Marked by Moonlight (2 page)

“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 the Fifth Ward.

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.

“Miss Morgan. Help her.” The boy squeezed Gideon's wrist in a final surge of strength, lifting his head to glare at him fiercely. “Before she changes. Save her.”

His fingers slipped from Gideon's wrist, and his head fell back to the pavement. “Finish it.” The kid's voice was hollow as his gaze lifted to the sky.

Gideon complied. With another muffled zing, the kid lay dead. He stood and looked down at the wasted life. Although he had delivered the fatal blow, he suffered no guilt. Gideon had destroyed him, but the kid had been murdered some other time, in some other place, by an embodiment of evil that walked the earth even now, hunting its prey.

He unscrewed the silencer and holstered the gun. Then he pulled free the knife and wiped it clean before returning it to the sheath beneath his jacket. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed. One ring and a brusque voice picked up.

“March here. Got another one. Holcomb and Delcorte. Between a Laundromat and a nail salon.” Without waiting for a reply, he clapped his cell shut and snapped it back on his belt. Those terse words sufficed. The body would be disposed of without sending the local police into a frenzied search for a mad gunman.

As he walked out of the alley, a small bundle caught his eye. He bent and picked up the handbag and rummaged through it. Flipping open the wallet, he quickly scanned the driver's license behind the protective plastic cover. A piece of cake. His hunt just got easy.

Claire Elizabeth Morgan stared back at him, a plain face framed by hair so neat and perfect it could have been a plastic wig.
Frigid
, he couldn't help thinking, suddenly reminded of the nuns at St. Ignatius, where he had attended school until his parents' deaths.

He scanned the rest of the information at a glance. Age: thirty-one. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. The address was clear across town, in the burbs. What the hell had she been doing here? He snapped the wallet shut and stuffed it into the purse. The night was still young.

Might as well get it over with.

The birth of a pup can be a tricky thing; it must be monitored closely, especially the first night.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

G
ideon located the light switch in the apartment. As light flooded the small space, he took a good look at the home of Claire Morgan: age thirty-one, street sense nil. The tidy living area's sparse furnishings reflected a modest life. From the worn, floral print couch to the brass-hinged old chest that functioned as a coffee table, everything pointed to the humble, unassuming nature of its sole inhabitant.

A green-eyed cat blinked at him before jumping down from the couch and disappearing into the bedroom. Gideon's lips twisted in amusement and he wondered how ol' tabby was going to welcome her new mommy home tonight.

Family pictures lined the walls. He surveyed the photos, immediately picking out his quarry posing with family members. Dad, mom, grandparents—he identified these easily, pausing to more closely inspect Claire's husky father. The man's hard eyes demanded a second look. In every picture, he gripped his wife's shoulder or arm—but not lovingly. More like he was afraid she might bolt from his side at any moment. Gideon inspected the rest of the photos. No boyfriends. At least no one important enough to grace a frame. Good. It improved her chances of returning home alone.

He could do what he had to and leave.

Of course, she could have called a friend or family member and be staying the night with them. Depending on the severity of her injury, a loved one might insist on looking after her. Yet she'd been able to walk away. Her injury could not have been too great and no matter the severity, she would recover. Sooner than humanly possible. Her newly altered DNA possessed tremendous regeneration ability.

Two strides took him to her bedroom. A captivating scent assailed him. He lingered in the doorway, inhaling. Gardenia and something else…faint and powdery. He flipped on the light and beheld a room as clean and orderly as the living room.

Several small burgundy- and plum-colored pillows were tossed at the head of the neatly made bed, a splash of color against the ivory comforter. A small desk sat against one wall, an obsolete IBM on top of it. Stacks of papers littered the surface, the only visible sign of disorder.

Curious, he stepped closer and selected a paper off the top of one stack, an essay of some kind with her name in the header. The neat comments in the margins undoubtedly belonged to her. The depth of her feedback told him she had a lot of time on her hands.

He shook his head and began to feel the pricking of his conscience. Most of his prey lacked identities, but a very definite picture of Claire Morgan began to form in his mind.

He shrugged off the uncomfortable pang of conscience.

His eyes landed on a photo on her desk. With a heavy heart, he picked up the heavy wood frame. The words
World's Best Teacher
were inscribed at the top of the frame, and behind the gleaming glass smiled a group of kids. The kid from the alley was there, one arm draped over Claire Morgan's shoulders.

