Beneath a Rising Moon

  Neva hesitated. “Just a half cup, to warm my insides

  before I venture out again. I have to head up to the hospital

  to see Savannah.”

  “She’s awake?” Betise moved behind the small screens.

  “Yes. And itching to get back to the investigation.”

  “Good for her.” There was the sound of liquid being

  poured, then Betise asked, “She remember what

  happened?”

  “Right now I don’t think she even wants to think about

  the attack. She just wants to get better and find the killer.”

  Neva hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”

  Betise came back out carrying two white mugs. Though

  her expression was still friendly, the wariness evident in

  the air became strong enough to almost taste. “Sure.”

  Neva accepted the full mug with a nod of thanks. “If

  you and Duncan are soul mates, why are you still apart?”

  Betise didn’t answer for several seconds, then grimaced

  and looked away. “Because I was the only one convinced

  that we were.”

  Neva blinked. Of all the answers she’d expected, that

  wasn’t one of them. How could you not know your own

  soul mate? It was a state that transcended the heart,

  transcended the mind, became a linking of spirit. It was

  something you just knew and couldn’t escape. Or so her

  father had always claimed. Never having met her soul

  mate, Neva couldn’t say for certainty what it was like. “He

  didn’t believe you were?”

  She shook her head. “Duncan’s not one to be pinned

  down, even by a soul mate. So he claimed he felt nothing.”

  “You knew he’d lie?”

  Betise’s smile was touched with sadness. “Yes. When

  a bonding is that deep, you can’t help knowing everything

  the other is feeling. It’s instinct.”

  Neva frowned. Something didn’t gel. While she’d sensed

  no lie in Betise’s statement, she hadn’t sensed a lie in

  Duncan’s, either, when he’d claimed Betise and he had

  shared only the one dance and nothing else. So which of

  them was stretching the truth? And why?

  She sipped the coffee and shuddered at its strong,

  almost bitter taste. It had obviously been sitting in the

  pot for a while. “Is that why he left?”

  Betise hesitated. “Partly, I guess.”

  “There was another reason?”

  “He had a reputation with the ladies. It got him into

  trouble more than once.”

  If his behavior then was far wilder than it was now,

  Neva could understand why. He wasn’t exactly the caring,

  sharing type. “So why haven’t you tried to pursue him

  now that he’s back?”

  Betise snorted softly. “You heard him deny our

  relationship. What point is there?”

  Plenty, if they were soul mates. For one, it meant Betise

  could never settle down with another. But maybe that

  didn’t worry her—not as long as she had the moon dance.

  She sipped her coffee and decided she’d better get to

  the point. “I’m going to report your attack to my sister.”

  “Don’t. We’re not really sure it’s linked, and I don’t

  want the rangers fussing over me.”

  Neva raised her eyebrows. “But if it is linked, you might

  hold some clue that could catch this fiend.”

  “It’s doubtful. I didn’t really see much, and to be

  honest, the rangers annoy me more than your father.”

  Neva smiled. “Then tell me, and I’ll pass it on to my

  sister. That way, if there is nothing interesting, you don’t

  have the hassle of talking to the rangers.”

  Betise hesitated, then nodded. “Ask away.”

  “What did he smell like?”

  “Why would that matter? It’s not admissible in a court

  of law.”

  “Well, no, but it could lead the rangers to our killer.”

  “I was under the impression they didn’t find any scents

  at the murder scene.”

  “According to the papers, no. But they did find one at

  the hospital.”

  Betise raised an eyebrow. “Hospital?”

  Neva couldn’t see any point in holding back the

  information, especially since the head nurse was dating

  the current editor of the Gazette. It was a pretty sure bet

  it would be the lead story tomorrow morning. “We think

  the killer may have tried to get to Savannah.”

  “So you were there.”

  “Yeah. I sensed Savannah was waking and came

  down.”

  A smile touched the older wolf’s pale lips. “I wondered

  why Duncan had let you out of his bed. Normally, he’d

  keep his mates occupied day and night.”

  Heat touched Neva’s cheeks. “Yeah, well, he actually

  didn’t know I slipped away.”

  Betise considered her for a moment, then said, “My

  attacker smelled like old sweats.”

  Not a smell anyone was likely to forget in a hurry, and

  not the scent she’d chased in the hospital. It was a strong

  smell that would not dissipate easily, and while the wind

  had been strong last night, it had been almost nonexistent

  in at least two of the other attacks. Surely the rangers

  would have picked up such an unusual aroma. “What did

  he look like?”

  Betise shrugged. “As I said, big. Silver. I was too busy

  defending myself to take much notice.”

  “No identifying marks? Scars?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Yellow.”

