Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  I raised my arms straight out at my sides, bending them at the elbow all the way back so I could touch my earlobes with my index fingers. Stretched my arms upward, gliding my rib cage right and then left again. I was working out the kinks in my body, increasing the oxygen flow to my brain. At least that was the theory. It was also possible that I was killing time so I wouldn’t have to go back out there and face a new personal demon that seemed to have become real and present.

  Deep breaths. I could do this.

  I flushed the toilet to appear as though I’d done more than just hide in the stall. Ran cold water over my hands, my arms, my face, the back of my neck, until the world seemed more solid. Icy moisture trickled down my spine and puddled on the hilt of the knife I still kept tucked against my tailbone. I stared at myself in the mirror: my face with green-blue eyes and high cheekbones, framed by curly shoulder-length hair, arm muscles hardened by yoga and hauling countless cases of bottles.

  Be cool. Face the fear.

  I straightened my shoulders, shook the hair off my face, pushed through the bathroom door and back to the bar.

  Anshell was sitting by himself now, sipping a virgin orange juice. Don’t ask me how I knew that. Or I’d be forced to tell you I could smell it, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Right?

  Broody Guy seemed to have left. Sandor was chatting with Anshell, and he didn’t seem particularly tense so maybe Anshell was okay. Good people—isn’t that how they say it?

  I ducked behind the counter and picked up the discarded rag to start wiping my way along the bar again. Anshell and Sandor’s conversation trailed off as they watched me. Demon girl had now fixated on someone else so yay there.

  I could do this.

  I nodded at Sandor to let him know that it was safe to leave me alone.

  “So,” I said, my voice cooling the moment Sandor’s tail vanished around the corner. “Drugged anyone good lately?”

  Anshell sighed. “Better than the alternative.”

  “And yet here I am, both walking and talking,” I said. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head and took another sip of his drink. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I scooped ice and slammed it down into a clean glass which I then filled with cranberry juice. The night was trippy enough without any help. “The fact that you’re sitting here in front of me and we’re having this conversation means we’ve met before. That whole—” I couldn’t bring myself to say strapped-to-the-bed “—hospital scene was real.”

  “Real,” Anshell said. “Yes, it was real.” He stared into his glass as though the perfect sequence of words might be found at the bottom if he looked hard enough. “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said finally. “That will probably change by the next full moon.”

  “Yeah? When is that?” I tried to keep the bitter out of my voice. “It’s not like I’m in the habit of checking the moon.”

  “Four days,” Anshell said. “Saturday night. The closer it gets, the harder it will be for you to control your changes. That’s how you’ll know.”

  “Know that I’m turning into a pussy?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.

  “Call me,” he said, and handed me an orange card on rough cardstock with lettering embossed in red and black ink. Stylized, edgy; the kind of introduction that said art director or creative advertising type. “I can help.”

  Anshell Williams, Small Business Consultant for the Arts. A phone number. An address on Roxborough Street. As far as covers go, that one was pretty good—irregular hours would be expected, and it was the opposite of what you were actually spending your nights doing.

  Okay then. We’ll give it a half-point in the always-trust-your-instincts camp.

  “Let me help,” he repeated. “No strings.”

  I laughed; short, sharp.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure.” Life always came with strings, even if they looked like pretty party favor decorations. I turned my back to him and walked away, leaving the card lying on the counter.

  Then, guilty, I turned around. It wasn’t his fault I got scratched.

  But it was too late. Anshell Williams was gone. Only his soggy card, melting into the cracked faux marble surface next to his half-full glass of orange juice, proved that he’d ever been there.

  All that bravado for nothing.

  I eased my way over, picked up the card and blotted as much water off it as I could before slipping it into my front pocket.

  Couldn’t hurt, right?

  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  Chapter Five

  The rest of my shift passed pretty uneventfully. Maybe the fates figured I’d had enough excitement for one night.

  I poked my head into the back office to say good-night—or rather morning—to Sandor before heading out. He was busy adding up the night’s take into piles of bills, and nudged one of the stacks my way. I nodded my thanks but didn’t count it. Instead I fished out my butt-ugly mustard and puke green print muy grande change purse, shoving the money into it and burying it back at the bottom of my oversized bag.

  “Want to talk about it?” Sandor’s voice was low-key, but I knew he was curious as hell. The more interested he is in something, the more neutral his voice gets.

  “Want to talk about it? No,” I said. “Should I talk about it? Maybe.”

  Sandor waited for me to continue.

  I frowned as I leaned against the door frame, my arms crossed over my chest.

  “I was scratched by a shifter the other night,” I said, finally. “I was playing this scene with a guy and I’m guessing it was his shifter boyfriend who got pissed and scratched me when he caught us together. All I know is one minute I’m standing there, and the next...blank.

  “I ended up in this Goth hospital, strapped to a bed, and that guy who showed up tonight was a medic there. Or so he said. So I’m thinking I’ve lost it, whatever it is, but instead I wake up this morning in my own bed. It was so freaking crazy I figured it was all some kind of really bad flashback, you know?”

  Sandor nodded. He’d had his own experiences with drug residuals and morning-after confusions.

