Kiss of a Dark Moon

Spinning around, Kit pressed her back against her car, surprised at how close he stood, caging her in. She must be slipping. She had not even heard him move in behind her.

His warm breath misted her neck. “Little girls who smell of vanilla get gobbled up.”

“Is that a fact?” She tried to sound calm even as her heart raced.

He did not answer, only stepped closer.

Kit's mouth went dry. He leaned in, his face ruthless and unforgiving, beautiful as any marble sculpture. Those dark eyes of his dropped to her mouth, and her belly tightened.

Every instinct said that he was going to kiss her, and a part of her began to suspect she was stupid enough to let him—until she felt the cold steel of a gun against her ribs.

 

“Vivid and compelling,
Marked by Moonlight
is an exciting paranormal romance set in a dark new world of lycans and their slayers. Sharie Kohler will grab you by the throat and hold you enthralled from the first page to the last.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Lara Adrian

AD 70

F
ire licked the night sky, shading the air an eerie blood-red glow. The moon, awash in the same red, followed their movements, a great eye staring down at them as they raced through the village, their feet pounding out a trampled path of mud and snow.

Blood moon.

They shoved past the gawking, mesmerized villagers. The flames from the burning fortress cast their faces a demonic red. With stricken expressions the peasants watched flame and smoke devour the fortress atop the hill. Watched instead of running. As they should have. As he did.

His lungs constricted, the cold air a freezing burn in his too-tight chest. Despite the wintry air, his mother's hand felt hot, slippery with sweat around his. Her breath gusted from her blue-tinged lips in loud pants, clouding the air before them.

She pulled him along, her voice frenzied, “Don't stop, Christophe! Don't look back!”

They ran. Fleeing the blood, the mayhem, the beast that nothing could stop. Not swords. Not the battle-axes of armed knights. Not fire. Nothing.

Choking on smoke-laden air, he worked to keep up with her long strides. He tripped over a gnarled root and fell, losing her hand.

Sprawled on the hard, frozen earth, Christophe could not stop himself. He had to see. Had to look. Throat tight, he looked over his shoulder, feeling like Lot's wife turning for a final glimpse of the damned Sodom.

Even after all that had happened, all he had seen, a gasp ripped from his lips at the sight of his home, writhing in a nest of flames, of the great plume of smoke rising, twisting like a black serpent to kiss the moon.

Even with the parapets engulfed in flame, he made out one figure there, running madly to and fro, screaming a terrible howl that shook the skies. Its large talonlike hands clawed the air.

Not a man. A beast as large as a bear, black hair covering most of its huge frame. The animal had torn Christophe's three eldest brothers apart limb from limb, devouring them until only bloodied masses remained that bore no resemblance to men.

A shrill keening bled into the whistling wind. Christophe scanned the tree-crowded hills, searching for the source, and finding her. A tattered gray cloak whipped around her on a wind of smoke and death. Her ink-black hair flew behind her, a demon's banner amid the white of winter.

The lovely face that had weaved spells about many a man twisted with triumph at the macabre scene. A face he would not forget. A face that should have been blank with death. Entombed beneath earth and stone per his father's edict.

The sorceress stood on a snowcapped rise facing the castle, one slender arm lifted on the wind, a long finger pointing accusingly at the smoldering castle. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a semblance of a smile, her words a gleeful shriek—a terrible mantra that fell from her mouth again and again and again.

“Curse you, Étienne Marshan! You and your line shall know only hell's hunger.”

“Tresa.”
Her name dropped from his mouth, heavy as a stone sinking through water.

“Burn! Burn! Burn!” she shrieked.

Horrified, he looked back to the fortress, watching as the monstrous creature, fire licking up its great body, jumped from the flaming ramparts and into the moat below. Holding his breath, Christophe prayed the beast had perished. A long moment passed before a large dark-furred head rose from the flame-cast waters and swam for shore.

His father lived.

He snapped his gaze back to the rise, searching for the witch who had wrought such evil—but she was gone.

Only her curse remained.

And he. The last of his father's line.
The last Marshan.

“Not the last,” Christophe swore, stumbling over muddied snow. “By God or hell, I'll not be the last.”

K
it's attention strayed from the man sitting across from her. Her gaze flitted over the dimly lit bar and restaurant. Only eight o'clock and the place was busy, every table full. The tiny hairs along her nape stood on end, and she shivered as she assessed her surroundings. Her gaze roamed the dance floor, the tables, then back to the bar, checking each and every face, looking, searching for the source of her unease.

Her date's voice faded to a distant buzz. The music from the band playing onstage subsided to a dull throbbing of drums and guitars, the singer's voice lost entirely as Kit scanned the room. Awareness tightened the skin on her face, made her ears burn and cheeks tingle.

She knew what she was looking for. It had always been so with her—this intuition, the deep sense of knowing. When it came to detecting lycans, her radar was dead on. Even better than her brother's. At least, he claimed this.

Her gaze lit on them then. Three of them sat at the bar, the drinks in their hands untouched as their silver eyes surveyed the room, searching for something besides alcohol to quench their appetites. Four days until the full moon, and they were hungry. Starving. They looked haggard, features drawn and tight. Their bunched muscles corded and flexed beneath their shirts. Even from across the room she sensed their impatience, their desperate hunger.

