Son of the Moonless Night (The Turning Stone Chronicles Book 3)

by C. D. Hersh

  “If he’s sae guid, he should offer the information with nae strings attached.”

  “Would you, if you were dealing with the enemy?” Rhys asked. “Before Roc had his change of heart, he brainwashed Owen.”

  “Whose side are ye on, laddie?”

  “No side. Just acting as the neutral party here. People do change, Eli. Even shifters.”

  “Aye.”

  His head shook ever so slightly, and she hoped he might be seeing Owen’s side.

  “The she-devil changed fer certain. When Baron first took her on as a mentee, she wasnae sae bad. But power and greed got a foothold on her verra quickly. The apple dinna fall far from the tree, as ye sae badly put it earlier, Rhys.” The tea kettle screamed, and Eli took it off the stove and poured the boiling water into the waiting teapot. Placing the teakettle back on the stove, he stood with his back to them, warming his hands over the steaming spout. “I dinna like it. I dinna like it a’tall.”

  “You have to start trusting our judgment sometime, Eli,” she said softly. “We are your Promised Ones, after all.”

  Slowly, the old man rotated toward them. She could see his concern chiseled in every crease on his face. “Aye. I do.”

  “I . . . we . . . won’t make a decision without consulting you. In fact, I think you need to meet him. Make your own assessment.”

  “Ooch, lassie,” Eli said with an amused smile. “Dinna think if I agree I’m giving ye the tiller. The onlooker always thinks himself the better steersman. Ye havenae what it takes tae replace me . . . yet.

  “We’ll consider the request and what he brings tae the table. If the reward ’tis great enough, we’ll talk agin. But make nae mistake aboot it, I dinna trust him. ’Tis easier tae keep the black oot o’ a soul than ’tis tae remove it. The Daughter o’ the Moonless Night has as black a soul as I’ve ever seen. I’ve nae doubt the Son o’ the Moonless Night ’twill be just as black.”

  When Kat opened the door, Owen held out a bouquet of two dozen yellow roses. The clerk had said in the language of flowers yellow roses meant I’m sorry. He’d need a because-I’m-going-to-break-your-heart pre-apology of sorts. She’d probably dash them to the floor in anger when she learned he was leaving, but for now, he let himself enjoy her reactions to his gift. As she took them, he hung his jacket on the hall tree. Kat inhaled deeply, a serene expression coming over her face upon breathing in the fragrance.

  He remembered the first bouquet he’d given her at her office and the arrangement of mums and orange roses she dropped in the sink later that night. They had their first kiss that evening. Tonight, they would have their last kiss. He planned to make sure that kiss would last him the rest of his life.

  Kat swiveled around and started to walk across the entry, but he pushed the door closed and grabbed her waist. Nuzzling her neck with his lips, he tasted her vanilla perfume tinged with a hint of salty flesh. His tongue darted out and swirled on the soft skin. She arched her neck to the side, giving him better access. Beneath his lips her pulse raced. A tiny tremor ran through her.

  “You’re making me lose my grip on the flowers,” she whispered. “If you don’t stop, we’ll have to clean up another broken vase.”

  Without moving his lips from her neck, he skimmed his hands over the sides of her body, along the insides of her arms, and reached for the vase. When he had a firm grip on the glass, he moved his mouth to the base of her neck and nipped her flesh. Kat’s knees dipped, and for a second he thought she was going to the floor. He had visions of taking her on the entryway rug with the roses and water strewn over them.

  I can’t go there. I can’t make love to her and leave her. He yanked her up like a marionette on a string, then released her. “We’ve got a lot of talking to do.”

  She rotated and searched his face.

  Trying desperately to keep any trace of passion from his expression, he coolly said, “When do we eat?” His words had the desired effect.

  She elbowed out of his arms, taking the vase with her, and marched into the kitchen like a general, leaving him to follow. After placing the flowers on the kitchen table, she handed him an apron, instructing him to stir the spaghetti sauce while she prepared the salad.

  Tying the apron high on his chest, he said, “You like Italian, don’t you?” He stirred the sauce, the aromatic aroma of Italian spices rising from the pot.

  “It’s hard to mess up spaghetti.”

  “I recall you burnt the lasagna the first night I came.”

  “We were a tad occupied that night,” she answered. “Won’t happen tonight. We’ve got lots of things to discuss. Talk first. Your rules.”

  The way she said the words made him stop stirring and look at her. She sounded, and looked, nervous. He laid the spoon on the ceramic spoon rest and turned off the stove.

  “So talk. It’s obvious there’s something on your mind.”

  “From the way you stopped kissing me I’d say you had something on your mind, too.” She punctuated her sentence with a whack of the chopping knife on the wooden cutting board.

  “Ladies first.”

  “I realized today I don’t really know you. Other than you’re hot. I don’t usually do what we did without knowing the guy better. Don’t know what came over me. An animalistic urge, I guess.” She stopped viciously chopping the vegetables and stared at him as if she expected something to happen.

  She’s sorry we made love. Is she going to break it off first? As he untied the apron, he moved next to her. “Are you regretting last night? Because if you are . . . if you don’t want to . . .” As much as the words hurt to say, he would be relieved if he didn’t have to break her heart.