Gideon gazed at the two of them for a long time, willing the image of the boy with the bright, hopeful smile and the woman with the timid eyes to disappear—if not from the photo, then at least from his mind.

“Shit,” he muttered, dropping the frame back on the desk, wishing he had never set eyes on it.

Claire Morgan had been in that alley to help a student. Of that he felt certain. How could he snuff out little Miss Mary Poppins?

He reminded himself that her goodness no longer existed. She was one of them now. He shouldn't look at her differently from any other kill. He hunted. He destroyed. It had never been complicated before. It didn't have to get complicated now.

But she hasn't taken blood yet
. There was still a chance. His thoughts turned down another path, one rarely ventured. Could things have been different if someone had given his parents a chance?

Shaking his head, he dragged his hands through his shaggy locks. He couldn't risk it. There was too much to lose. Too many lives at risk as long as she lived. He lowered himself to the wicker chair in the corner of the room. A ragged, one-eyed teddy bear nestled amid the pillows of her bed stared back at him, reminding him of his kid sister's old bear. The one their parents bought her their last Christmas together.

“Ah, hell,” he swore as something long dead stirred to life in his gut. He was finished speculating. It was too late. Things just got complicated.

 

“Thanks, Maggie. Hope I didn't ruin your Friday.” Claire rolled her shoulder, testing it carefully as her friend and coworker unlocked the apartment door for her. She winced at the shooting pain and flexed her fingers around the small, white pharmacy bag, eager to down one of the pills within.

“No problem,” Maggie replied, tossing her purse onto Claire's couch. “The kids are with their dad this weekend anyway.”

“Well, I still owe you.”

Having left her purse in the alley, Claire lacked her insurance card and money for the co-pay. Thankfully, Maggie had been home to take Claire's call and come to the rescue.

“Sure. And don't worry. I won't tell anyone at work what happened. Not even Cyril.”

Claire looked sharply at her friend. “Cyril?”

“Aren't you two dating?”

She should have guessed that her one date with the band director would have made the rounds and been exaggerated into more than single, innocent date status. Cyril was a new teacher and word spread fast when an available man arrived in a largely female-populated workplace.

Cyril was a nice enough guy. At her age, and in her profession, she should latch onto him like bait on a hook. But there was no chemistry. Not that there ever had been. With any man.

“We're just friends.”

“Mind if I give him a shot, then? I'm always on the lookout for an available guy.” Maggie waggled her eyebrows.

“Go for it.” Claire shrugged, and then sucked in a breath at the resulting pain. “But I have to tell you, I don't think he goes for the aggressive type.”

Maggie settled her hands on generous denim-clad hips, her red lips curving into a grin. “Are you saying I'm aggressive?”

“No,” Claire hedged, “but he's asked both me and Jill Tanners out.”

“Tanners? The counselor?”

Claire nodded, trying to hide her dislike. Jill Tanners was the at-risk specialist. The counselor was supposed to help kids, supposed to keep them in school. Yet she hadn't done squat for Lenny or blinked an eye over his uncharacteristic absences.

“That cold fish?”

To drive home her point, Claire answered, “Yep. Miss Morgan and Miss Tanners. The mouse and the cold fish.”

“You're not a mouse,” Maggie argued, averting her eyes.

“Please.” Claire fluttered a hand. “How many fights broke out in my classroom this year?'

“Uhhh…”

“Six,” Claire answered, having no doubt that Maggie knew the number. “How many fights have you had?”

“I dunno.” Maggie shrugged. “Can't remember.”

“You can't remember because there weren't any.”

“So what are you saying?” Maggie asked. “Cyril likes his women…soft?”

“Spineless would be a better word.”

“You're not spineless,” Maggie disagreed, slapping her hands together as if suddenly struck with insight. “You survived a dog mauling, right?”

“Yeah,” she grumbled, glancing at her shoulder and plucking the bloody shreds of her blouse in distaste. “A little worse for wear.”

“Smarts, huh?” Maggie's face screwed tight with sympathy. “Pop a couple of those pills and you'll feel better.”

Reminded of the money she had borrowed this evening to pay for those pills, she said, “I'll pay you back on Monday.”

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. When the 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 of the 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 she sank 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.