Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  The pack had left me alone in this house on the water while they went out and about to frolic in the magic of the night. Nobody was expecting me to shift again at this point. At least not tonight.

  “Money for a crazy old lady?”

  It took me a moment to place the voice.

  “Hi, Celandra,” I said.

  She was below and in front of me, white hair framing her face. Glowing.

  One two three, one two three. Celandra’s feet beat out a rhythm, keeping time with the slapping of the waves. On the up beat, she spread her hands palms-up in supplication; on the down beat she would bring both back in again to her chest with a clap.

  “How is Sandor?”

  Celandra had a funny way of knowing things. Everyone else had shuffled their feet and cleared their throats and looked away when I asked about him. Likewise for Claude, now that I thought about it. Not that I cared what happened to that bastard at this point.

  Celandra slowed her dance slightly, bobbing her head to a tune only she could hear. Then: “Your friends have him,” she replied. “He himself is safe for now. But your friends do not trust him.” Celandra started singing to herself.

  “Sandor is as Sandor does / With cats around he’s all abuzz / One claw out, the other back / Prepare yourself for the next attack”

  This time, the clapping of her hands cracked through the air like gunshots. Snow spun and glittered, and for a moment I thought she had magicked herself away in a puff of icy faery dust.

  But no. Celandra had simply seized that moment to escape from the conversation altogether in order to join the growling, howling felines as they played and pounced through the trees nearby. I sighed, longing to follow. It looked like fun, and I wouldn’t have said no to a bit of company after my last few hours.

  Instead I turned around and went back inside to wait for dawn.

  * * *

  I was too restless to sleep. Two mugs of cocoa, half a canister of whipped cream, untold handfuls of marshmallows and a hell of a sugar rush later, I was still wandering around the urban chalet listening to the chirping growling whistling sounds of the wind. Alone.

  Knock knock knock.

  The banging on the door had me jumping almost out of my skin. A healthy dose of self-preservation had me hovering, slinking into shadows. Who knew I was here?

  There was no good answer. My heart hammered a staccato thud thud thwackity thud in response to whoever or whatever was waiting.

  The door handle rattled, and the knocking resumed. There were prickles of sweat on my upper lip. I was back there again. Heart pounding. I couldn’t breathe. No, I had to breathe. This was now, not then. And this door was solid. Wasn’t it? The pack wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of rescuing me only to leave me vulnerable to attack while they went all shift-happy. Right?

  “Dana, open the door.”

  I knew that voice. Streaked to the door and flung it open so fast I was surprised there was no trail of fire in the wake of my path. I leapt into his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist as Jon nuzzled into the crevice between my neck and my jaw, stroking my back and murmuring soft nothings. Holding me. Kissing the top of my head. “Come in,” I whispered. Kicking the door shut behind him, releasing one hand to fasten all the locks back in place.

  His mouth found mine. I felt the tips of his fangs against my bottom lips, slight pressure, not enough to break skin. I’d had enough of danger for a while. Hadn’t I?

  But. Wait. There were questions. I couldn’t think; too close, Jon’s scent pushing out the whys and hows and rational explanations needed. Because timing. Because how. Because Claude.

  My hand firm against his chest as I pushed away. Space. Things needing to be said, understood, explained. My feet touching the floor again even as every other part of me wanted more.

  “What is it?” Jon didn’t resist, but he didn’t back up either. Two steps to the opposite side of the entranceway, where he leaned up against the exposed red and orange brick of the wall. I mirrored his motions and did the same. Trying to avoid his eyes. Just in case.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” A reasonable question to start.

  “It’s a full moon,” Jon replied. “Where else would you be?”

  I could think of any number of other places I’d been on any number of other full moon nights that didn’t involve the pack house at Cherry Beach.

  “And the Swan? When we found Sandor? How did you know to come there? And what were you doing with Claude?”

  “What’s with all the questions?” Jon tried to catch my eye even as I avoided his, looking at that spot just past his shoulder. Just in case.