  “So I do my thing,” I continued, “come to work, everything is right in the world and it was all a bad dream. You know?”

  “Except your bad dream showed up and ordered a drink, eh?” Sandor’s voice was wry.

  “Pretty much. So...what the fuck?”

  “What the fuck indeed,” he said. “Have you shifted yet?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t remember.” I spread my hands helplessly, palms up, as I shrugged. “According to medic boy, I did. That’s why they strapped me down. Or so he said.”

  “Or so he said,” Sandor echoed.

  “Your thoughts?”

  Sandor tilted his oversized, wart-covered green head to the side and scratched his hairy nose with a thick, brown, scaly nail. He grunted. Then, apparently satisfied with his train of thought, Sandor responded.

  “Sounds to me like you might have been infected, and you might be getting furry real soon.” He gave me a serious look. “I’ve heard about that shifter hospital.”

  “You have?”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “You hear about things in this business. We can’t just walk into Toronto General, slap down our health card and expect to get treated. Demons and others like us—we take care of our own. Us against them. That kind of thing.”

  “So how come I never heard about it before?” I shifted my weight, leaned against the other side of the door frame.

  “You never needed to before,” he replied. “Anshell Williams is big in shifter circles. Even runs a pack, the Moon with Seven Faces. His rep is strong but fair. Mostly. And that clan—they’re not a bad bunch to run with. For shif
ters, at least.”

  “Clan? Like tribal chiefs with headgear and ceremonial swagger?”

  “What they do on their personal time is their business,” said Sandor. “It’s like a social club. Except it’s species-specific and you have to be able to control your power—or in your case, your shift.” Sandor angled his head to one side. “Can you?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. So then what does Williams want with me?” I was afraid I already knew the answer.

  “My guess,” said Sandor, “is that Williams is waiting to see if you shift again for real. And if you do, he’s such a do-gooder that he’ll probably help you.”

  “You mean recruit me, don’t you?” I didn’t know much about pack life, but I hadn’t left one paramilitary organization to join up with another.

  “Probably,” Sandor replied. “But if you’re shifting anyway, you’re better off as part of a group. Really. I know you’re not much of a team player—but if he makes you an offer, you should seriously think about it. For your own protection, and for everyone else’s safety too. Be glad it’s him with the offer and not one of those other pack leads. At least he’ll let you choose.”

  I was beginning to feel like someone who had gone on a first date but ended up drunk at a wedding chapel in Vegas.

  “Is there something else you’re not telling me?” I looked him straight in his three eyes. He did me the great honor of looking back.

  “A random shifter is dangerous,” he said. “If you are one, you’ll need to learn how to control your shifts.”

  “What happens if I don’t?”

  “You’ll need to be put down,” Sandor said.

  Silence. He let the gravity of the situation sink in.

  “Great,” I finally said. “But no danger of that tonight?”

  Sandor shook his head. “I doubt it. If you were that much of a risk, Mr. Williams probably wouldn’t have left here so easily.”

  I straightened up, slinging my bag over my head and across my body to push off from the entryway.

  “So as long as we’re sure I’m safe for tonight, I’m gonna split,” I said. “‘Kay?”

  “I never said you were safe,” he said, grinning. “Only that it’s unlikely you’ll do any major shifting between now and when the sun rises.”

  “Yeah yeah, semantics,” I retorted, smiling to soften the sting a bit. “Later, Sand.”

  “Later, sweetie.”

  “That’s Ms. Sweetie to you, babe.”

  I could hear Sandor’s answering chuckle all the way down the hall until I pulled the door shut behind me.

  Chapter Six

  Because I work for Sandor, and especially because he let it be known that I’m under his protection, nobody really bothers me. Which is pretty damned useful considering the creepy crawly population around here.

  The desolation out by the Swan can be oppressive. Tall grass swishing and whispering in summer, hulking piles of grey-tinged snow in the winter. Only the occasional dangling bulb from a still-active factory or the light from a passing vehicle has the power to pierce the shadows.

  My skin was prickling as I made my way along the stomped-down path carved between two walls of snow to where my truck waited. Shadows pressed in around me, the air like a vacuum. My nose twitched, itchy, and there was a sour taste on my tongue.

  On the outer edges of my peripheral vision, there, to the left, a quick shadow darted even farther left and away. Wild animal, or something more dangerous?

  Cold winter had given way to a sudden thaw and steam was rising off the tunnel of snow. Moisture from Lake Ontario only added to the unexpectedly warm mist. The drift, like smoke, could be tricking my senses.

  Maybe.

  I waited a moment, trying to pick up a scent on the wind. Nothing more unusual than, well, usual. Ignoring the part where I’d just scented the wind for clues.

  Another step. There. That smell. Metal? I stuck out my tongue, confirming the taste on the wind, rolling the droplets around in my mouth. Another step, cautious, the smell stronger. Five steps, each taking me closer to the end of the snowy walkway, my heart smashing against the cage of my ribs. Five more steps, almost there now, my blood singing.

  Deep breath.

  I stepped into the parking lot, scanning the area. There, not far from where I’d parked, were rusted barrels of what was probably toxic waste piled high and lashed together with chains.