The closer the full moon, the more dangerous they became. Some hunters refused to hunt altogether so close to moonrise. Not Kit. Those hunters played it safe. Cowards, in her book, disappearing when mankind most needed protection.

They flirted with a waitress, their smiles seductive, enticing, as alluring as fire to a moth. And just as deadly. The girl preened at their attention, clearly flattered, unaware of the dangerous spell they were weaving.

Kit's eyes narrowed as one of them lifted a hand and ran it down the waitress's shoulder in a leisurely stroke. Kit read the threat behind that caress, the barely checked hunger. Hungry in the way a beast covets its prey.

They may not be able to satisfy their blood hunger until shifted, but there were other ways to unleash their aggression, to sate their lust until moonrise. The way their feral gazes followed the young waitress as she moved off, Kit knew the unsuspecting female had just become a candidate for their dark appetites. If she didn't do something, the waitress would be tonight's victim.

“Hello.”

Kit snapped her attention back to her date. “Sorry,” she murmured, setting her drink down on the table and gathering up her purse. “Would you excuse me? I need to use the ladies' room.”

Dan nodded, his soft brown eyes clouding with doubt. He was probably wondering what kind of woman he had agreed to meet for drinks tonight that she needed to dive into the restroom five minutes after saying hello.

She wound her way around tables and waiters, the heels of her boots silent on the carpet as she slipped a hand inside her purse and removed a small bottle of vanilla body spray. She had learned long ago that sweet scents such as vanilla and cinnamon worked best in attracting lycans. With a quick spritz at her throat, she dropped the bottle back in her purse.

Her heart hammering, she cut a path their way. Pasting a smile on her face, she squeezed between two of them, taking special care to brush against them. Physical contact was important. Anything to make herself noticeable.

One of them, the most striking of the trio, with dark hair and tanned skin, leaned forward on his bar-stool. She slid him a speculative glance, her smile inviting as she asked the bartender to break a twenty.

“Thanks,” she murmured, accepting her money and pushing herself off from the bar. She tossed a saucy glance over her shoulder as she sauntered away, catching sight of the dark one's nearly imperceptible nod to his companions. The movement was slight, but enough. Enough for Kit. The trap had been set. Her brother did not approve of her tactics, but they worked for her. The soulless bastards never expected a woman to fight back. Much less pack silver.

Inhaling, she headed toward the winding iron staircase that led to the restaurant's bottom floor, knowing that the three would follow.

Three. Not an advisable number to take on alone. But then, Kit was accustomed to doing things alone.

 

Leaning forward, Rafe Santiago glanced through the windshield. Fingers of red and gold clawed at the graying sky. He inhaled deeply, lowering his gaze back to the building he had been watching for the last half hour. Watching and waiting. Time was running out. Blood already laced the air, rich and pungent as freshly tilled earth.

The bar's front door swung open. A woman stepped out. Petite, with a mass of short blond waves, she headed down the sidewalk alone, her short strides quick in sexy black boots. “Fuck-me boots.” The kind a man liked to imagine wrapped around his waist.

His gaze shot to the seat next to him, to the file there that he had memorized. The photograph within was black-and-white and not the best quality, but he would have recognized her anywhere. He recognized her now. Kit March. Rogue lycan hunter. He grimaced. Or huntress. Whatever he called her, it didn't change the situation. He'd been sent to terminate her.

A quick glance at the night sky through his windshield brought forth a frown.

Four days until the full moon, and the beasts ran restless, almost as dangerous as when the moon beamed brightly overhead, engorged against a dark sky. He'd observed such nights before. Countless times. He knew what was to come, the carnage that resulted when hell's foot soldiers were granted free roam, their lust for blood and flesh at its zenith.

It happened all the time. Unsolved murders around the world spoke to that. Mysterious catastrophes throughout history held no mystery for him. Lycan archivists had documented the truth. Villages sacked. Cities razed. The Siege of Jerusalem in 1099. Jamestown. The riverboat
Sultana
. He knew the truth behind those tragedies. Knew the blame went to lycans.

He assessed his surroundings, his nostrils flaring. Almost as though his thoughts had called them forth, the door to the bar swung open again and
they
emerged.

Three big bastards stepped out into the warm dusk. Even across the street's distance, their eyes glowed a familiar silver. Pack creatures. Bold and deadly. Confidant in their power, they had not bothered to don colored contacts as some lycans did, wary of any one of the dozen hunters in the city detecting them.

They stood still as stone for a moment, not speaking as they lifted their faces to the air, no doubt catching the scent of the female who had gone ahead of them. In moments, they were moving, fast as wind, following her with avid, feral eyes as she turned into an alleyway.

Little fool likely had no idea there were three beasts on her tail. She would be overpowered in an instant.

Rafe opened his car door and stepped into the humid night. He treaded silently after them, his strides quick. He couldn't let them get to her first.
If she were attacked
…

He blinked hard, refusing to contemplate the prospect. He would not allow that to happen.

For all their sakes.

Quickening his pace, he approached the alley, the sweet scent of vanilla teasing his nose as he followed in Kit March's wake, another predator set loose on the night.