  Which was the standard eye color of a true wolf, not

  any of the packs that lived in Ripple Creek. Were they

  dealing with an outsider? Perhaps a wolf that had drifted

  in from one of the other reservations?

  “Was his coat silver or gray?”

  “It wasn’t an old wolf. He was young. Virile.”

  “So he tried to...you know?”

  Betise looked away, her face suddenly pale. “Thank

  the moon you and Duncan were so close. You scared him

  off.”

  They’d scared him off but couldn’t smell him. Not even

  on Betise. Odd. Unless she was lying. Or unless, for some

  strange reason, she knew her attacker and was protecting

  him.

  Which is exactly what Duncan had thought, even if

  he hadn’t come right out and said it.

  She put her half-finished coffee to one side and stood.

  “You’re right. I don’t think it’s the same person.”

  Betise glanced at her quickly. “Why?”

  “Because the rangers aren’t sure the murdered women

  are being raped.”

  “Really? They implied in the papers that they were.”

  “And you can believe everything you see in print,” Neva

  said dryly. She picked up her coats and mask and quickly

  put them on. “I’ll still report your attack to Savannah,

  though I really think you should report it yourself.”

  Betise’s smile was wry. “Given where I was and what I

  was doing, the rangers aren’t going to take it all that

  seriously.”

  “Any attack is serious. The man who attacked you

  might just try his luck with someon
e else.” And right now

  they certainly didn’t need another lunatic running around.

  “I very much doubt it.”

  It was a statement that basically confirmed the theory

  that Betise knew her attacker. “Thanks for the coffee and

  the info.”

  “You sure you don’t want that hair of yours styled?”

  Neva just smiled and opened the door. The wind hit

  her, almost blowing her back inside. Shivering, she closed

  the door but remained under the cover of the entrance for

  a moment, reaching out with her thoughts. There was

  little response from Savannah—her sister was asleep. No

  use going to the hospital just yet then.

  She glanced up the street. On a normal day, the diner

  was within easy walking distance. In the midst of a storm,

  it might as well be in the next county. Or was that

  cowardice speaking? As much as she knew she had to

  speak to her parents, she wasn’t sure she was ready to do

  it just yet. But then, would she ever be? She certainly

  hadn’t confronted them before now, and maybe, if Duncan

  hadn’t have forced the issue, she never would have. Moving

  into her own home had been her only attempt to break

  the leash, and even then, her parents still had too much

  control over her life. As Ari had often commented.

  But the attack on Savannah, and being with Duncan

  these last few days, had forced her to see there was more

  to life—more to her—than blindly following the path her

  parents had set.

  And while she had no intention of becoming a frequent

  visitor at the mansion once this dance was over, she was

  tempted to explore her wilder side. Not so much sexually,

  not even emotionally. She just wanted to step beyond the

  boundaries of her life so far and explore possibilities.

  Discover what else there might be out there for her. True,

  she was happy enough working at the diner, but it was a

  job that would always be there. There was a world beyond

  Ripple Creek to explore. Savannah had taken off years

  ago on a quest to find herself. Maybe it was way past time

  she did, too.

  Only trouble was, that deep down crazy part of her

  wanted to explore it with Duncan at her side.

  She shoved her hands into her pockets and ventured

  out into the storm. The strength of the wind had, if

  anything, increased in the last half hour. It was as if nature

  itself was intent on pushing her back towards the diner

  rather than home.

  She let it blow her along the empty street. The cold

  began to seep into her bones, despite the multiple layers

  of clothes, and her limbs felt leaden. What she needed

  was a good eight hours of solid sleep. Whether she’d get it

  before the full moon finally rose was another question.

  Main Street swung right, and the buildings

  momentarily cut the full force of the wind. She tripped,

  caught herself before she could fall, then glanced behind

  her to see what had snagged her foot. There was nothing

  to see—not even the cracks in the pavement. She shook

  her head and continued on. Above the howl of the wind

  came the sound of an engine. She glanced over her

  shoulder, glimpsing an old blue truck moving slowly along

  the street. At least she wasn’t the only fool out. Though

  she was the only fool walking.

  She tripped again and cursed softly, smacking her

  hand against a shop window as she tried to steady herself.

  Her goddamn feet seemed intent on tripping over each

  other, no matter how hard she tried to lift them. This wasn’t

  good, and it meant she was more tired than she’d thought.

  She studied the snowbound street ahead—or what she

  could see of it. Her house was closer than the diner. Maybe

  she’d better head home and take a nap. The way she felt,

  she’d fall asleep long before she got to the diner, and in

  this storm that would be deadly.