  And spread-eagled, held in place by daggers along and through his arms and legs and torso: a man.

  Broody Goth Guy.

  Shit.

  On either side of him was a vampire, feeding. Blood trickled down Goth Guy’s neck from two symmetrical puncture wounds below each side of his rounded jaw. Blood poured from the twenty or so other holes in his body that the daggers had made. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

  I concentrated a moment on his chest. Rising, falling. Okay. Alive.

  I ducked behind a pile of snow. Now what? Back to the Swan? No guarantee Sandor would hear me kicking at the door before the vamps behind me did. But forward took me into the Feed, and one step closer to my own unexpectedly precarious mortality.

  There, again, a shadow in the periphery of my vision. What was that? Wind whistled in my ear, past my ear, too fast for my senses to catch as anything more than a flicker, a whisper, a touch, light, then gone.

  Vertigo. Suddenly blind, I reached out an unexpectedly sweaty palm and slapped it on the wall of snow for support, then spewed the limited contents of my stomach. I was seeing stars, floaters; tiny balls of light bouncing in and out of my vision.

  Dampness bound with frost held my hand in place. I dug my fingers into the wall for purchase. Except my nails were going farther than I could ever remember them going.

  A deep voice whispered in my ear, barely audible, definitely masculine.

  “Are you okay?”

  But everything was spinning, tilting, and without meaning to I leaned backwards and landed on my butt. Somehow, I managed to fall away from the puke. Small miracles. I raised my right hand to pull the hair away from my face, wiped the drool from my mouth.

  My palm felt rough, like coarse-grained sandpaper. I scratched my head and nicked myself, inhaling sharply and feeling moisture on my digits. I looked down at my hand. Always important to assess the extent of the blood loss.

  My hand.

  My paw.

  My hand?

  My paw?

  What the fuck?

  There was a large paw in front of me, with golden fur and curving claws, droplets of blood tingeing the third and fourth digits. My blood. My paw.

  I inhaled, reflexively breathing into the exhale and the beginnings of a scream when a hand—human, warm, and not my own this time—clamped down over my mouth. A face I didn’t recognize, green eyes made tight with urgency, staring into mine.

  There was meaning in his look, intent, eyebrows raised in question. What was the question? He bent forward, chestnut hair tickling my cheek, and I had a weird sense of déjà vu. His lips brushed up against my ear, and again the feeling was familiar. But the words were not.

  “If I take my hand off your mouth, you can’t scream.”

  I nodded, although I arched one eyebrow to make it clear this was my decision and not his. Because I understood. Okay, well, not understood exactly but accepted. For now. With a proviso to change my mind if the opportunity and desire presented itself.

  Slowly, he took his hand away from my mouth. I licked my lips and tasted cinnamon with an after-bite of vanilla. Pure Madagascar vanilla, not the imitation crap you get in the supermarket. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did.

  I looked from the stranger to what used to be my hand. From my elbow to my former fingertips, I had shifted.

  I flexed, watching my claws exte
nd and retract. It would be cool if it wasn’t so damned freaky.

  The guy I didn’t know was watching my former hand with interest.

  “Is that new?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said, my words more air than sound. “Depends on who you believe.”

  My companion chose not to follow the red herring, especially when I didn’t say more. Instead:

  “Do you know how to fight?” His softly rounded lips brushed against my ear once more, breath hot, words urgent. Vampires have very good hearing, and we did not want them to hear us. The only reason they hadn’t figured out we were here yet was probably because they were too engrossed in their ménage-à-sang to pay attention. But how long before they were sated and ready to hunt again?

  You’d think I’d know more about the habits of vampires, given my association with Jon. But no. Some things we didn’t discuss much. Actually, we didn’t talk much period. I lost my words when I was around him; melting beneath his fingertips, his mouth, his lips on mine.

  Damn. So not the time to be distracted by sex right now.

  My new companion was watching me and I hoped he couldn’t read my mind. But how could he? With a half-smile that could have meant anything, he reached out and touched my arm. My hand.

  It was a hand again.

  I couldn’t help it. I jumped. Startled. The man in front of me leaned forward and breathed his earlier question into my ear again.

  “Can you fight?”

  This time, I dragged my eyes up and away from my newly re-established hand and nodded. I wasn’t totally confident—I don’t go looking for fights, at least not anymore—but it’s not like I couldn’t hold my own.

  The bar was dark behind us. The night felt like it was buzzing, squeezing the air from my lungs. My vision started to sway again and the man’s hand gripped my shoulder. I shook my head and took a deep breath, then another, and another.

  “My truck is over there,” I mouthed, motioning to the battered 1996 rust-pocked vehicle parked about fifty feet from where we stood. “Do you have any weapons?”

  He shrugged. I lifted the hem of one pant leg and flashed him the hilt of my silver cross-covered dagger. Then I lifted my T-shirt, just enough for the moonlight to glint off the handle of another silver dagger. Pulled down the neck of my T-shirt to show my necklace, a match for the tattoo on my ankle; a bit more to the left exposed the thumbprint-sized hamsah, a Middle Eastern ward against the evil eye, tattooed over my heart.