  “Things change,” I said.

  “Some things can’t,” Jon said, shrugging. “Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  “You could trust me enough to share.” I tried to keep the bitterness from digging in its thorny claws.

  “Can’t,” he said again. This time there was a sigh. “Not my secret to share.” Jon took one step towards me, lifted my hand. Gentle. And kissed the tips of each finger. Electricity. I stopped thinking altogether for a moment. No. Wait. I was forgetting something, something important.

  “Claude?” Yeah. That was it.

  “Pack justice.” Cryptic. Jon’s eyes went distant before returning to my face. Kissing my palm, then the inside of my wrist. “It’s up to them.”

  Jon wasn’t giving me a straight answer, not tonight. His lips trailed higher, to the inside of my arm, the bend of my elbow where the skin was softest. I tried to concentrate. To remember why answers were important. Why Jon wasn’t a good idea. But he was close, then closer still, and my back was up against the wall. My legs winding around him with barely a thought. Reflex action. I couldn’t let go even if I wanted to. Did I want to? Dana. My name, his hands; on the back of my head, in my hair, gripping my arms.

  One arm snaked up, inside my shirt, cool against the fuzzy warmth of the lumberjack plaid flannel. I returned the favor, dipping my hand down, lower. Belt buckles, jeans, none of it mattered; my hand, insistent, found that warm crevice between his cheeks and squeezed.

  Jon groaned and pushed up against me with his hips. The wall didn’t move; all I could do was accept the pressure, the heat building within me. Then I was frantically pulling at fastenings and fabrics and everything standing in the way of skin on skin contact.

  Fire.

  He slid into me with almost no warning; a slight shift of our bodies, and he lifted me up to settle down along his length. One arm wrapped around my waist, the other tangled in my hair, he pulled my head back and pressed down with his lips as he angled up and in. Just the tip, then out again; a little bit more in and then a bit more out. Inch after less-than-agonizing inch. No jack rabbit pounding this; instead, it was slow, languorous, rising in intensity with each thrust.

  Jon let go of my hair and leaned in to brush his mouth over my ear. “Put your hands on my shoulders,” he said. He held me in place with his cock while his hands lifted my breasts, one in each hand, together to his mouth. And bit down.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I arched as best as I could with the wall at my back, trying to choke off a scream, failing utterly.

  With my nipples firmly wedged in his mouth—what, like they had somewhere else they’d rather be right now?—Jon’s hands traveled south again to cup my ass. Firmly in hand, I was lifted and lowered again and again as I arched and moaned. Jon did some moaning of his own, vibrating with a sensation that traveled down into my core and had me clamping down on him, hard. Pressure built deep within me, bubbling up, sparkles of energy until we both erupted in a shower of endorphins, panting. Not quite spent.

  The front door banged open behind us and I jumped. Jon made a sound, low in his throat, a cross between a grunt and a growl. I felt him
, still inside me, shrinking by the second as he gently put me down onto the floor and retrieved my shirt, which fortunately hadn’t fallen all that far from where we’d ended up. Eyes down, I accepted his offering and shrugged back into something a little more presentable. He did the same with his jeans. Cleared his throat.

  There, standing in front of us having just come back from his shift, was Sam. With his arm around Vine Tattoo Girl’s shoulders. They were both about as naked as Jon and I had been when they came in. So. Sam met my eyes, a cool stare that went a touch cooler as his nostrils flared and he realized what we’d been doing. As far as I could smell, though, they’d been up to pretty much the same thing. I stared back defiantly.

  Anshell saved me from the unbearably awkward moment. Although I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with me. His silhouette filled the doorway, the porch light covering his frame. It was a strange contradiction—the man of light who chose that intersection of time to pause, eyes sweeping the room, and clear his throat. Even he wasn’t alone though, it turned out. Anshell reached one arm back and gently drew in a woman, maybe a bit older than he was, into the room. I didn’t recognize her.

