Shadow on the Moon Read Free Page B

question without an
answer, he calmly turned toward a tangle of brush and thickets. Within the
dusky shadows, two sets of watchful eyes glinted red in the light from the
woman's abandoned lantern. He returned their gazes with a hard stare, but they
held their ground. Slowly, his lip curled in threat.
    "Back off," he snarled.
    The eyes retreated, leaving another
squealing rodent in their wake.
    He nonchalantly turned his back and
sprinted easily over the wood and stone obstacles littering his path to the
road. With one athletic leap, he scaled the ditch and landed nearly fifteen
feet away beside the vehicle's spinning wheel.
    His hood fell back, the wind tugged
at his shaggy hair, and snowflakes struck his brow and nose. The cold troubled
him little; he was well fortified against it, but he didn't want to frighten
the poor woman to death.
    Smiling with black humor, he
reached into his overcoat, pulled out a ski mask, and slipped it over his head.
Next, he examined the damage to her vehicle. Over a foot of snow covered the
cab. The snow would act as insulation and undoubtedly would keep her warm, but
the running engine would soon eat up her oxygen. She was still alive though,
very alive. He could smell her in there, the spicy scent of warm flesh, the
tang of hot, rushing blood. Could hear the strong pulse in her veins.
    He dug into the snow bare-handed,
heedless of the scratches he put in the paint, effortlessly deflecting the
myriad new chunks dislodged by his movements. When he'd cleared all the snow
from the driver's window, he leaned over and made out the woman's motionless
silhouette through the condensation on the glass.
    Unconscious.
    This came as no surprise. He'd seen
her strike the windshield, seen her forehead turn crimson, knew she probably
had a concussion.
    Doomed. Without his help, the
others would finish her off before dawn. A guttural protest escaped his lips.
      He must walk away. The risk was too great. Yet
it had been written. On such a night, a maiden would come.
    With a resigned sigh, he stepped
back from the window and hurled away the remaining snow. When he was done, he
pulled the door open and reached to shut off the engine and lights. They
offended his sensitive ears and eyes.
    He looked down at the slumped form.
Blood was clotting in her dark, curly hair and the beginnings of a bruise
already stained her forehead, yet he still saw how striking she was. High,
well-defined cheekbones. Smooth, golden skin. A slender, well-developed body. A
dislodged comb hung in her hair, letting her curls fall forward, which gave her
a tumbled, morning-after look.
    His heartbeat quickened and he
realized then how long it had been since he'd touched a mortal woman. Fingers
trembling, he moved a hand toward her fragile throat.
    The wound still bled, the fresh
blood trickling slowly down her face in tiny streams. He inhaled the tart odor
and instantly salivated.
    He jerked his hand back.
    Do no harm. The ingrained dictum
sprang to his mind and lodged there. He tried to dismiss it. Surely it didn't
mean he also had to prevent harm. This wasn't his doing. How could he be
blamed, when the female had foolishly driven down an unmarked dead-end road and
bogged her truck?
    A trill of laughter traveled
through the night. He glanced up, sniffed the air. Was he even now being mocked
by his indecision? Watched, to see if he'd leave the unconscious female so they
could fulfill their dark needs? Or worse, far worse, use her to fulfill his
own?
    He looked up the storm-darkened
path, seeing things that would escape a mortal's eye. A doe stepped out of a
stand of trees, nibbled on some half-frozen grass, withdrew. A squirrel poked
up its head beside a tree. A hawk swept down and the squirrel retreated.
    Maybe if he covered her with warm
blankets, rangers would dig her out in the morning. In a few days she'd be
sharing her adventure with all her friends.
    Right, he thought dryly. Why would
the Forest Service check a dead-end road during