Moon Shadows Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Moon Shadows

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by The Berkley Publishing Group

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 1-101-14667-2

  A JOVEBOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: November, 2004

  Contents

  WOLF MOON: Nora Roberts

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  THE MOON WITCH: Jill Gregory

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  BLOOD ON THE MOON: Ruth Ryan Langan

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  WEST OF THE MOON: Marianne Willman

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  WOLF MOON

  Nora Roberts

  Prologue

  Italy

  Somewhere in the Piedmont Mountains

  LIKE a brush tipped in twilight, the setting sun shimmered across the valley and daubed silver-edged shadows into the forest. Those last flaming rays wouldn’t linger, but would soon slide away to hide behind the peaks and leave the sky a soft, purpling blue.

  Simone hitched her shoulders, shifting the weight of her backpack as she watched night creep across the wild reaches of Valgrisenche.

  At least she was pretty sure that’s where she stood. She’d wandered off the path—such as it was—hours earlier. But she didn’t care. She’d come for the adventure, for the thrill. For the freedom.

  And if she was a little lost in a remote area of the Italian mountains, so what? She was in the Italian mountains, and that’s what counted.

  In any case, she had her compass, her guidebooks, and all the necessary supplies. Tomorrow, she’d cross over into France—France, she thought with a quick hiking-boot boogie.

  If the mood struck anyway, if she didn’t decide to linger on this side of the border another day or two before she continued her journey. This glorious and personal journey.

  She’d camp, but not yet. The light was fading, but the sunset was so spectacular, painting reds and golds over the western sky. She’d always thought twilight the most magical of times. A breathless hush that should be savored before it bled away to night.

  So she’d follow the sunset for a while, fill her lungs with the sharp tang of pine from the forest, and watch the dying sun sink onto, into, behind the snow-covered peaks.

  She’d been right to come after the summer season, right to take this one year to indulge in everything she’d dreamed about all of her life.

  She’d tasted pasta in Rome, gotten drunk in Spoleto, bought an ornate silver cross from a vender in Venice, and had a foolishly intense three-day love affair in Florence.

  But most of the time she stayed off the beaten path, enjoying the hikes through the valleys and hills, through the fields of sunflowers, the vineyards.

  For a full third of her eighteen years she’d been trapped in the city, imprisoned by fate, and the system. She’d been forced to follow the rules and had marked each day since her twelfth birthday as a day closer to freedom.

  Now she was here, following a dream. Her parents’ dream, she knew. She was living it for them. If they had lived, they would have come long before this. They, the three of them, would have seen and tasted and smelled and experienced.

  She fingered the heavy cross hanging around her neck and watched the last rays of the sun drip beneath the peaks.

  They would have loved it.

  She settled her pack more comfortably and began to walk again. There was too much energy inside her to settle down for the night. Stars were already winking on, and the sky was mirror clear. She had her flashlight and could follow her nose and compass until she was tired.

  Another hour, she told herself, then she’d pick a spot and call it her room. She’d make a few notes in her trip diary by moonlight.

  It was warm for October in the mountains, and the exercise kept her comfortable with just her faded jean jacket. Nearly six weeks of hiking had added muscle to her usually spindly frame.

  Her cousin, a full year her junior, had already started to sprout breasts when Simone had moved into the tidy, regimented house in Saint Paul. And Patty had never tired of needling her over her lack of shape.

  Or of tattling on Simone over the most minor, and sometimes fabricated, infractions.

  So she’d learned to get along, coast along, and count the days.

  Take a look at me now, Patty, you buck-toothed bitch. She flung her arms out, cocked one in an exaggerated muscleman flex. I’m practically buff.

  She’d cut her sunny blond hair short before she’d left Saint Paul, done it herself as a kind of ritual—and for practicality.

  Less hair, less to deal with while traveling. It was growing out a little shaggy around her triangular face, with the bangs spilling into her eyes and most of the rest shooting up in spikes. Maybe it wasn’t precisely the best look for her, but it was different.

  She thought it might be fun to treat herself to a haircut in Paris. Maybe have it dyed magenta. Radical.

  Her sturdy boots rang over rock, shuffled over dirt, as the full white moon began to rise.

  It was bright enough to turn off the flashlight. She walked by moonlight, dazzled by the huge ball of it sailing over the indigo sky, charmed when a wisp of cloud slipped over the white, then vanished again.

  Watching it, she began to sing Sting’s “Sister Moon.” At her feet a thin fog began to slither and smoke and crawl, like snakes, around her ankles.

