Shepherd's Moon (31 page)

Shit.

“Who’s here?” I asked. But I already knew the answer.

“It is the man who came before. He wants you.”

I’ll bet…
I thought, brushing past her and making my way up the stairs. If Tristan thought he could just show up at my home whenever the mood struck him, he had another thought coming. I clenched my fists so hard I could feel the nails cut half moons into the skin of my palm. All thoughts of the interrogation were set aside as I hobbled to the door, favoring my injured leg.

Tristan stood calmly in the foyer, a lean smile curving his lips, and an enormous tawny cougar draped lazily over his shoulders. He wore a pair of jeans and a large flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his thick sandy-blonde hair tied into a ponytail at the base of his neck with a piece of leather. Beneath the dark clothes, I made out the sleek muscular build of a swimmer, complete with broad, powerful shoulders and a lean, flat stomach. His gray, hungry eyes raked my body, lingering only a moment on the blood that had stained my shirt from the evening’s earlier events, and giving me a smile that sent my pulse racing despite knowing it should have the opposite effect on me. The man both attracted and repelled in an instant, and despite knowing it was in my best interest to keep my guard up while around him, I was unable to stop the shudder that rippled through me. I quickly shifted my gaze from him to the cat draped over his shoulder and the large shotgun he held as he balanced the animal.

“We don’t take owner turn-ins.” My voice was remarkably calm considering the trauma I was putting myself through that night.

“I heard you take all kinds, darlin’.”

With a contemptuous laugh, I began closing the door. “Go away.”

He stuck his foot against the door as I attempted to close it, bullying his way inside. He hefted the cat from his shoulders and unceremoniously dropped the lifeless body on our thick foyer rug where it landed with a dull thud. Despite the anger that raged through me, I took the high road and ignored him, instead kneeling beside the cat and running my hands over its body searching for wounds besides the obvious bullet entries in the shoulder.

“You killed it?” I asked, although the angle of the cat’s neck gave me my answer.

“What do you think?”

Rolling my eyes, I pressed two fingers against the cat’s femoral artery and ignored Tristan’s amused glance as I checked for a pulse. These creatures had a way of healing pretty damn quickly and despite his claim of killing the beast; it was better to be safe than sorry if the animal were capable of awakening.

“He ain’t yours, is he?” he asked, mock concern in his voice. “I’d hate to think I took out one of my co-workers pets. Professional courtesy and all…”

“No,” I shook my head. “He’s not mine, but we did meet earlier. What happened?”

“He and I,” he said with a drawl, “had a little misunderstanding on campus this evening.”

That caught my attention. “And what were you doing on campus?”

“Are you taking an interest in my personal life?” A dangerous smile crossed his lips. It somehow captivated and enraged me at once.

“Not even a little bit,” I chided. “I am, however, curious why someone like you would have an interest in a university.”

“Educational enrichment. Isn’t that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I shook my head and pulling my eyes from his, I motioned towards the large cat. “And what did this one do? Dip your ponytail into an inkwell or something?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Something like that.”

“I’m not sure the death penalty was justified.”

“It is when he tries to kill me first.”

I sighed in exasperation. “What exactly were you planning to achieve by coming over here?”

“I was hoping you could tell me a little something about this particular cat.”

“You and I,” I gestured, “we are
not
working together. Now or ever.” I ran my hands over the cat anyway, examining the animal. Patches of fur were missing from its side and its leg was dislocated at the shoulder, as if it had been drug by the back leg. It didn’t take long to figure out who had done that. Resisting the temptation to offer Tristan a piece of my mind, I continued my makeshift examination of the cat. I pushed the thick fur away to get a better look and was able to make out a blue marking on its shoulder. Separating the thick coat, it became obvious I was staring at a symbol.

The same symbol that had hung from Meg’s neck that first night I’d met her — the same symbol that Daniel now wore. It was the same symbol that was tattooed on the shoulder of the man who had killed his wife and child the night I had first met Tristan…

Suddenly it all clicked together. The symbol was the only unifying factor in all of these cases.

And, raising my eyes to Tristan’s forearm, I noticed a partial symbol branded on his chiseled forearm.

Branded. Tristan was branded with the same symbol of those we pursued. As the thought crashed over me, I felt my pulse soar as my heart thundered against my chest and fury thrummed through me. Faster than I believed would have been possible for a human, I stood and drew the Glock in one fluid motion, holding it to his head as I met his ashen eyes.

Raising his hands in the air, he backed slowly away shaking his head. “Now, just wait a minute…”

But his words came too late. I could no more have stopped myself than I could stop a hurricane headed into the New Orleans bayous; instead I seemed to pick up a super human speed, one rivaled only by my cats. Anger surged and adrenaline flowed through me as I flew over the dead cat, pinning Tristan against the wall with my forearm even as he raised his arms to ward me off.

Before I even sensed movement from him, he grabbed my gun arm forcing it into the air and pushing me hard. Together we fell, yelping as we hit the stone floor with a dull thud. Wrapping my leg around his, I flipped him over, grunting at the sharp pain that coursed through my injured leg. Stubbornly ignoring it, I fell upon him, straddling his waist with my bad leg held out to the side. Blood seeped through the material and his eyes shifted slightly, noticing my handicap. Knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of my disability, I drove the butt of my gun into the side of his head. Blood spattered the front of me, and the movement stunned him. Seizing the opportunity, I pushed the sleeve of his shirt up and stared at the image of a cross and half-moon emblazoned onto his forearm.

He reacted quickly, wrestling the weapon from my grasp and tossing it, sending it sailing down the hall where it clattered against the tile.