  “No . . . yes . . . I don’t know.” She drew in a shaky breath. “It’s not about last night. It’s more about who you are. I know I said secrets weren’t a problem, but I need to know you. The real you.”

  He remembered the question she’d asked him the night she had told him about Olivia. Do you have a sister? Had she put clues together and somehow discovered who Olivia really was? There was no way he could tell her about the real him. Not now. He needed to move her out of the game, not draw her in deeper.

  Easing the knife from her hand, he moved into her personal space and wrapped her in his arms. “Forensic scientist. Single white male. Trouble. That’s what I am, trouble.”

  “Why are you trouble? Is it because of the bear you killed? Or the work you’re doing for the client who pulled you away the first time we almost made love? Why are you trouble? I have to know.”

  “I can’t tell you. You just have to trust that I’m trouble. And because I am, maybe this relationship isn’t going to work.” He waited, expecting a protest or emotional reaction from her over his statement about their relationship.

  Instead, she gave him an even stare and said, “What was a bear doing in a city alley?”

  Not the question he expected from her. “I don’t know.”

  Eyes narrowing, she stepped out of his embrace. “A dead bear should have made the news. They did report a dead man, however. Found the very next morning in the same alley.”

  She knew something. “Are you saying I killed a man, not a bear?”

  “I’m saying there’s something very weird about the bear you killed. I want to know what you know.”

  Did she now know he’d killed a man? But if she did, the same question remained: why hadn’t she reported him? The even bigger question was why wasn’t she freaking out? Or maybe this interrogation was her freaking out.

  The less she learned of his world, the safer she would be when he was gone. “It attacked me. I protected myself.”

  “You should know the man in the alley where I found you landed on my morgue table. I did his autopsy.” She pinned him with a stare that had no other interpretation than liar. “I found something strang
e.”

  He swallowed so hard he could feel his Adam’s apple push against his turtleneck shirt. “Really?”

  “I found animal fur in the bullet wound.”

  “Guess a cat must have licked the wounds. Or a dog. I’ve heard they lick sores on people.”

  The air charged with electricity and smoldering anger as she stared wordlessly at him.

  Finally, he broke the silence. “If you think I killed a man and not a bear, then report me. But don’t expect me to stay here and wait for the cops to haul me away. Sorry, Kat, but I can’t stay with you if this is how this is going to play out.” Stepping forward, he kissed her on the cheek and then spun on his heel.

  Grabbing his jacket from the hall tree, he slung it on and sped out of the apartment, anger twisting his gut. Kat’s questions were too close to his secrets. Secrets that would get her into big trouble if Falhman found out she knew or even suspected. Falhman and his shifters, no all the Turning Stone shifters, were responsible for this agony, this hell, he was going through now. He’d lost one friend because of the shifter war and now this secret was forcing him to walk away from the woman he loved. He felt in the jacket pocket for the syringe he always carried.

  Someone would pay tonight, and he didn’t care who the shifter was.

  “Wait,” Kat called to Owen’s retreating back.

  But he didn’t stop. Grabbing the knife from the kitchen counter, she flung it at the wall, embedding it in the drywall with a twang. As the door slammed shut, she rushed to the hall closet, grabbed her black hoodie and hunting backpack. If he wouldn’t tell her what she needed to know, she’d follow him until she got her answers. If she got lucky, she’d off a paranormal or two in the process.

  Owen walked like a man who didn’t know he was being tracked, making it easy to follow him. He headed straight toward the section of town where she discovered the last vampire victim, the one on which Olivia-rather Owen shifted as Olivia-had run the toxicology report.

  Kat remembered her conversation with Captain Temple after the discovery of the multiple sets of vampire marks on the corpses. The captain had pooh-poohed her vampire theory, focusing instead on shape shifters. She believed in shape shifters. Said she’d seen them. Did she know Owen?

  When he turned into an alley, Kat slipped into the shadows and watched as he transformed into a blonde built like Marilyn Monroe. After rolling his jeans into a cuffed 50s style, he tucked his shirttail into his denims and smoothed his hands over his now curvy backside. Then he bent forward and tossed his hair, fluffing it out over his shoulders. Unbuttoning his shirt halfway down, he gave his boobs a push up.

  A disgusted shiver ran over her spine. He was totally on the prowl like some hooker. As soon as he entered the bar with the blinking neon sign over the door, she slipped behind the same dumpster she’d hidden in back of the other night.

  Twenty minutes later, Owen exited, still shifted as the busty blonde, hanging on the arm of a man big enough to crush the woman with one hand. She gazed up at the man, who said something she obviously thought funny because a melodic laugh floated on the air. The blonde let go of the man, who staggered forward a few steps then fell to his knees. Mounting his back, she wrapped her legs around his neck and giggled as he stood. Carrying her on his shoulders, the pair left the alley, their raucous laughter drifting back as they passed the dumpster.

  As soon as they’d gone, Kat slipped from her hiding place and followed. Their combined height made them easy to tail as they weaved down the sidewalk. Shuddering, she thanked her lucky stars she’d seen this side of Owen. It made breaking up with him a lot easier. The duo entered another alley. Kat crossed the street and waited. After a couple of seconds, Owen exited.