  Well. Weren’t we just a post-coital group of buddies, hanging out all together in the Big House. Not awkward at all.

  Tattoo Vine Girl stepped forward, breaking her contact with Sam, and held out her hand to me.

  “Anika,” she said, grasping my hand and shaking it. Firm; this was no shy and retiring flower of a frail female here. “We’ve met.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Dana. Hi.”

  Nope. Not awkward. Not even a bit.

  I heard more voices coming closer from outside. The rest of the group was heading back; too cold in the middle of winter to risk falling asleep in the snow and shifting back to human in minus twenty degrees Celsius. Shifter body temps ran high, but even so, there were certain body bits you didn’t want to risk losing to frostbite.

  A wisp of breath, air brushing aside as Jon was behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, chin on my head.

  “Are you able to offer hospitality?” I felt my hair move ever so slightly at Jon’s words to Anshell. Right. Sunlight.

  Anshell glanced briefly at Sam before replying. Sam’s eyes narrowed, tightness making the laugh lines at the outer edges of his eyes seem darker, deeper. But then the moment was gone and he was nodding as though it had never occurred to him to let Jon fry in the oily vat of his jealousy.

  “We have a place,” Anshell replied, taking his eyes off Sam and focusing in on Jon. “We will offer you hospitality for the day. But we can’t stay here with you,” he continued. “You won’t be safe if someone comes upon you in repose.”

  “I want to get back anyway,” I said, covering my anxiety at leaving anyone I cared about unattended and unable to defend themselves for even a short while. “It’s only about 4:30 a.m. Should be enough time.”

  * * *

  The snow hit soon after.

  Flakes upon flakes, dancing and swirling, building bit by bit in iridescent drifts of twinkling light. It wasn’t supposed to snow like this, not tonight at least, and yet. Clearly someone had missed the memo, opting instead to shake his snowy, itchy scalp all over us.

  A chill blew through the open door; even the shifters and somewhat dead guy felt it, with shivers starting up and spreading through the gathered few in undulating waves.

  Anshell bumped the door shut with his hip. I tried not to notice the trails of his curling brown hair that huddled in strategically shadowed places: tailbone, hip, just below the underside of his almost nonexistently rounded belly. His pinkish-brown nipples, peaked and hardened by the cold.

  I forced my eyes down and away, hoping no one else had noticed me checking out what was right in front of me. Then looked up again and saw Jon, eyebrow raised, a teasing twinkle in his eye. Unthreatened and similarly appreciative of the view. Huh.

  Lucky for me, Sam hadn’t noticed anything at all—which, all things considered, was probably for the best.

  A loud knock and then Celandra floated in, spreading frozen melted droplets in her wake. One look at the assembled group before she swept past us for the kitchen, chuckling. I trailed after her. Sure, you could say I was running away from a situation that screamed awkward. And? Your point being?

  Jon drifted in, wrapping one arm around me from behind and gently pulling me towards him, leaning us against the countertop. Celandra was piling the island high with an assortment of foodstuffs that made sense to her and her alone.

  Unsliced ham lay next to a single peeled banana, two jars of pickled artichokes, scattered walnuts still in the shell, and a bowl of something that looked suspiciously like eyeballs but I suspected were actually peeled lychees. Oh yeah. And raw, still-pulsating entrails from some creature who was probably pulsating less without them.

  I had an urge to reach forward and plunge my fingers into its steaming, twitching depths. Tasting from the fruits of war, licking the remains of my foe from the tops of my bloody fingertips. Scraping out bits from my claws with pointed teeth.

  Wait, what?

  “Dana?” Jon’s voice echoing through a hollow metal tube. He cared? Then what about Claude, that jealous asshole of a cat who had started this entire chain of fucked-up events?

  The moment broken, I turned away from the offal and poked a verbal stick at that furred beast of a subject we’d all been avoiding.

  “Claude,” I said.

