Kiss of a Dark Moon (16 page)

R
afe awoke with a start, coming wide awake in an instant, senses alive, muscles strung taut as wires as his eyes adjusted to the darkness with ease.

It had always been that way for him. Sleep never came easily…or deeply. It was the same for his brother. Years of running, fleeing from town to town, staying one step ahead of their enemies.

Such an existence had taught them never to sleep too soundly. Never to grow too comfortable. Never to feel safe.

And to never trust. Only each other. Only their mother. No one else.

Letting people in, growing close to others, only invited pain. Pain could drive anyone mad. And madness was a luxury he could not afford. He needed to remain in control at all times. He'd promised his mother that, promised never to descend into the darkness, never to corrupt his soul.

And yet staring down at Kit, he let pain flow in, seep into that room, past the locked door, and he felt that control slip. Felt the dark beast stir in his heart, a dangerous rumble that threatened the safe life he had built for himself all these years.

Tearing his gaze from her, he reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. He scanned the room, keeping one arm around her, curled close to his side. Her body generated heat like an electric blanket. Still, he spooned his larger body against hers, needing to feel her, craving her as he had no right to. Needing to feel her heat, her breath, her
live
body.

She was all right. She was going to be all right.

It soon became apparent what had woken him. Sleeping alongside her, he was attuned to her every whimper, her every move, right down to the ever-increasing spike in her body temperature.

He felt her brow with the back of his hand. Dangerously hot. Flaming to the touch, hotter than any human body should be.
Or could be and survive
.

But then that was it. The heart of the matter. The very thing that could drive her from him forever. Make her despise him as she despised lycans.

She was no longer human. Initiation had begun.

He'd never gone this far before. Never known if he could. Hell, he still didn't know what the outcome would be—whether she would survive past Initiation. She could still die.

Memories flooded him. He recalled what it had been like. The violence of it. The excruciating agony. Like dying, he imagined.

He lowered his hand to Kit's neck. Her pulse thrummed against her neck in a rapid-fire tempo. Moist curls clung to her damp throat. Like moss on a rock. He swiped them away, wincing at her sharp little cry, well imagining the demons chasing her in her dreams.

“You're going to be fine,” he murmured. He stared at her starkly. “You'll hate me, but you'll be fine. I promise. I'll see you through this, Kit.”
See that the beast, the darkness, never overtakes you.

Even as he thought this, he wondered how he could ever make such a promise. Kit alone would decide her fate.

Moving off the bed, he settled himself in a deep armchair. He covered himself with a throw and sank into the chair's depths. Propping his feet on the edge of the bed, he watched her. Waiting. Knowing it would be days before she woke.

At that moment, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug the phone out and read the sender's information, instinctively knowing before he looked who it would be.

With a grimace, he flipped the phone open. “Hello, Sebastian.”

“What's happened?” His brother wasted no time getting to the point.

Rafe sighed. He shouldn't feel surprised. As brothers, as twins, they were close. “Your timing couldn't be better, little brother.”

“You'll never let me live down those five minutes, huh,
big
brother?”

“With you, I need every advantage.”

Sebastian chuckled in his ear. “I've missed you, brother. When are you going to give up this stupid game you're playing with EFLA? You could make a hell of a lot more difference with me than working for those bastards.”

As long as he remembered, Sebastian only ever referred to EFLA as bastards. A sentiment Rafe did not disagree with, but unlike his brother, he was able to control his animosity in order to meet his goals. Goals that weren't very different from Sebastian's. They just followed different paths in reaching them. Whereas Rafe had infiltrated EFLA's ranks, Sebastian preferred to go it alone, hunting lycans independently. And that is where their objectives differed. Sebastian was content simply to hunt and destroy lycans. Rafe wanted to do that and more.

“Yeah, I've missed you, too. It's been too long.”

“Seven years.”

Seven years already? He didn't monitor time too closely. Not when years rolled by like days, frequent and unnoted.

His gaze fell on Kit tossing restlessly on the bed. That was what had led him to this moment. To her. He had wanted to help her. Others like her. Others like his mother.