  Alone.

  As himself.

  Dashing across the street, she went into the alley where she found Owen’s companion lying on the ground. Grabbing a flashlight from her pack, she clicked it on and shone it over the man’s body. No signs of struggle showed anywhere, but foamy saliva dripped from his mouth.

  Checking his head, she found a lump. Owen had probably hit him. Perched on his shoulder, knocking out a man three times his size would have been easy. Add to that the fact the man was drunk, and even she could have dropped him without much trouble. She rolled his head to the side to check for a pulse and stopped mid action. Two puncture marks, clearly visible on the man’s neck, dripped blood.

  Her stomach fell to the ground. Frantically, she searched the alley for doors or other means where someone could have entered, but found none. A dead end. The only person who could have killed this man was . . . Owen.

  And he had used, or misused, his paranormal powers.

  Kat grabbed a vial from her pack and scooped the drops of blood seeping from the holes into the tube. Using a second vial, she gathered a sample of the saliva, sealed the tubes, and shoved them into her backpack. Removing a tissue from her bag, she wiped any traces of the saliva and blood off the body. No one, not even the captain, would take these from her. Then she grabbed her cell and dialed 911.

  Chapter 26

  Hugh watched LJ as she studiously avoided him at the Dew Drop. Every time he motioned for her to come to his table, she sent another server. Finally, tired of getting the brush off, he strode to the counter where she stood leaning in the provocative pose which had first drawn him to her.

  “Are you ever going to speak to me?” he asked.

  Glancing to her left, she caught the attention of another server. “This man needs some help,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He tips okay, but he’s a pain in the ass.”

  Punching open the half gate which closed off the counter area from the diners, Hugh strode over to LJ, grabbed her arm, and hauled her into the kitchen. She braced her feet on the floor, but they slid over the greasy tiles, and he towed her to the back door as easily as if she was on water skis.

  “Hey! Let go of me!” she demanded.

  The cook laughed so hard his belly shook beneath his too-short, stained t-shirt. “Give her hell, buddy. It’s the only way to tame someone like her.”

  Breaking his hold, LJ whirled around and made an obscene motion at the cook. “You stay out of this. And you,” she said, spinning back toward Hugh, “Keep your cotton-picking hands off—”

  Stopping her rant mid-sentence, he yanked her into his arms and planted a crushing kiss on her still-moving lips.

  “—me,” she said, with much less vehemence when he finally let her up for air.

  Grasping her hand gently, he led her into the alley behind the Dew Drop and gave her another kiss, this one a bit more civilized. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she said breathlessly as she looked into his eyes expectantly.

  He gave her another crushing kiss, and she melted against him. “That.”

  “Oh, don’t ever be sorry about that.” She drew his mouth to hers, giving him a kiss which made his head spin. “Or this,” she said as she unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and planted a kiss on his chest.

  “I didn’t do that,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Not yet. But I’m hoping you will . . . soon.”

  Gently, he eased her away so he could see her face. “About the other day. I’m sorry. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t give me a chance.” He held out his hand. “Can we start over?”

  Nodding, she took his hand in hers.

  “Hi, I’m Hugh,” he said as he caressed her palm with his fingertips. “I like you a lot. I think you are one hot woman, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

  “Me, too.” Weaving her fingers in his hair, she lowered his mouth to hers and whispered onto his lips, “A lot better.”

  “I meant it when I said I’d do anything you want. Today, tomorrow, whenever.”

  “Just what I wanted to
hear.” Her lips covered his as she locked her hands behind his neck. She pressed against him so quickly she nearly knocked him over.

  “Enough with the lip wrestling.” Cookie’s voice floated out from the doorway. “I got more customers in here. Get back to work, LJ.”

  “Sure thing, Cookie.” She gave Hugh a pat on his backside then sauntered past the cook with a hip wiggle Hugh felt certain was for him.

  Cookie slouched against the doorframe and grinned. “Not sure who tamed who from what I heard, but I think you’re in pretty deep, buddy. I’ve known LJ a long time. I’ve never seen her jump a guy like that. Hope you’re ready for the little firestorm.”

  Hugh’s stomach knotted. He hoped so, too.

  When he returned to the bar, Rhys sat at the table he’d been occupying. “Did we have plans tonight?”

  “No. I just got word from Fiona Kayler something is happening at the docks. You didn’t answer your phone, so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were here, patching things up with LJ.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Hugh pulled out his phone and checked it. “Dead battery. Sorry.”

  “So,” Rhys asked, jerking his head toward LJ. “Everything ok?”

  “Hunky dory. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where you going, Hugh?” LJ called as they headed to the door.

  “Gotta work.”

  Grabbing a napkin from a dispenser, she scribbled on it and then weaved through the maze of tables toward them. When she reached them, she shoved the napkin into Hugh’s hand. “I get off at eleven tonight. Be home by eleven-thirty. We can talk . . . or . . .” After planting a kiss on his cheek, she sashayed off, winking at him over her shoulder.