  Jon pulled back. What was he afraid of?

  “Kitty cat went pitter patter splat,” said Celandra in a sing-song voice.

  I raised an eyebrow and turned to face Jon. “Is that true?”

  Jon didn’t reply; instead he turned towards the sink. His hands flexed open then clenched into fists.

  Gee, it’s not like Jon had anything to regret when it came to me. Right? It wasn’t as though his choice in lovers hadn’t come around to bite me in the soon-to-be-(theoretically)-furry ass. Right?

  But we’d been over that already, he and I. I glanced at him once more, his hunched posture, the angular lines of his shoulders as his neck muscles clenched in sync with his jaw. No, there was more to it now.

  I reached up and laid my hand on his shoulder.

  “Claude,” I said. “What happened to him?”

  His throat, gulping, bobbing.

  “Claude,” Jon said, finally. “Was skinned alive and left out in the frost to die.”

  Amazing how easy it is sometimes to take catastrophic news in stride.

  I couldn’t say I was sorry to see the back of his furry little ass gone. But I imagined being skinned alive would hurt. A lot.

  I opened my mouth to say I don’t know what, something comforting maybe, when Sam interjected.

  “Claude’s not dead,” he said.

  Jon spun around so fast I barely caught the blur of motion before he had Sam braced up against the far wall. Almost as fast, Sam had his claws out and he swiped Jon across the cheek, once, just to get his attention.

  “You’re going to play it like this,” Sam growled, “here, in our territory? With dawn so close?”

  I moved in then, pushing them apart. Again, I had that flare of sensation I’d had days earlier. Heat, rushing through me from where my skin made contact with Sam; heat met with coolness, grounding me, forcing my focus back and centered on my core as I touched Jon. My nipples hardened from the chill even as my insides melted with molten need.

  Gods.

  Both men felt it, of course—no chance at dignity for Dana. Two sets of eyes tracked me as I moved to wedge myself between them, Sam in front and Jon behind.

  Anshell, standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. We broke apart, my breath still ragged.

  Thankfully, Anshell had seen fit to put on some clothes. Small mercies. Sam was smiling that small, possessive, se
lf-satisfied smile that said he knew the effect his proximity was having on me.

  Glad someone was enjoying themselves.

  Jon, in contrast, was looking anywhere but at me, distractedly running long fingers through his already rumpled hair.

  “Is it true?” Jon aimed the question at Anshell and over my head.

  Anshell didn’t bother pretending. “Yes,” he said. “Your other lover is still alive.”

  “Where?” Jon’s eyes held Anshell’s. Ugh. Sam caught my train of thought in the motion of my eyes and smirked. Awesome. Very mature.

  “He’s safe,” Anshell said. “Fast healer.”

  Jon stared at him a moment, then gave a brief nod.

  “I have to go,” said Jon. He spun me around quickly and gave me a long deep kiss I suspected was as much for Sam and Anshell’s benefit as it was for mine.

  It tasted of guilt and sadness and endings.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The snow got more intense, hitting like a wall and spitting flakes of white fury. In the heartbeat between Jon leaving my arms and streaking for the door, Anshell had his arm out, barring the way.

  A snarl unlike any sound I’d ever heard from Jon vibrated deep in his throat. Anshell stretched out his other arm to fill the remaining space with his bulk.

  I held my breath. In the stillness, the tap tap tap of snow pellets hitting the wooden frame of the outer deck beat an asynchronously timed metronome of sound.

  “It might be helpful to know where he is, no?” Anshell’s casual words belied the strain it was taking to keep Jon from dashing out into the pre-dawn storm.

  Jon stilled.

  “Tell me,” he said. That bit of fang peeking out told me better than any words the extent to which he was on that edge between control and other. Something dark and dangerous and bloody. For Claude. The cat who had changed and possibly ruined my life.

  “You know he tried to kill her,” Anshell said. Jon’s eyes flicked to me, then away.

  “Are you sure?”