Page 7 of Marked By Moonlight

Maggie waved a hand dismissively. “Hey, you lost your purse. Pay me back whenever.”

Hardly lost. The vision of her purse lying in that dark alley flashed through her mind. She would have to go back in the light of day on the off chance her purse was still there. Tomorrow. Whenthe sun was up. The alley wouldn’t look so frightening in daylight. The dog would be long gone. The stranger, too. Whoever he was, she owed him her gratitude and she hoped he got away unscathed.

Claire sighed. At the moment, she needed relief for her throbbing shoulder. Maggie must have read some of the pain in her face because she went into the kitchen, poked her head in the refrigerator, and resurfaced with a carton of juice. Shooing Molly, Claire’s cat, off the counter, she poured a glass.

“Here you go. Take one of those pills,” she ordered, extending the glass.

“Thanks.” Claire ripped open the pharmacy bag, glanced at the instructions, and popped a pill into her mouth, chasing it with a swig of juice. “I really need to wash up and change.” She held her blouse out from her shoulder in distaste.

“Why don’t I stay until you’re out of the bath and tucked in for the night?”

Accustomed to living alone and taking care of herself, Claire felt the stirrings of impatience. “It’s late. You’ve already done enough. I don’t think it’s necessary—”

“Hey.” Maggie raised a hand in the air to silence her. “I’m a mom. Let me mother. Besides, I don’t want you hitting your head and drowning in the tub.”

“All right.” She gestured to the kitchen. “There’s leftover Chinese if you’re hungry. I won’t be long.”

Closing her bedroom door, she moved into the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she gave the faucet a twist and let the water trail through her fingers until she was satisfied it was the desired warmth. A couple of bath oils. A swish of the hand. Relief was on its way.

Standing, she pulled her blouse from her waistband and moved before the mirror, watching as she gingerly slid her arms out ofthe sleeves and let her blouse flutter to the carpet like a wounded moth.

The severed left strap of her bra hung like a limp noodle. She gave it a disappointed flick. Ruined. Her areola peeked out from the sagging cup of the pink satin bra. Damn. It was one of her favorite bras, too. Her lingerie was the one area of her wardrobe where she permitted herself to be feminine and fashionable.

Carefully peeling back the dressing, she eyed the angry red puncture wounds decorating her shoulder, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She re-covered the wound, glad to conceal the nasty sight.

A bone-deep weariness closed its fist around her. She clumsily removed the rest of her clothes. Kicking free of her khaki pants, she stumbled, instinctively stretching a hand to the nearby closet door for support. Only her hand groped a fistful of air. She caught herself just before falling into the open closet. Straightening, she stared in silence at the dark hole of her walk-in closet. She was sure she had closed the door this morning. As usual. Otherwise, Molly tended to shred her clothes.

Claire shook her head, trying to shake the not altogether unpleasant fuzziness that appeared to be rendering her stupid. She probably forgot. No surprise, considering the kind of day she’d had. Hopefully, her clothes had fared better than the ones she had just removed. She would check for casualties later. For the moment, a bath beckoned.

With a delighted groan, she lowered herself into the tub, taking care to keep her shoulder above water level so she did not soak the wound, per the emergency-room doctor’s orders. She forgot to pull her hair back and was too lazy to get out of the tub for a hair band. The ends of her hair tickled the tops of her shoulders, skimming the surface of the water like pale brown seaweed as shesank lower into the tub. She sighed, welcoming the codeine’s effect as the burning in her shoulder subsided into a mild tingling.

Steam wafted from the water like tendrils of smoke, surrounding her in a protective shroud. Her tongue darted out to lick at the salty sweat beading her upper lip. Incapable of resisting, her eyes fluttered shut. And she began to dream.

Or maybe hallucinate. Too real to be a dream. All five senses were alive, stretched taut and sizzling with awareness despite the dulling drugs coursing through her blood. If this was a dream, never had she dreamed so vividly. Trees and brush surrounded her, their branches grabbing her like clawing hands. Whenever a break in the brush appeared, a thick fog rose to fill the space.

But she wasn’t alone.

The others weren’t visible, but she felt them just the same. In the wild thrumming of her blood, they called to her, summoning her wordlessly. Impossible to resist. She answered their call, running to meet them, propelled through yellowed fog. The moon glowed overhead, a huge pearl in the black sky, guiding her, revealing where to place her feet on the opaque forest floor.

Shadows crowded her, widening and lengthening as their presence grew. She felt their silent breaths, smelled their heat, tasted their hunger. Their eyes, tiny torches of silver fire, glinted like beacons of light through the hazy mireland of fog and forest, signaling her home.

She no longer soaked in a steaming tub but resided in an unearthly realm that both tantalized and frightened. The fog was a tangible thing, cupping her face with yellowed fingers. The wood filled her nostrils with its earthy tang. The pads of her feet sank into the moist soil. It was intoxicating. More acute than arousal. Her flesh sizzled. Pleasure bordered pain as she drew closer and closer to them. Her family, her brethren, her pack.

At last, the shadows materialized. Faces took shape surrounding those eerie eyes—eyes so silver no human could possess them.

And no human did.

As the faces came into focus, Claire’s body jerked in terror.

Her head slid off the tub’s rim. She plunged into the warm, scented water with a gurgling shriek.

Coughing and sputtering, she shot up from the tub, hands slapping water as she sought something solid. One hand found the edge of the tub while the other wiped at rivulets of water streaming down her face. Chest heaving, she lifted her gaze. Through spiky wet lashes, she noticed her cat perched on the back of the toilet, black pupils so dilated the green could hardly be seen. The old tabby arched its back and released a long, moaning meow that twisted into a sharp hiss.

“Molly!” Claire reprimanded, feeling like a disappointed mother as the cat jumped off the toilet and bolted from the bathroom.

“Claire!” Maggie’s muffled voice carried through the bedroom door. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah! Getting out now,” she called, an unmistakable tremor to her voice. “Glad I never did drugs,” she muttered. Who could predict their effect if a mild painkiller reduced her to this?

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