The Killing Moon Read online

  “Not much,” she said.

  “Not much, huh?”

  “I promise.”

  He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m going to agree to this.”

  * * *

  Six months ago, in Cole’s basement, he came down the steps with a bowl of soup. “This will keep you hydrated and nourished.”

  He put a spoonful of the liquid in Dana’s mouth. She had an urge to spit it on him, but she realized she was hungry, so she swallowed.

  “It isn’t too hot, is it?” he asked.

  It was the perfect temperature. What did he want? Her to be grateful for the fact he was being a good kidnapper? She didn’t think so. “What’s the point? You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “That was my plan,” he said. “I honestly haven’t decided. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’ll try not to keep you in suspense forever.” He put another spoonful of soup in her mouth. “It would be cowardly to just let you starve to death, though. If I’m going to kill you, I’m going to do it right.”

  She almost did spit the soup on him then, but she was struck with an idea. If she consented to letting him take off her clothes to wash her, he’d have to unchain her to get the sleeves over her hands. With her limbs free, maybe she could get away from him—knock him out or something. Put up some kind of fight. She swallowed. “You can clean me up if you want.”

  He brightened. “Good.”

  He finished feeding her the soup first.

  He came back with scissors.

  Her heart sank.

  He also had a tub of soapy water. A sea sponge was floating in it. He set it down next to her as he began to cut up the arm of her shirt. “Do you still play?”

  “What?”

  “The saxophone.” He snipped over her upper arm, her shoulder.

  She hadn’t touched it since high school. “No.”

  “That’s too bad.” When he cut her collar, he made sure to get her bra strap as well. One side of her shirt fell open.

  She looked over at her bare shoulder and arm. She could see puncture wounds from his claws. Her skin was covered in brownish dried blood. She tried to stifle a whimper, but it escaped from her lips.

  He began to work on cutting the other side of her shirt. “I still mess around with my bass occasionally. I’ve moved on from punk rock, though. I like to think I’ve improved.” He finished the other sleeve and pulled the remnants of her shirt away with one swift motion. The straps of her bra dangled, but the cups stayed in place.

  The bra was ruined, soaked with blood. Her upper torso was a mass of deep claw wounds. She looked mangled.

  Cole knelt down and began cutting the legs of her pants.

  She started shaking. Maybe she should tell him to stop. She was exposed now, not only her nakedness, but the way he’d hurt her. Maybe it had been better covered up.

  Cole continued to cut the fabric. He slid the scissors underneath her underwear, and in three strokes, he’d cut one side of her pants all the way up to the top. The ribbons that had been a pant leg hung around her skin—which looked so pale and vulnerable. She started to shake.

  “We never got a chance to play together, you know,” he was saying. “We always talked about it, but we never did.”

  He had started on the other leg of her pants. At least the bottom half of her body was more or less intact. All of the damage seemed to be above her waist.

  So why was he cutting off her pants?

  But then they were gone too, and Cole straightened, making a perfunctory snip at the tiny bit of fabric holding the cups of her bra together. He tugged that away too.

  And she wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  The shaking got worse.

  Cole was deliberately not looking at her now. He was bending over the tub of water, and he seemed quite interested in the sponge.

  She watched him straighten and turn to her, sponge in hand. Water dripped onto the concrete floor.

  “Cole?”

  His voice was soft. “It’s okay, Dana. I’m just going to get the blood off.”

  The water was warm. She had to admit it felt good, even though her cuts and scratches stung. Cole was gentle as he scrubbed the sticky blood from her skin. He didn’t talk. His face was composed, not a shred of emotion crossed his features.

  He washed her arms first, and then her neck. Then he knelt down and washed her legs, even though there wasn’t much blood there.

  There was blood all over her chest. It had seeped under her bra, settled in the crevice of her cleavage.

  Cole looked at it, and his jaw twitched. He swallowed.

  He put the sponge against her skin, just under her clavicle. Soapy water ran down over her, making rivulets in the blood on her chest.

  She wanted to say not to do it. She didn’t want his hands on her.

  No. That wasn’t true. She didn’t want to think about the idea that maybe she did want his hands on her.

  Because that was disgusting. And horrible. And he had kidnapped her. He had hurt her. This was her blood that he was washing off, and he’d spilled it. And to want the man who was terrorizing her to—

  The rough surface of the sponge brushed one of her nipples. She felt it tighten instantly, and a traitorous warmth was growing between her legs.

  “Why’d you stop playing your sax?” Cole’s voice was strained.

  “I...” She was having trouble catching her breath. “It reminded me too much of things I don’t like to think about.”

  He was moving the sponge over her other breast now, working around the swell of it in rhythmic circles. The sensation was disturbingly erotic, and she fought her arousal as best she could.

  “What things?”

  “High school,” she gasped. Why did that feel good? Why could she register that? Shouldn’t all sexual stimulation be turned off when you were being chained up in a madman’s basement?

  “High school.”

  “What Adam and Chase did,” she said. “The massacre.”