From where he sat, he could see the fine sheen of sweat coating her skin. He rose, tossing the throw aside and walking to the bathroom. He just hadn't anticipated helping her quite like this.

“Rafe? You there still?”

Returning to Kit with a wet washcloth in his hand, he replied, “I'm here.” He pressed the cloth to her warm forehead, and murmured, voice laced with derision, “Oh, I think I might be making a difference. More than I ever planned.”

For better or worse.

A heavy pause stretched before his brother spoke again, repeating his first question. “What are you talking about? What's happened?”

“Nothing,” he hedged, reluctant to confess the truth, knowing how Sebastian would react. The same way Rafe would have reacted had his brother been the one to attempt turning someone.

Sebastian's voice scratched roughly on the air. “You forget whom you're talking to. Something has happened. Something big. I can feel it.”

He couldn't pretend nothing had happened with their damned bond hanging thickly between them, humming across continents, linking him with his brother whether he willed it or not.

“Where are you?” Sebastian demanded, beginning to sound genuinely worried.

“Texas,” Rafe answered, glad for one simple, un-complicated question.

“What in hell are you doing there?”

“I go where I am told.”

Sebastian snorted in his ear. “Right. What's EFLA doing in Texas?”

“I'm part of EFLA's assimilation efforts in North America.”

“You mean they've done it? They've really expanded the operation. Great. Just what we need. More of those fuckers dealing out their brand of justice.”

Rafe did not need to hear the sarcasm in his brother's voice to know how Sebastian felt about EFLA. The organization had killed their mother. Butchered her long after she had carried out the much-feared prophecy.

“Sorry, brother. I find it hard to believe you're making a difference by helping EFLA expand itself.”

“No?” he queried, watching as Kit tossed onto her back with a moan, the sound low and terrible, raising goose bumps on his arms.

“What was that?”

Kit's face contorted in her sleep, her delicate features twisted with the dark agony that he recalled from his own Initiation.

“I've done it.” His words fell softly, almost inaudible.

Heavy silence met his hushed proclamation. Then: “What?”

“That thing we've always talked about. Always wondered about.” His hand tightened around his cell. “Remember, Sebastian?”

Their mother had made it a point to educate them on lycans. Desperate for them to understand the powers and limitations of the soulless creatures. But they had been left with questions concerning themselves.

He watched the rapid rise and fall of Kit's chest. Her breathing fell harshly in the room as she fought her fever, fought the demons in her head.

“Rafe? Are you there?”

He gave his head a small shake. “Yes. I'm here.”

“Shit.” A gust of breath followed Sebastian's expletive. “It really worked? Who? How?”

“She was another assignment.”

“And you
turned
her?” Sebastian broke in, his voice accusing. “You never turned any of the others. How did it happen? You didn't attack her, did you?”

“Hell, no!” he cried, hot indignation sweeping through him. “What do you think I am? A fucking animal? EFLA tracked her. She was shot. I didn't have a choice.”

“Yes, you did. You could have let her die rather than take such a risk.” Sebastian's voice lowered, grew grave. “We talked about this. We never knew if we could even turn someone—”

“Well, we can.”

“And we decided never to try. You know what it was like for us. There's no guarantee who we turned wouldn't become dangerous.”

“Kit won't be like them.” It was all he could say, all he could offer as an explanation. Nothing else could be said. He couldn't have let her die without trying. Simple as that.

“Ah.” Sebastian sighed, the sound heavy with understanding.

“What do you mean,
ah
?”

“Come on, Rafe. You forget who you're talking to. I know what you're saying even when you're not saying it.”

Rafe grimaced, flinching outright when Sebastian added, “So are you prepared to spend eternity with this woman?”

“Who said anything about eternity?”

“You turned her. She's yours.”

She's yours
. The words gave him a thrill he shouldn't have felt. His eyes drifted to Kit's lips, barely registering his brother's voice as he continued talking.

“You don't turn someone and leave her to fend for herself. She's your responsibility now.”

