. Not mortal.

  “Oh, God.” Her breath came fast and hard, serrated rasps on the air. She leaned back as far as she could in his arms.

  “Easy,” he instructed, and she recognized his voice from that night in the motel. Thick and strangled. He had shifted then to this…this thing when he fought those lycans.

  Easy? Easy? A slow tremble eddied through her. She struggled to stave off her fast-rising panic.

  He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, and his face changed again, returned to its usual handsome mask. Familiar. Human.

  Relief skittered through her, and her breath fell less harshly. Gradually, his arms loosened around her.

  “I’ll let you go, if you promise not to run.” He stared at her expectantly.

  After a moment, she nodded, desperate to be free of his overpowering nearness.

  He dropped her arms, and she stumbled back a step, rubbing her arms where he had gripped them.

  She moistened her lips, eyeing him warily. “If you’re a dovenatu, how can you work for EFLA?”

  “Because they don’t know,” he explained, still advancing. “Ironic, isn’t it? They pay me to terminate descendants of the Marshan line. Because they fear the prophecy of the dovenatu. A prophecy that already exists. In me.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would you hunt your own kind? Well, essentially the Marshans are your own kind, right?” She moved backward as she spoke, trying to increase the space between them.

  “In a way.” He followed her step for step. “Yes.”

  Her back hit the door. She could go no farther. “So, why would you hunt Marshans?”

  “I don’t. I infiltrated EFLA to help descendants of the Marshan line from being butchered. I track Marshans with the assistance of EFLA in-house archivists. Then I explain to the targets what they are. Help them assume new identities and relocate.” He sighed. “I stage their deaths, leave no trail, then tell EFLA the job is done.”

  Cocking his head to the side, he paused, dark eyes probing, gleaming in silent challenge as he lifted a tendril of hair off her cheek, rubbing it between his fingertips.

  She stilled, like prey caught in a lion’s grasp.

  “I’m not a monster,” he whispered.

  But he was. She had just seen that with her own eyes. And it wasn’t even a full moon. If she had slept the last two nights, as he claimed, moonrise had come and gone.

  She had no concept of dovenatus’ limits…if they possessed any. But he had just proven he could shift at whim, that he was not bound by the moon. She had seen the change in his eyes. His face.

  The only advantage hunters ever held over lycans was the fact that they shifted at moonrise. And only then. The rest of the month, their powers, while strong, were subdued. But he could shift at will. She could not wrap her mind around such power, the potential threat…

  “I’m not a monster,” he repeated. “So you can stop looking at me like that.” He leaned in, his breath hotly fanning her cheek. He inhaled near her neck, like an animal savoring her scent. Goose bumps feathered her flesh, and her adrenaline kicked into high gear.

  “How am I looking at you?” she asked.

  “With fear.”

  Resolve shot up her spine. Her fists knotted at her sides and she pulled her head back until it bumped the door. “I’m not afraid.”

  And yet his dark eyes drew her in. She felt herself slipping, drowning in his dark gaze. She struggled against the mesmerizing effect, reminding herself what he was. Brethren to the beasts she hunted. Evil. Soulless. Only, staring at him, it was hard to remember that. Hard to believe.

  She gave her head a hard shake. This must be how Gideon felt about Darius. Why he felt compelled to foster a relationship with the age-old lycan. Maybe she should not have judged Gideon too harshly, after all.

  His lips twitched. “So proud,” he muttered. “I’ve been with EFLA for twelve years now.” All hint of a smile had disappeared from his mouth. “And I’ve never met a Marshan like you before.”

  “How so?”

  His chest rose on a deep breath, nearly brushing the front of her T-shirt, and she couldn’t help wondering if he had kissed any of the others. Had there been some beautiful woman so grateful for his protection that she fell into his bed? Her gaze scanned his hard-edged face. Not that most women would need an excuse to fall into bed with him. She should know.

  “No one ever gave me so much trouble. They’re always a little reluctant to believe what I’m telling them. They don’t even know lycans exist, remember? But once I’ve convinced them of the matter, they’re eager to cooperate, eager to help themselves.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her pulse spiked at his touch. She swallowed, struggling to shield her reaction.

  Eager? “I’ll bet.”

  He continued as if she had not spoken, his thumb tracing a small circle on her cheek that left her breathless. “To do whatever it takes to help themselves.” This he uttered with a fair amount of accusation.

  “Maybe things would have been different if you had been honest with me from the start,” she returned, indignation eddying through her in bitter waves.