  When the howl rose and echoed, she stumbled to a halt. The chill lanced straight into her belly, a blade of bowel-freezing ice. Instinctively, she looked behind her, did a clumsy circle while her breath puffed out in a muffled scream.

  Then she laughed at herself. Stupid knee-jerk reaction, she told herself. It was proba
bly a dog, somebody’s dog running around the woods. And even if it was a wolf—even if—wolves didn’t hunt people, or bother them. That was Hollywood stuff.

  But when the howl poured through the air again—close, was it closer?—every primal nerve went on alert. She quickened her steps, dug into her pocket for her Swiss Army knife.

  No big, she lectured herself. If it was a wolf, it was just out looking for rabbits or mice, or whatever wolves liked to eat. Or it was hoping to make a date with another wolf. It was not interested in her.

  How far was the next village? she wondered, and broke into a jog, her muscles protesting as she punished them up a steep rise. She’d just get to the village, or a house, a farm. Something that had people and light and noise.

  Out of breath she paused to listen and heard nothing but the whisper of the pines with their silver edges etched by the light of the swimming moon.

  Her shoulders started to relax, then she heard it. A rustling. There was movement in the trees, stealthy, stalking that made her think of Hollywood again. Slasher flicks and monster movies.

  But it was worse when she could see, thought she could see, the vague shape of it. Too big to be a dog. And the moonlight glinted off its eyes, fierce and yellow as it melted into deeper shadows with a thick, wet snarl.

  She ran, ran blind and deaf with a primal, heart-strangling fear, ran through shadows and moonlight without any thought of direction or defense, only of escape.

  And never heard it coming.

  It sprang out of the dark, leaped onto her back and sent her pitching forward in a full out, knee-and-palm–ripping fall. The knife spurted out of her hand, and with harsh, breathless shrieks she tried to claw forward.

  It tore at her pack, and the feral, hungry sounds it made turned her limbs to jelly even as her feet scrabbled for purchase. Something sharp raked her arm. Something worse pierced her shoulder.

  The pain was black and bright and, combined with the fear, had her body heaving up, bowing and bucking against the weight on her back.

  The smell of it, and of her own blood, choked her as it dragged her over.

  She saw what couldn’t be, a nightmare monster rising over her in the hard light of the moon. Its long, sleek snout was smeared with blood, and its eyes—yellow and mad—glinted with a horrible hunger.

  Her screams rang out as she slapped and beat against it, as she saw its jaws open. Saw the flash of fangs.

  Again, it sank them into her shoulder, and the pain was beyond screams, beyond reason. Weakening, she shoved at it, her hands pushing into fur, and feeling the raging heart beneath.

  Then her fingers clutched at the silver cross. Sobbing, gibbering with terror, she rammed it into that slick pelt. This time the cry wasn’t human, wasn’t hers. Its blood spilled onto her hand, and its body jerked on hers. She hacked again, babbling insanely, her eyes blind with tears and sweat and blood.

  Then she was alone, bleeding in the dirt, shaking with cold. And staring up at the full, white moon.

  Chapter 1

  Maine

  Eleven years later

  AS she did once a month, Simone loaded her truck with what she thought of as her lotions and potions. She whistled for her dog, waiting until Amico bounded out of the woods where he’d been treeing squirrels—a favorite pastime—and raced over the lawn to leap into the cab of the truck.

  As he always did, he sat on his end of the bench seat and stuck his big brown head out the window in anticipation of the ride.

  She flipped on the stereo, shoved the truck into gear, and started the nine-and-a-half-mile drive into town. The distance was deliberate—not too far from town, for her own convenience. And not too close, for her own preference. Just as the town of Eden Springs was a deliberate choice.

  Small, but not so small that everyone knew everyone’s business. Picturesque enough to draw tourists, so her enterprise could, and did, profit by them.

  She had her solitude, the woods, the cliffs and work that satisfied her. She’d seen as much of the world as she wanted to see.

  She headed for the coast, windows open, the September breeze pouring in while Coldplay poured out. Her hair, sun-kissed blond, danced. She wore it straight, so that the blunt tips stopped just above her shoulderblades. A convenient length she could leave loose or pull back, could play with if she was in the mood, or forget if she was busy.

  Her eyes were a gold-flecked green that suited the diamond points of her chin and cheekbones. Her jeans, boots, leather jacket were all comfortably worn and covered a body that was ruthlessly disciplined. As was her mind.

  Discipline, Simone knew, was the key to survival.