  “Becoming a wolf?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’d be completely different if that hadn’t happened.” He might have been lingering, washing her breasts for longer than was necessary. She couldn’t be sure. If he was, she didn’t know if she minded or not. “You wouldn’t be you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Cole stepped back, removing the sponge. She was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  His gaze swept over her, taking her body in. “You’re very beautiful, Dana,” he whispered.

  She shut her eyes, feeling revolted. But also a tiny bit pleased at the compliment.

  “I need to wash your back.”

  And then he was behind her, the sponge working its way over her spine and the sensitive curve of her waist. His voice at her ear. “This is probably very confusing for you. For both of us. I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  “So you spoke to him?” Chantal Hernandez, werewolf psychiatrist, crossed her legs. She was settled in a chair in her office. She always looked impeccably professional, and today was no exception. She tucked a strand of long, black hair behind her ear and looked at Dana expectantly.

  Dana sat opposite Chantal. The office had a couch, but Dana had never laid down on it. She was comfortable enough sitting up. “I did.”

  “And the world didn’t explode,” Chantal said, smiling. As always, there was a hint of a Latin accent when she spoke. “You didn’t lose your mind or throw yourself at him.”

  “No,” said Dana. “But it was... upsetting. He said things to me that were... suggestive.”

  “Of course it was upsetting,” said Chantal. “How could it not have been?”

  “I guess so,” said Dana.

  “Did his comments frighten you or make you anxious?”

  Dana twisted her hands in her lap. “I guess so. I mean, eventually, they did. I was frightened by my reaction to them.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  She shifted
on the couch. “I felt... aroused.” She could feel heat coming to her face just from admitting this.

  “Are you still fantasizing about him?”

  “Yeah.” Dana hugged herself. “I’ve tried the exercise you told me. The, um...”

  “Orgasmic reconditioning?”

  Dana nodded. “I’m having trouble with it.”

  “You want to talk about that?”

  “Well, I switch the fantasy to something not about him right at the last minute, like I’m supposed to. But then I can’t... finish.”

  Chantal raised her eyebrows. “Not thinking about him essentially halts your orgasm.”

  Dana nodded. “But then the minute I think of him again... everything works fine.”

  Chantal considered. “You know what? I don’t think you should worry too much about that. There are other more aggressive techniques we could try, like aversion therapy, but I’m rather confident this is all going to resolve on its own. I think that engaging with Cole Randall, while he’s imprisoned and can’t hurt you, would be good for you.”

  “Good for me?”

  “In your mind,” said Chantal, “he’s still the man who had absolute power over you. Who imprisoned you. In reality, he’s only a man. And now he is imprisoned. Seeing him in a different way may help you to see that he doesn’t have power over you anymore, which I think will ultimately help rid you of the fantasies.”

  Chantal theorized that Dana fantasized about Cole sexually because she could control him in her fantasies, and it was a way for her subconscious to work through her fear of him—by making him safe.

  “So,” said Dana, “you think seeing him is okay?”

  “I think it might be beneficial,” said Chantal. “Overall, I think being back at work, readjusting to your normal routine, is the best thing you can do for yourself. This man has taken too much of your life away from you already. You need to fight to get it back.”

  Dana sighed. “Tell my partner that.”

  “You want me to put this in writing?” said Chantal.

  “I was joking.”

  “I realize that, but I’d be happy to write down my recommendations, if you’d like,” said Chantal. “Are you getting resistance at work?”

  “No,” said Dana. “Not really. Avery was with me when I went down to see Cole. He watched me talk to him. He was disgusted with me.”

  “And you? Were you disgusted with yourself?”

  Dana shrugged. “I feel like I should be.”

  “No,” said Chantal. “You need to cut yourself slack. You won’t make any progress if you’re constantly punishing yourself.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Hollis says he won’t do the story unless he can interview Cole Randall,” said Dana to Ursula. She and Avery were standing next to Ursula’s desk.

  Ursula shuffled a stack of papers and slid them into a manila folder. She sighed. “You can’t convince him otherwise?”

  Dana shook her head. “I don’t think so. He got a little huffy when I asked. He said he didn’t do public relations stories. If he can interview Cole, I guess he thinks he’d getting both sides of the story.”

  “Do you have any idea how many journalists have asked to interview him?” Ursula said.

  Dana didn’t. “No.”

  “Well, I’ll give Hollis access,” said Ursula. “I can’t make Randall talk to him, though.”

  “I’ll let him know,” said Dana.

  “Speaking of Randall,” said Ursula, “how did your meeting with him go?”

  “Guy’s playing games,” spoke up Avery. “He didn’t have anything to say.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” said Dana. “He is playing games, but he gave me some things to think about.”

  “What things?” said Ursula.

  “He says the two killings are connected,” said Dana. “And he strongly hinted that they may not have done it of their own volition.”

  Ursula’s shoulders sagged. “How could that be possible? They knew how to control their wolves. They had to have done it on purpose. They’ve admitted that, haven’t they?”

  “Well, neither of them will actually talk about what happened,” said Avery. “But Randall’s reaching. I think he wants to get Gray back down there to talk to her again. He’s making up anything that he thinks will entice her.”