  “Doubtful. The reason I didn’t tell you from the beginning is because I knew you would react this way. With all your biases in place. So damned distrustful…”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. “I have a reason to distrust lycans—”

  “I’m not a lycan,” he quickly countered. Something in his voice stopped her from arguing further. A menacing edge.

  With the door at her back, the hard wall of his chest at her front, and his face so close to hers, she felt vulnerable, exposed.

  Damnable heat smoldered through her, and she wondered if she suffered a fever, if she was, in fact, sick.

  “You already know about lycans. You’re a hunter.” He angled his head, staring at her so intently, so…strangely. “I never knew a woman like you could exist.”

  Som
ething in the way he said that, in the way he looked at her, sent a flutter through her belly. Warm and languid, she pressed her thighs together where she stood and willed herself not to feel. To keep a cool head and think.

  She squirmed against the door, resisting touching any part of him. Inexplicably, she itched to tear off her large shirt, as if it added to her discomfort, chafing her overly sensitive skin. She squeezed her eyes shut in a long, tight blink, forcing herself to inhale a steadying breath. A mistake. The scent of him overwhelmed her. All male. Intoxicating.

  “Kit.”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. He stared at her darkly, eyes fathomless, ageless. Ageless?

  Then something he said penetrated. “Twelve years? You’ve been with EFLA for twelve years now?”

  “Yes. I’ll have to stage my death soon. Can’t have them wondering why I never get any older.”

  “How old are you?”

  He hesitated a moment before answering. “One hundred and twelve.”

  One hundred and twelve years old.

  She closed her eyes again. Nothing he had said before made her realize what he was more than that single statement.

  “Your mother was of the Marshan line, then? Like me?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she do when—”

  “When she gave birth to me and my brother?

  “You have a brother?”

  “We’re twins.”

  Two dovenatus? Two darkly handsome lost souls? She moistened her lips, asking again, “What did she do?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, dark eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “Well, did she know it was a lycan who’d assaulted her? Did she know what you and your brother were?”

  “When we came of age, it was clear we weren’t like other boys. She knew then.”

  “And…”

  “And what?” he bit out, a muscle along his jaw jumping wildly. “She didn’t poison our soup or throw us out with the garbage, if that’s what you want to know. She loved us.”

  “She must have been a strong woman,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze, unwilling to test his temper with her true thoughts. She loved her cursed sons. So much that she set them free on the world. Damned selfish fool.

  Every lycan Kit had ever encountered flashed through her mind. Their grotesque appearance, their thirst for blood, their indiscriminating tastes. No one was safe. Man, woman, or child. Kit could not imagine allowing such a creature to exist. Blood relation or not.

  Clearly she had not experienced a mother’s devotion. Memories of her own mother were too vague, but Kit could never do as Rafe’s mother had and overlook her children’s monstrousness. A shiver raced through her. She wouldn’t—not that she ever intended to be put to the test.

  So she was a Marshan. That didn’t mean she was doomed. Didn’t mean she was like Rafe.

  She took several gulps of breath, telling herself that it wasn’t the end of her world. Being a descendant of the Marshan line didn’t mean she was a lycan.

  So she shared compatible DNA. So what? She just had to be sure she never let herself become impregnated by a lycan. She wasn’t like Rafe’s mother, some girl from a dead era who hadn’t a clue about defending herself. She didn’t even need to quit hunting. She could handle the situation. She had made it to twenty-six without bringing about the prophecy, and she exposed herself to lycans all the time.

  Chin lifting, she vowed in an ugly sneer, “I won’t be a vessel for some lycan. Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself without giving birth to—”

  “What?” The muscles along his jaw knotted. “Without giving birth to what?”

  Him. She thought it, but dared not speak it. The dangerous glint of light was back in his eyes again. For the barest second the contours of his face blurred, and she feared he would transform before her.

  And she hated that fear. Hated the way her breath hitched, hated the way he made her feel like a lost girl again, weak and small, witnessing her mother transform into a nightmarish creature.

  “Me, you mean,” he growled. “You think I’m a monster, Kit. Just say it.”

  She swallowed against the awful thickness in his throat. “All lycans are. Whatever your differences, you’re not human. You lack control, a conscience. You’re like them—”

  “I’m not. If I were like them, you’d be dead.” His stare burned through her. “Worse than dead.”

  She shivered. He spoke the truth.

  She shook her head, unable to accept that he could be trusted. Not if he possessed even a scrap of lycan blood. The proclivity to kill was there. One bad day, and he could succumb to it.