  She enjoyed the ride, a small pleasure, with the smell of the sea salting the air, the scent of her dog warming it. The sky was bold blue and brilliantly clear. But she scented rain, far off, over the water.

  It would come by moonrise.

  Houses grew more plentiful and closer together as she passed the halfway point between her place and town. Charming Cape Cods, tidy ranchers, old-fashioned saltboxes. People were starting to spread out, edging closer to her isolation.

  Nothing to be done about it.

  She checked her watch. She had an appointment at the vet’s—a little detail she was keeping from Amico as long as possible. But there was plenty of time to make the delivery, deal with whatever needed her attention, before walking Amico down to the office for his exam and shots.

  Traffic thickened, such as it was. Beside her, Amico let out a little yip of joy. She knew he loved watching the other cars, the people inside them, the movement, nearly as much as he loved romping through the woods at home and harassing the wildlife.

  She turned down a side street, then another, easing down the narrow roads before turning into the miserly back lot of her little store.

  She’d called it Luna and had selected its location as precisely as she did everything else. This part of town boasted plenty of pedestrian traffic—local and tourist.

  She was deliberately early, before either her manager or her part-time clerk would arrive. It would give her time to unload, to check her inventory, make any adjustments she wished.

  After she’d parked, she let Amico out, gave him the command to sit, to stay. He’d no more break command than he’d sprout wings and fly.

  Carting boxes, she opened the back door, then whistled for him. He darted past her as she carried cartons into the shop. She drew in the scents of rosemary and chamomile, subtle hints of tansy and hawthorn. Dozens of fragrances ran through her senses as she set the newest stock on the counter.

  Clear, square bottles of varying sizes were full of lotions and creams, bath salts and gels. Their colors, soft or bright, illuminated the dim light.

  There were soaps and balms, perfumes and tonics. All made by her own hand, from her own recipes, from her own herbs.

  That would be changing soon, she thought, switching on the lights. Couldn’t stop progress. Her on-line service was beginning to boom, and she would need to hire more help, pass some of the production on to others.

  There was money to be made, and she needed to make it.

  She went out for more stock, piling boxes up. Then began to unload them.

  The skin care products always sold well, she noted. And the bath products were buzzing out the door. She’d been smart to add a few drops of food coloring to the Irish moss shower gel. Customers liked those deep colors.

  Candles were so popular she was thinking of starting another line of them.

  She spent a happy hour replacing or adding to stock and allowed herself a glow of pride and satisfaction. Failure, she told herself, had led to success.

  And sooner or later, she promised herself, she’d find what she needed most.

  “Okay, baby.” With considerable regret, she pulled the leash out of her bag. Amico looked at it, looked at her, then lowered his head as if she’d threatened him with a bat.

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s insulting, but rules are rules.” She crouched down to cl
ip it to his bright red collar. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Her eyes stayed on his as she leaned in, nose to snout. “But there’s a leash law, and we don’t want any trouble. Soon as we get back,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his fur, “it comes off.”

  She crossed to the door, slipping her sunglasses on against the sparkling light. “This is going to be a tough day for you,” she said as they began to walk along the sidewalk. “But you’ve got to keep healthy, right? Fit and trim? Dr. Greene just wants to take care of you.”

  She took the two and a half blocks slowly, to give Amico time to prepare for what was, for him, a very unhappy experience. And she walked slowly for herself, to prolong this rare stroll along a sidewalk where there were people going about their business and their lives.

  “I’ll scramble you eggs when we get home. You know how you love eggs. I’ll put cheese in them, and this will be just a memory. Then we—”

  Her head came up with a snap, and Amico heeled automatically. She caught a scent, elemental and male, that had her system on quiver. The tickle low in her belly became an ache.

  And he rushed around the corner, dark hair flying, worn canvas high-tops slapping pavement in a sound that to her ears was like gunshots.

  He skidded to a halt, avoiding a collision, then grinned. A slow, lazy, sort of how-ya’-doing grin.

  She saw his face—could see nothing else. Dusky skin over strong bones, haloed by a waving mass of damp black hair. His mouth looked as though it had been etched on his face, sculpted there. His eyes were brown, a deep, sumptuous brown. She could see them through the dark lenses he wore.

  She knew them.

  “Hi. Sorry.”

  His voice was like a stroke on bare flesh and had her blood swimming into her head.

  “Running late. You one of mine?”

  The dizziness was passing into something else, some deep and painful need. “Yours?”

  “You my eight o’clock? Ah . . . Simone and Amico?”