“I'll see that she's properly initiated.”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound deep, smug and knowing. He could almost see his brother giving him that leering wink he gave when a particularly attractive woman walked past. “I'll bet.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, little brother.”

“You mean you haven't thought about doing her every which way? Come, be honest.”

“That's not why I did it,” he replied even as he knew his answer acknowledged his brother's assertion that he had thought about sleeping with her. Hell, he had.

Hell, why deny it? Sebastian would know he was lying. That was their gift, and their curse.

Kit had fascinated him from the start. And he wanted her. He couldn't say whether he would have done what he had if he hadn't wanted her so damned much.

At that moment, she arched off the bed, crying out and clawing her cheeks as if she wanted to tear the skin from her body.

“Shit. I have to go.”

“Sounds like you have your hands full,” Sebastian said in his ear. “Go for now, but I expect you to keep me in the loop. Call me. I don't like any of this, Rafe. As a matter of fact, why don't I—”

“I'm fine,” he bit out. “We'll both be fine. Stay where you are. I don't need a babysitter. I'll call you in a few days.”

“Call me tomor—”

Rafe shut his phone, letting it fall to the floor with a thud as he dropped down on the bed beside Kit and gathered her in his arms.

Her cries tore at his heart. He tugged her hands down from her face, wincing at the long, bleeding scratches she had given herself.

Pulling her into his arms, he held her tightly as she thrashed, determined that she not hurt herself, determined that she survive this. Determined that this not be the end of her.

The end of them.

K
it fought against sleep. It was like fighting free from a great thick fog. Her mind shook free of the mist, eyes slowly opening. She stared straight ahead, gaze fixed on wood rafters as she tried to make sense of where she was—and what had happened.

Lockhart's face floated before her, and it all came back with blinding clarity.

Her hand flew to her stomach, meeting nothing save the cool cotton of a T-shirt. Grabbing the neckline, she peered down her shirt. Shadowed flesh met her gaze, breasts bare and trembling. No wound. No blood. Not a scratch.

Her gaze flew up at the sound of a door opening. Rafe stood at the threshold, fast-fading sunlight haloing his tall form, arms full of brown paper bags. A tantalizing aroma carried to her nose.

Squinting and shading her eyes with a hand, she whispered in a parched croak, “What happened?”

“You were…hurt.”

She nodded, everything flooding over her in a rush. The explosion of pain in her chest. Her burning flesh. Hot, unforgiving asphalt colliding with her back. And Rafe. His face looming over her, etched in panic—concern she could not credit. Hardly the reaction of a man determined to kill her.

“I was shot.”

He said nothing, simply stared at her.

“I'm alive,” she murmured, hands drifting down to her stomach again, feeling herself through her T-shirt. Not wounded. Alive.
Incredible. Impossible
.

“How?” she demanded, beginning to grow worried at his silence, at his unflinching stare, at the way she imagined she could hear his very heart beating a steady rhythm against his muscled chest. Crazy. “Did you take me to the hospital?”

Averting his gaze, Rafe moved from the door, kicking it closed with his foot. The savory aroma from the brown paper bags reached her, distracting her.

He nodded, answering slowly, “No. Not the hospital.”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. She eased herself up on her elbows. “How…” She shook her head. “I was shot, right?” She remembered the pain. The burning agony in her stomach. The white-hot fear, the sudden, absolute knowledge that death was at hand. She couldn't have imagined that.

“Would you care to eat while we talk?” He set the bags down on a table near the window.

She eyed him carefully. Dressed in black from head to toe, dark hair disheveled, he looked like something out of
Mission Impossible
.

“I thought you might wake soon,” he went on to say, “so I got some food. Glad I wasn't gone long.” He smiled mildly. A vague sort of smile that revealed nothing. “You woke sooner than I expected.”

She dropped her gaze to the bags in his arms. Surprisingly, she was hungry. Hungrier—she couldn't help thinking—than someone recovering from a gunshot should be. But then she bore no wound. Nothing made sense. Shouldn't she feel weak? Sore? Achy?…S
omething
?