“You need to listen to me!” he sputtered a split second before I brought my fist back; striking out in a frenzied attack and hitting him square in the mouth. He bucked me off and we both scrambled to our feet. I immediately dropped into a fighter’s stance, favoring my injured leg.

He didn’t want to hurt me — that much was obvious from the way he avoided hitting me — but he wasn’t afraid to defend himself either. I jabbed with my left, following up with a sharp thrust with my right. My fist slammed into his jaw with a sickening crack as I fell back, off balance, and had to catch my weight on my injured leg. It was the advantage he needed. Using my unchecked momentum, he caught my wrist and pulled me into him, wrapping his long arms around my body and trapping me, despite my efforts to spin away. I brought my head back in a quick movement, catching his chin, and followed through with a sharp lunge from my elbow as I spun away from his grasp.

“Are you done?” I asked panting, hoping he was as tired as I was.

He grinned and I detected the hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “This is just foreplay, darlin’. Come on, now. I know you can do better than this…”

Frustrated rage surged through me, fast overcoming any common sense I had. I wanted to hurt him, hurt him like he hurt that cat he’d hauled in over his shoulder.

Lifting my eyes, I spotted my gun at the end of the long hallway as his gaze followed mine. Staring at one another, his gray eyes held mine for a brief moment, and we both lunged for the weapon. I was in the lead and he grabbed my foot, making an attempt to assuage me even as he pulled me backwards over the floor, away from the gun. Kicking hard, I landed a blow to his face, enough to shock him into releasing my leg, and clambered towards the Glock.

He made a quick recovery and once again reached for me, but I scrambled upright and spun to my left, letting him hit the far wall as I fell to the floor beneath him, then dove for the weapon. We slid across the floor, and I reached for the gun, grasping my hands around the cool metal as his arm encircled my hips. My finger found the trigger as I brought it level with his forehead and his hands left my waist.

“Do it,” he whispered. For the briefest moment, I saw the flicker of hopelessness and anguish in his eyes.

I hesitated as I recognized genuine suffering. This was a man who cared about nothing. Despite his long years of wandering the world, he had no one. Not a single person to care for. Not a single quality worth remembering.

I pulled the trigger.

There is no sound louder in the black depths of night than the click of an empty gun.

Looking down at the weapon in disbelief, I cursed and scrambled away from him as I chambered the gun with a quick vertical movement, hearing the satisfying click of a cartridge entering the chamber and in under a second, held it at his chin once more. He held still, not even flinching.

“Pull the trigger,” he growled, emphasizing each word.

But I couldn’t. There was something in his eyes that I could suddenly identify with. My attention wavered and doubt filled my mind.
What the hell was going on?

He laced his hands behind his head, silently awaiting my verdict.

Daniel’s soft voice broke the spell as he walked in on us, stopping cold as he surveyed the room.

“Alex?”

“Goddammit,” I whispered, lowering the weapon. “Go downstairs, Daniel.” I didn’t bother to holster the gun as I held his eyes. Tristan lowered his hands slowly, and made no move to run as Brock and Billy pushed through the door. Anger flooded through me and my hands clenched at my sides. Brock picked up on my angry confusion and stepped in front of me.

“Rein it in…” Brock said softly, as if he were gentling a mustang. He reached for the gun, taking it from my hands. I allowed him to take it and heard him click the safety on. Brock was afraid of me inadvertently transferring my anger to the pack, which we all knew had the potential to turn into a feeding frenzy. An angry Shepherd is like chumming shark-infested water.

In seconds, they had Tristan cuffed with thick metal restraints and began moving him downstairs to join our feline visitor.

Anger and frustration burned through me as I followed them down the hall.

“Just for the record, torture is a very inefficient way to gather information.” Tristan’s voice was dangerously relaxed. “Why don’t you just ask me what you want to know?”

Despite being shackled to a steel chair bolted to the middle of an empty, soundproofed room, he was as calm as if he were at a five-star restaurant awaiting a table-side salad.

I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Tell me about your artwork.”

He glanced at the tattoo on his forearm. “Is that what all this is about? This is a lot of drama for a brand I never wanted in the first place.”

I shrugged. “Tell me where you got it.”

He lifted his arm to show me, pointing as he explained. “It’s Egyptian — the symbol for the falcon.” He pulled against the metal bands that encased his wrist doing little more than emphasizing the point that he didn’t want to be there.

“And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that every creature we’ve managed to hunt down for the past three weeks all have the same tattoo?”

He laughed out loud. “Tattoos and brands are very different, darlin’. A tattoo is generally something you want, a brand is something that’s forced on you…devil’s in the details.”

I pulled a chair from behind the table and placed the back towards him before straddling the seat. “Alright. Then why don’t you tell me about the brand you had forced on you.”

Nodding to his arm, he smiled. “This here was a gift from a friend.”

“A friend…” I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

“Yeah, well — that’s a long story. More importantly, it’s none of your business and has nothing to do with the case. I know all about the markings you’re referring too, just as Richard knows about them. This ain’t one of them.” He licked his lips. “Got any water?”

I nodded to Billy who stood near the only way in or out of the chamber. Reluctantly, he left the room.

“For the most part, you have a devoted pack,” Tristan observed. “That’s fortunate.”

I stared at him silently.

He shook his long hair away from his eyes. “Darlin’, If you want to get to the bottom of this, you need to start asking the right questions. Lifting his hands against the restraints and spreading his fingers, he smiled. “I can help you get what you want if you’re willing to help me get a little somethin’ somethin’. So far, this little arrangement doesn’t seem like a fair exchange of resources. Besides, didn’t Richard tell you to work with me?”