Page 4 of Marked By Moonlight

Then all thought fled.

There was only agony.

Pain ripped into her shoulder. She screamed as she was hoisted off the ground. The pain sharpened into a million pinpoints of fire as she was shaken side to side, her mouth opened wide in a silent, frozen scream.

Stop. Oh God, make it stop.

As if in answer to her prayer, the stabbing pressure in her shoulderabruptly ceased. The weight bearing her down vanished. She lifted her hand to clutch her shoulder and encountered the slippery stickiness of blood.

Using her uninjured arm, she flattened her palm against the pavement and struggled to her feet, eyes straining to see through the gloom.

She made out two figures locked in struggle moving deeper into the alley, away from her. One was definitely a man. But the other? She shook her groggy head. A dog? No. It was too large.

Whatever it was—she was leaving while she still had the chance.

She staggered off, but even numb with pain something nagged at her, niggling in the back of her mind. A memory flashed in her head with crystalline precision, like an old reel-to-reel home movie.

A blinding, bright day. The kind of hot, thick air she could grab with both hands and taste on her tongue. The prickly, sharp edges of freshly cut grass scratching her ankles as she ran, then her face as her cousin’s growling and snarling mastiff tackled her to the lawn. The heavy paws on her back. The rank, hot breath on her neck. The paralyzing fear as sharp teeth sank into her flesh.

Tonight marked the second time in her life a dog had attacked her. Except tonight the animal had been silent. No barking. No growling. Not a single sound to warn of its attack.

As if it had been lying in wait.

Gideon March had killed before. He’d faced stronger than the one before him and come out on top. Tonight marked another victory.

Squatting, he inspected it with clinical dispassion, one hand braced on a hard, denim-clad knee. He pulled the nine-millimeter from its holster and with a few deft twists screwed on the silencer.The silver-bladed knife protruding from the creature’s burly chest would only impede it temporarily. There was just enough time to finish the job before it was on its feet again.

Pointing the gun, he fired. The eyes widened, transforming from icy silver to deep blue as the bullet penetrated a thick pelt of hair, muscle, and bone. Sitting back on his heels, he waited, observing his quarry thoughtfully as the creature shifted one final time.

This one had been alone. The older and more experienced never left themselves open to ambush, but Gideon had spotted him a mile away. The instant he’d entered the pool hall, Gideon had marked him. His eyes stood out, a beacon among mortals. No colored contacts to camouflage his silver eyes from hunters.

Gideon glanced over his shoulder to verify they were still alone. Just as he thought—the woman was long gone. Turning, he watched the shifting complete. The dark fur disappeared and the musculature shrank, revealing a scrawny adolescent body clinging to the last moments of life.

“Ah, hell.” He ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling older than his thirty-two years. His dispassion slipped a notch as he suffered a stab of regret. In the smoky pool hall, he had appeared young, and now Gideon saw he was just a kid. No more than eighteen. The naked body lying on the pavement looked barely out of puberty. This did not bode well. He knew the nature and habits of lycans well, had spent half his life making it his business to know. They would never bring someone so young into their fold and then leave him to roam alone.

Had he been accidentally infected?

The kid coughed, trying to speak, but blood gurgled in the back of his throat. Too bad. Gideon wished he could press him for information. Instead, he placed his hand over the kid’s brow, compelled to end his suffering.

“Don’t talk. It’ll pass soon.” He pressed the barrel to the kid’s forehead.

A hand shot out, circling Gideon’s wrist in a hold surprisingly firm for one weakening in death.

His finger stilled on the trigger. They never lingered like this. The kid was a fighter.

“I—I didn’t mean to hurt her.” The boy coughed violently, blood spattering from his lips and spraying Gideon’s hand.

Gideon reasoned that he referred to the woman who’d run off. Damn fool. She had signed her own death warrant. Even if she didn’t believe in things that went bump in the night, basic self-preservation would keep a lone woman from strolling down an alley in this part of the city.

The fact that the kid was sorry didn’t change a damn thing. It was done.

And the woman would have to pay.

“I know,” he murmured.

And they weren’t just words. He did know. Better than anyone. It was never intentional. The bloodlust simply overpowered the will. It corrupted the soul, stealing both conscience and free will. To kill was inescapable.

Which was why he had to find the woman.

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