Beginning to think she had lost her mind, she tossed back the covers. “I could eat,” she allowed. Standing, she felt another need assert itself. Turning, she moved into the bathroom, sensing his eyes on her bare legs as she moved.

After emptying her bladder, she stared at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands, wondering what was different about her reflection. She looked the same—yet not.

She pressed her palm over her chest, felt the steady beat of her heart for a moment. Strong and persistent, it thudded against her hand. She slid her hand down, splaying her fingers over the thin cotton T-shirt, still marveling at the absence of a wound. Had she dreamt it all?

“You okay in there?” Rafe's voice carried through the door. The deep rumble of it made the hairs on her arm stand on end. A tickle fluttered inside her belly.

Stepping from the bathroom, she observed him as he set the bags of food on the table. Tugging on her T-shirt, trying to make it extend past mid-thigh, she approached the table. “What happened to my clothes?”

He motioned to a leather chair. A small stack of clothes sat there. A neatly folded gray top and blue jeans. Before she could ask him about her clothes from earlier, he asked, “You like barbecue? They seem to have a lot of that around here.”

He nodded to the bags. A part of her longed to refuse the food, to demand answers first, but her belly rumbled in protest as he began to unload several items wrapped in white butcher's paper. The tempting smell of smoked meat intensified her torment. Her stomach cramped in hunger.

“It's Texas. We do barbecue,” she replied, lowering herself into a chair and shrugging lightly, as if the prospect of food mattered little to her. When he unwrapped a sandwich laden with thick slices of juicy barbecued brisket she had to restrain herself from snatching it up.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “You need the protein.”

Lifting the heavy sandwich to her lips, she wondered at this strange remark. “And why is that?” she asked before taking a bite.

He lowered himself into a chair across from her, an unwrapped sandwich before him. His demon-dark eyes fixed on her, steady and intent. “The calories are…important.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked around a mouthful, her fingers pressed to her lips to cover the fact that she was talking as she chewed.

Instead of answering, he opened a container of creamy potato salad and handed her a fork. Accepting the container, she dug into the chunky potato-and-egg mixture.

“Here.” He pulled out a couple of liters of sports drink from another bag. “Hydrate yourself.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “This could hydrate a small village.”

“Come on,” he directed.

She lifted the heavy jug and sipped. At the first small swallow of liquid, it struck her how parched she was. As he watched, she drank deeply, heedless of the liquid dribbling out of the sides of her mouth.

His gaze followed the trail down her neck, his dark eyes lightening, the centers glowing almost white as his look traveled over her flesh. Fire licked her cheeks.

Clearing her throat, she fought down the rising heat in her face and murmured, “I thought we were going to talk about what happened today. In the parking lot. That bastard Lockhart shot me.” Her hand dropped to her stomach. “Or not,” she muttered. She shook her head and snorted lightly. “Guess not. That guy couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn. Did I fall and hit my head or something?”

How else could she have imagined being shot? Imagined the hot asphalt at her back. Rafe leaning over her. The sweep of death's cold hand over her cheek?

“Or something,” he muttered so low she barely heard him.

“What?”

“Not today,” Rafe murmured, his voice still low. “You weren't shot today.”

She leaned forward in her chair, shaking her head, confused at why he'd emphasized
today
.

“But I was shot?”

Rafe dragged a hand through his hair. The locks fell back in place as if he had not touched his hair at all. “Look, Kit, this is complicated.” He stretched his neck, rotating it in small circles.

Lifting her sandwich, she took a bite. Swallowing, she wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of her lip and studied him. “Since I met you, everything has gotten complicated. That's nothing new.” Setting her sandwich down, she gave him her sternest stare. The kind her grandmother used to give her and Gideon if they dared act like the children they were and intrude on her life. If they dared to be anything more than invisible. “Lay it on me.”

With a heavy sigh, he began, “Nothing happened
today
. You've done nothing but sleep…today.” He motioned to the rumpled bed as if that were evidence enough.

“What are you talking about?” The way he'd stressed
today
made her nervous.

