Page 18 of Marked By Moonlight

“Er, can I help you?”

She glanced over her shoulder. A young, beautifully coiffed receptionist angled her head and looked at her with startled, blinking eyes.

Claire turned back to scan the parking lot, dotted with the random assortment of vehicles for a slow Tuesday afternoon, and answered over her shoulder, “I have a five o’clock appointment with Terry.”

“Sure,” the receptionist said in that cautious tone one uses when dealing with someone unpredictable. Not unlike the voice Claire had used that morning with Gideon. “Just one moment, please.”

She slid deeper into the buttery leather cushions, the smell far more pleasing than the overwhelming aroma of chemicals stinging her nose. No sign of a Jeep anywhere, even though she hadsworn the vehicle followed her into the parking lot. Sighing, she swung around and took a moment to observe her surroundings. The salon looked expensive, from its marble receptionist’s counter, to the custom-framed artwork and leather couches. Maggie must live on credit to afford such a posh salon on a teacher’s salary with three kids. Another customer watched her warily, magazine forgotten in her hands.

“Claire?” A man stood by the receptionist’s desk, garbed in an oatmeal-colored man-gown. His lovely flaxen hair flowed to his shoulders in artful waves. “I’m Terry.”

This was Terry?

Maggie hadn’t mentioned her hairdresser was a man. And he was definitely male. Even if he wore a dress. Her gaze swept the broad shoulders stretching the fabric.

She followed him, lowering herself into the hydraulic chair he indicated with a wave, bouncing in her seat as he worked the chair higher. Tugging her ponytail free, he examined her closely before fluffing her hair off her shoulders and declaring, “Hmmm, no body. None at all.”

She smiled wryly. “I know.”

“Okay.” He clapped his hands with an air of efficiency. “What we need to do is give you layers for lift—” He fluffed her hair some more for illustration, frowning when it drifted back into place, flat as ever. “—and lighten up all this brown.”

“Lighten? As in bleach?”

“Highlights,” he admonished. “And with your shade of brown we can be generous with them. They’ll blend in nicely.”

Her shade of brown. He meant mouse brown. Not dark enough to be sable. Not light enough to be honey. She regarded herself in the mirror for one long moment, disliking what she saw. A plain woman with plain brown hair sliding prematurely into middle age.

Claire didn’t understand what compelled this desire to change,but it was long overdue. She didn’t understand why her appearance was no longer good enough, but it simply wasn’t.

She nodded decisively. “Do it.”

“Great!” Terry beamed, clearly not accustomed to winning such immediate and complete agreement from a client. At least not without more convincing. “You’ll be a beauty. Especially with those eyes to set off your new hair.”

“My eyes?” She frowned, focusing on the freakish silver orbs. Although she had tried, repeatedly, she couldn’t ignore them. She had let everyone at work assume she was wearing contacts. It was easier than explaining the truth—especially since she couldn’t provide that either.

She had scoured the Internet during her lunch break for any explanation of sudden eye color change and arrived at nothing. There was no getting around it. She needed to make an appointment with an opthalmologist. No amount of drugs or allergic reaction to tetanus could change her eye color for this length of time.

Standing behind her, Terry framed her face with broad hands that looked like they belonged behind a plow and not in a salon. “They’re stunning. Do amazing things for your face.”

She glared at her reflection.

He didn’t understand. The eyes were all wrong. They weren’t hers.

In spite of her eagerness to change her appearance, her eyes had changed through no effort of her own. At least when she colored her hair she would know it came from a bottle. That it was her choice. And not a result of something else. What that something else was she couldn’t begin to fathom. Wouldn’t dare try.

As Terry led her to the back of the salon, she tried to reclaim her earlier enthusiasm, reminding herself that she was going to shop for new clothes after this and not feel the least bit guilty about it.

But a dark, mesmerizing voice insinuated itself into her mind, not to be forgotten, not to be ignored.

On the next full moon, you will shift. And you will kill.

No amount of pampering and self-indulgence could block out that deep voice. Not as long ashelurked out there, watching, waiting, a shadow that couldn’t be lost. It was just a matter of time before he showed himself again.

Claire walked through the school’s main double doors and squinted fiercely against the blinding sun the following afternoon. It felt like she had stepped into a sauna. Moist heat hugged her and sweat broke out on her top lip.

Students bumped against her as they rushed to escape. But what did she expect only five minutes after the final bell? Claire usually remained at school at least another hour grading papers. But not today. Today, bobbing in a sea of fleeing teens, she craved escape as much as the students. Even if she hadn’t, she still needed to leave right after the bell to make her ophthalmologist appointment.

She walked quickly, eager to put the day behind her. The reactions her new look elicited had grown tedious. The students clearly approved—to an embarrassing degree. By sixth period, she had boys sitting in her class who weren’t even on her attendance roster. Their admiration uncomfortably clear, she spent most of the day managing inappropriate behavior… and in a far harsher manner than was her tendency. Much to her concern. What happened to her limitless patience? Her forbearance?

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