  The wind hit her again as she came out of the

  protection of the buildings to cross the road. She staggered

  sideways like a drunkard, battling to keep upright against

  the force of the storm and the sudden weakness in her

  limbs. Fear slithered through her. It was almost as if the

  utter cold of the day was leeching all her energy.

  She sighed in relief as the next row of shops gave her

  a brief respite from the wind, but she knew worse was to

  come. Her street was the next one, and to get home, she’d

  have to walk against the force of the storm.

  She stopped at the last shop, leaning a hand against

  the glass to support herself as she took several deep

  breaths. Her eyes drooped closed, and she forced them

  open again, blinking rapidly. The slither of fear became

  stronger. She could so easily fall asleep right here and

  now. All she had to do was close her eyes.

  She had to get home. Fast.

  The wind slapped against her the minute she stepped

  out into it, forcing her back several steps. She gritted her

  teeth, leaned forward and walked on, but it felt as if she

  were walking through glue. Icy cold glue, at that. Every

  single step was an energy-draining effort. Her breath tore

  at her throat, and the iciness of the air seemed to shred

  her lungs.

  She counted the houses as she passed each one,

  needing to keep her mind off the effort to walk. Off the

  need to simply lie down and sleep. Eight houses to

  go....seven...a street corner loomed into view. Once she’d

  crossed it, she was almost there. The thought seemed to

  rush fresh energy into her limbs, and she stepped out

  onto the road.

  Above the howl of the storm came the roar of an engine.

  Too late, she became aware of the sullen gleam of

  headlights rushing down on her.

  She yelped and tried to leap away, but the truck clipped

  her hip and sent her sprawling. She smacked against the

  ground, saw stars, and for several seconds couldn’t seem

  to breathe.

  Then oblivion rushed in, accompanied by the harsh

  sound of laughter.

  Ten

  Duncan rapped his knuckles against the old wooden

  door. There was movement inside, so he knew someone

  was home. After a few moments, he heard the scuff of

  heels against wooden flooring approaching the door.

  “Yes?”

  The voice was harsh, elderly. Not Betise, then. “Duncan

  Sinclair,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Betise, if possible.”

  The door opened. Cool air rushed past him,

  accompanied by an unpleasant smell that was both the

  woman and the house. He resisted the urge to step back

  into the fresh air of the storm, and studied the woman in

  front of him. She wasn’t as elderly as he’d thought,

  probably in her mid-fifties, and was a tall, angular stick

  of a woman with harsh yellow hair and grey-green eyes.

  She looked him up and down, and an almost disdainful

  smile touched her thin lips. “You’d be a Sinclair, then?”

  “Yes. Duncan Sinclair, as I said.” He
paused. “And

  you are?”

  “Iyona. Betise’s mother. What do you want with her?”

  “I just need to ask her a question.”

  Iyona snorted. “Yeah right. The day the Sinclairs just

  want to talk is the day the moon will stop rising.” She

  sniffed and stepped aside. “I guess you’d better come in,

  then. I just got a call from her. She’s shutting down her

  shop and coming home. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  Good, because he certainly didn’t want to be stuck

  long in this unripe smelling house. He stepped inside, the

  sharp rap of his boot heels against the old floorboards

  echoing in the empty hallway.

  Iyona slammed the door shut then shuffled past.

  “You’d better wait in the living room. I’m cooking

  sweetbreads, and the smell can get overwhelming if you’re

  not used to it.”

  That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one.

  He walked into the room the old woman had indicated

  and looked around. Like the hall, there was very little in

  the way of furniture. A couple of sofas, a TV, a stack of

  newspapers and magazines piled high on an old pine coffee

  table. The floor was carpeted, the pattern long since faded

  to grime. An analogy that could very well be applied to

  those living in the house.

  He tossed the papers scattered on the sofa to one side

  and sat down. The room, like the hallway, was cold. He

  couldn’t hear the breeze of forced air heating, and there

  wasn’t a fire lit in the old hearth. Maybe Iyona didn’t feel

  the cold.

  He tapped his fingers against the sofa arm for several

  minutes, then glanced toward the kitchen. There was no

  sound of movement. No soft intake of breath. “Have you

  been in Ripple Creek long?” he asked, wondering if she

  was still there or had gone somewhere else.

  Water flushed and a moment later, Iyona appeared,

  shuffling toward the sink to wash her hands. “Came back

  about a month ago.”

  “Where were you before then?” Not that he was really

  interested. He was just trying to make conversation to get

  his mind off the awful smell.

  “Here and there.” Iyona shrugged. “Shame about the

  murders happening up your way.”

  “The rangers will catch whoever is behind them.” If he

  didn’t get the bastard first.

  She glanced at him, amusement glinting in her silvery