  “I’ll allow there would clearly be differences in a hybrid species,” she said. “Perhaps you’re not as blood-driven, but—”

  “Let’s just agree you don’t know anything about me.” The words sprang from his lips. A look came over his face then. So harsh and severe, a frisson of alarm skittered down her spine. “Not a damn thing. And you don’t know anything about yourself, for that matter.”

  Her brow tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Here’s a reality check for you, Kit.” His hand moved suddenly to grip her face, long fingers sliding around to cup the nape of her neck. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh of her cheek. “You like me a hell of a lot more than you’re willing to admit.” His gaze roved over her face, lingering on her mouth. “You even want me again, no matter what you think I am.”

  She tried to shake her head in denial, but he held her face in place, fingers tightening at her neck.

  “And…” His dark gaze, the flame dancing in the center, lifted to her eyes. “You’re not simply a Marshan anymore.”

  She blinked. As far as she was concerned there was nothing simple about being a Marshan.

  “You’re so much more,” he whispered.

  More?

  “You’re me.”

  “What?”

  “Like me,” he amended. “A dovenatu. I turned you. After you were shot. It was the only way I could save you.” The pressure of his hand on her face increased as his eyes drilled into hers.

  “No. You only said I was a Marshan, a potential carrier…” she accused. Pleaded. “How can I be a dovenatu? How could you turn me?”

  “You remember what happened in that parking lot. You know. You were shot. Dying.” His lips compressed into a grim line. “I saved you the only way I could. I don’t regret it.”

  “No?” She winced at the sharpness of her voice. “Well, I do!” He had turned her into the very thing she most hated in the world. The thing she had watched, helplessly, her mother become. Bile rose high in her throat. “You know about my parents. And you turned me. Just like some fiend out there infected my mother. You should have let me die.”

  Emotion flickered in his eyes, then vanished, his gaze returning to steadfast, obscure blackness. “I couldn’t.”

  She surged against him, wrenching her face free from his hand. “Don’t touch me!”

  The warmth that had been simmering through her burst free in a rupture of hot fury, burning her veins. Her heart hammered at a frantic tempo, the air rushing out of her mouth in spurts. Dipping her head, she moaned low in her throat, still trying to shove him off her.

  He grasped her by the shoulders, trying to pull her up, to face him.

  A scratchy, tingling sensation that bordered on pain overwhelmed her body. Powerless to resist, she threw back her head and arched her spine, moaning louder. Clutching her cheeks, she felt her bones altering, ever so slightly stretching, pulling…

  She struggled to hold on to herself, to what she knew, but it grew increasingly harder as her body twisted inside itself.

  “Kit, no!” Rafe shouted, wrapping both arms around her and hauling her against him. “Calm yourself.”

  She couldn’t. Couldn’t control her raging emotions.

  The face of every lycan she had killed, the sight of her father’s mutilated body, slain by her mother, flashed thr
ough her mind in a searing blaze. He had done this to her. Turned her into one of them. A red haze of fury filled her vision.

  The sound of his voice came to her from a great distance, as if he called to her from the bottom of a well.

  “Kit! Kit! No! Relax. Don’t shift!”

  CHAPTER 22

  He had no choice.

  The only way Rafe could hope to restrain her, to keep her from hurting herself or him, was to let himself go, to surrender to that which he always kept in careful check. The beast he controlled with a firm hand and released from its cage only rarely, when absolutely necessary. As a last resort.

  So, with Kit struggling like a wild animal in his arms, nearly breaking free of him with her newfound strength, he shifted.

  Kit froze at the sight of him, screaming.

  Her own face mirrored his, distorting before his very eyes. The sharpened features, the white-gold light dancing at the centers of her pale green eyes. Although she didn’t know it. Relief washed through him that she could not see herself.

  “Kit,” he growled, the thick sound of his voice telling him what he already knew. He was in full form. His voice purred from deep within his chest. “Take a deep breath. Calm down, and you’ll shift back to normal.”

  She shook her head, her hair tossing wildly about her head. She surged against him again, sending them both crashing to the floor. “Kit, stop it!” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he forced her to still, holding her gaze as they strained against each other, chest to chest.

  He remembered the pain of his first shift, his confusion, his bewilderment at the changes overcoming him. The absolute terror. But his mother had been there, talking him through it, her voice a lifeline, a soothing balm. He would be the same for Kit—if she let him.

  He loosened his grip on her head, threading his fingers through her silken mop. Gently, he lowered his face, pressing his forehead against her sweat-dampened skin, making a shushing sound. She continued to struggle against him, and he swung a leg over her, stilling her against the carpet.

  “Easy. Easy there,” he murmured as though coaxing a wild animal, wincing when she pulled her head back and brought it crashing into his.