He shifted in his chair. “You slept the day away. And yesterday. And the day before that. Today is Wednesday.”

“Bullshit.” She shook her head and released a nervous little laugh. “That's impossible.” A knot grew in her chest at his stoic expression. “I would have woken up. It's impossible to sleep that long.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Normally it would be.”

“What do you mean
normally
? What are you saying, Rafe?”

“You're not normal anymore.” The lightness from his dark gaze had long since fled. Obdurate black gazed at her. Eyes so dark, her reflection could be seen in them. Bleak, desperate.

Tossing down her napkin, she leaned back in her chair, narrowing her gaze on his impassive face, on the hard, unyielding lines that her palm itched to slap. “What are you telling me?”

“All right.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his face hardening as if he were about to perform an unpleasant task. “The reason EFLA wants you dead isn't because you're a rogue hunter.”

She leaned forward, ready at last for the truth, knowing all along he had been holding out on her. At last, she would have her answers.

“It isn't?” Her stomach clenched and stirred with an unsettling flutter. Suddenly she wasn't so sure she wanted the truth.

“It was easier to let you believe that.” He released a heavy sigh. “In the grand scheme of things, EFLA couldn't give a damn about sending out their special agents to assassinate a couple of rogue hunters. They've got bigger prey to hunt.”

She had always thought the same thing. Thought it rather silly for them to care so much about her and Gideon. To demand their deaths when they were hunting like enemies.
Bigger prey to hunt
. But that meant they saw her as the bigger prey? A shiver chased down her spine. Why?

“But they
do
want me dead. And Gideon.”

“Yes.” The words dropped as heavily as a stone from his lips.

“Why?”

“You're a descendant of the Marshan line. A
female
descendant. As far as EFLA is concerned, you're a dangerous commodity.” His gaze narrowed sharply on her. “Doubly so because you place yourself in the sphere of lycans.”

She shook her head. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

She had never heard the name before—not that she knew anything about her family's genealogy. Her grandmother certainly wasn't interested in the subject. If either of her parents had been, they had not lived long enough to share the knowledge with her.

“It will. It does.”

Shrugging one shoulder, she asked, “So what if I descend from this Marsan line.”

“
Marshan,
” he corrected her.

“Again, what's any of this supposed to mean to me?”

“You have never heard of the Marshan Prophecy?”

“No.”

“Cooper knew. He knew your family was descended from the Marshan line. It's why he saved you and your brother all those years ago. And it's the reason he's dead now.”

Her throat tightened at his words. “He died protecting me?”

Rafe nodded.

She released a shuddery breath. A part of her had always resented Cooper—his closeness with Gideon had, at times, made her feel inferior, alone, a secondary consideration to both of them. But he was the reason Kit and Gideon were alive today. He had been there, arriving moments before their mother turned to kill them both. And now he was gone. Dead. Murdered.

And if Rafe were to be believed, he was gone because of her. Because of some prophecy about which she knew nothing.

“Why?” she demanded. “What's so wrong with descending from this family?”

“You're descended from Étienne Marshan, born approximately
A.D
. thirty. You're descended from him—
before
he became the world's first lycan. You're descended from his child, Christophe Marshan. A single child who escaped, who was not infected with his father's curse.”

Kit stared, unable to speak, struggling to wrap her head around what he was saying.

Rafe leaned forward in his chair. “Do you hear what I'm saying, Kit?”

She nodded dumbly.

“You share DNA with every lycan in existence.” His voice scraped the air, grating her frayed nerves. “A female of the Marshan line can successfully procreate with a lycan to create a new species of lycan. A hybrid, neither fully human nor fully lycan—a
dove natu.
Loosely translated to mean double birth.”

“Bullshit.” The word exploded from her mouth at missile speed. “You want me to believe that I'm a potential”—she groped for the right word—“
carrier
for some prophetic species?” A damned brood mare for the bloodthirsty monsters she had made it her mission to hunt? She closed her eyes and shook her head, suddenly unable to look at his handsome face. To look into his eyes, to see the truth there.