  Ursula spread her hands. “What do you think, Gray? Is he manipulating you?”

  “Probably,” said Dana. “But that doesn’t mean what he says isn’t true.”

  “I got an update from your shrink,” said Ursula. “She says that interacting with him is good for your recovery.”

  “What?” said Avery.

  Ursula turned to him. “You disagree, Brooks?”

  “I think...” He shot a look at Dana. “Guy’s creepy, boss. After what Gray went through, I don’t think she should ever have to see him again.”

  “Chantal says that I won’t get past my issues until I can face him,” said Dana.

  “So, you’re saying that you could handle it, if it meant you had to talk to him again?” said Ursula.

  Could she handle it? Did it matter? She wanted to see him again. Dana nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why should she have to, though?” said Avery. “There’s no reason to dig into these guys. They’re murderers.”

  “I agree with you.” Ursula flipped through a few folders on her desk, thinking. “But maybe we have to play it safe. After all, we lock people up here without a trial, without due process, without lawyers. So, we need to investigate thoroughly any hint that they may not have acted purposefully.”

  Avery sighed. “But what is there to look into? Wolves who know how to control themselves only shift on purpose.”

  “Maybe not,” said Dana. “Maybe there’s something else going on here.”

  “You two look into it,” said Ursula. “But go at it from the angle that you’re looking for evidence that they’re murderers. And the minute you find something compelling, we’re done with this. Got it?”

  * * *

  Dana started her tracker apprenticeship when she was nineteen. She and Cole had both gone into the training after the massacre. Dana hadn’t been able to conceive of the idea of leaving the Sullivan Foundation. Since contracting the lupine virus, they were the only people who’d actually been nice to her.

  The Brockway Massacre had been national news. As the only survivors, she and Cole had gotten a lot of press. Everyone knew they were werewolves. That meant most people were afraid of them. Dana didn’t really see herself fitting back into normal society.

  There was also the matter that her mother had died in the gymnasium that night, and she had nowhere else to turn. Her father was alive, but she’d had very little contact with him. He’d skipped out before she was born. She had only spoken to him a handful of times, exchanged a few letters. He hadn’t been a real father to her, and she didn’t even consider turning to him after it happened.

  She assumed that the SF was as natural a fit for Cole as it was for her. His parents were alive, but Cole said they were terrified of the fact he was a wolf and uncomfortable being around him. His younger sister had been in the gym that night, but he’d been unable to save her. He thought maybe his parents resented the fact he’d saved Dana instead of his sister.

  But one week into the apprenticeship, Dana found out that Cole was quitting the SF.

  She was surprised. She’d been fairly certain that he was as committed to the SF as she was.

  When she found out he planned to leave the SF, she went to see him.

  She’d been crushing on Cole since right after the massacre. Maybe it was because he’d saved her life. Maybe it was because he had an uncanny ability to echo whatever she was thinking, making her feel connected to him.

  But there had never been any time for the crush to develop into anything more. Right after the massacre, they’d spent a lot of time together, but they’d been almost immediately separated to go through the training to control their wol
ves.

  After that was over, they’d both committed to extra training to become trackers. It was intensive and exhausting, and it took years rather than months. Though she and Cole were in the same place and often struggling to conquer the same obstacles in their training, the process was so introspective and labor-intensive that they were often too tired to spend much time being social.

  By the time he was quitting, Dana wasn’t even sure if her crush on him wasn’t only a memory of a crush. Still, she wanted to know why he was leaving. She was going to miss him, even if she hadn’t seen him that often.

  She found him in his apartment. He hugged her when she came in the door. “Dana! How are you?”

  She liked the hug, but it was over quickly, and she wasn’t sure if she was meant to read anything into it. Maybe it was only friendly. “I heard you were quitting the Sullivan Foundation.”

  He let her into his apartment. There was a six pack of beer sitting on his counter. “I am. Got someone to buy me these to celebrate.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You don’t want a beer, do you?”

  She shook her head. “You know I can’t.” Alcohol was off limits. Control was paramount. “Besides, we’re not even old enough.”

  He laughed, picking himself up a can and popping it open. “Dana, you were always a stickler for rules, weren’t you?”

  “If they’re good rules,” she said. “Is that why you’re leaving? You want to drink beer?”

  He took a long drink. “That’s only part of it, really.” He gestured to his couch. “You want to sit down?”

  She did.

  “You could say that drinking beer is a symptom of a larger problem,” he said.

  “Rules?”

  He considered. “Artificial rules.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It’s like they force us to keep a whole part of ourselves under control. All the time. And I don’t think it’s just the wolf. I think it’s making me less human too.”

  Dana was confused. She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I feel fake all the time,” he said. “I feel like there’s something inside me that’s bursting to get out, and by pushing it down, I’m strangling part of who I am. It’s like living in prison.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t relate to anything he was saying. Controlling the wolf was freedom to her. As long as it couldn’t come out, she knew she was herself. She thought of the animal as an interloper that had crept into her body without her permission.