Crimson Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Teaser chapter

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF RUTH GLICK (WRITING AS REBECCA YORK)

  “A compulsive read.”—Publishers Weekly

  “York has penned a convincing and sensual paranormal romance, and readers who fell in love with the characters in her last book, Killing Moon, will be glad to meet them again.”—Booklist

  “Mesmerizing action and passions that leap from the pages with the power of a wolf’s coiled spring.”—Bookpage

  “Killing Moon is a delightful supernatural private investigator romance starring two charming lead characters.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Rebecca York delivers page-turning suspense.”

  —Nora Roberts

  “Glick’s prose is smooth, literate, and fast-moving; her love scenes are tender yet erotic; and there’s always a happy ending.”—The Washington Post Book World

  “A true master of intrigue.”—Rave Reviews

  “No one sends more chills down your spine than the very creative and imaginative Ms. York!”—Romantic Times

  “She writes a fast-paced, satisfying thriller.”—UPI

  “Edge of the Moon is clever and a great read. I can’t wait to read the final book in this wonderful series.”

  —Paranormal Romance Reviews

  Don’t miss these other werewolf romantic suspense novels from Rebecca York

  KILLING MOON

  A P.I. with a preternatural talent for tracking finds his prey: a beautiful genetic researcher who may be his only hope for a future . . .

  EDGE OF THE MOON

  A police detective and a woman who files a missing persons report become the pawns of an unholy serial killer in a game of deadly attraction . . .

  WITCHING MOON

  A werewolf and a sexy biologist investigate a swamp steeped in superstition, legend, and death . . .

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.

  CRIMSON MOON

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation edition / January 2005

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted

  materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09880-6

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  PROLOGUE

  IF I’M DEAD, why does it hurt so much?

  The question echoed in his mind as he lay on the hard slab. His eyes blinked open, or as open as the swelling would allow. A field of white covered his face. Clouds? A sheet?

  Every square inch of his body throbbed from punches and kicks. He shifted slightly, testing. Ribs and kidneys screamed in agony.

  That wasn’t the worst. Memories flitted in and out of his brain. The beer. The knockdown, drag-out fight. He’d tried to match the bikers drink for drink. That had been a bad mistake. Not his first.

  A loudspeaker crackled to life. An urgent voice assaulted his ears.

  “Dr. Pearson to ER. Stat. Dr. Pearson to ER. Stat.”

  He was in a hospital. But why was his face covered? Why was the bed so hard and the air so cold?

  Out in the hall, running feet. Voices. He caught snatches of conversation.

  “. . . three-car pileup.”

  “We’ve got all those busted-up bikers, too.”

  “Triage.”

  He tried to hang on to consciousness. It slipped away.

  Sometime later, he woke again. This time he remembered the babble of excited voices he’d heard as he lay bleeding on the barroom floor.

  “Jesus! Roy’s dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “Looks like he hit his head on a table when he went down.”

  More voices, punctuated by loud exclamations of dismay.

  “What the hell are we gonna do?”

  “Shit, I don’t know!”

  “Tell the cops the Marshall kid did it. Serves him right for bringing his sorry ass in here.”

  “Yeah.” A boot kicked at his ribs, but he couldn’t muster the effort to groan in pain. “He can’t say otherwise.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “What does it matter? We all give the cops the same story, he’s dogmeat.”

  Satisfied laughter.

  And now the hard table.

  Inching a hand upward, he pulled the sheet off his face. He was lying in a dark room.

  In the distance, an ambulance siren wailed.

  Had he heard that before? He didn’t know. His brain was too bruised.

  Cautiously he tried to sit up and gasped as agony caught him in an iron grip. But he was tough. Too tough, maybe. He’d dedicated
the first twenty-two years of his life to screwing himself up.

  Somewhere in the recesses of his addled brain, through the fogging pain, he saw an opportunity to escape—for good.

  Teeth gritted, he managed to lower himself to the cold tile floor and passed out.

  Later, his eyes snapped open again. It was still dark. The hospital loudspeaker crackled again.

  The staff was busy.

  Could he stand the pain of transformation? He must.

  He had lost one shoe. It took centuries to work the other one off, then struggle out of jeans and T-shirt caked with dried blood. Centuries to crawl naked to the door, then raise his arm high enough to turn the knob and push the door open a crack. The effort sapped most of his strength, and he sat with his head thrown back against the wall and cold air rasping in and out of his lungs.

  But he couldn’t stay here long. Eyes closed, he gathered his inner resources, calling on rituals passed from father to son back to the time before written records.

  He had learned the words on his sixteenth birthday—the way his brothers had before him. Only two of them were still alive. The ones who were tough enough to survive.

  “Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen,” he whispered through split, swollen lips, then repeated the same phrase and went on to another.

  “Ga. Feart. Cleas. Duais. Aithriocht. Go gcumhdai is dtreorai na deithe thu.”

  Pain flashed like lightning in his brain. As bad as the first time. No—worse, because his body was too battered to abide the change. He forced himself to endure the agony because he must.

  As they had throughout his adult life, the ancient words helped him through the torture of transformation, opened his mind, freed him from the bonds of his human shape. His brother, Ross, had told him the words were Gaelic. An appeal to Druid deities for powers no man should possess. He didn’t care what they were—so long as they helped center his being.

  The human part of his mind screamed in protest when he felt his jaw elongate, his teeth sharpen, his body jerk as limbs and muscles transformed into a different shape that, still, was as familiar to him as his human form. Gray hair formed along his flanks, covering his body in a thick, silver-tipped pelt. The color and structure of his eyes changed. And when he forced himself to stand, he was on all fours.

  He had been a man. Now he was an animal.

  A wolf.

  If anybody saw him, maybe they’d think he was a big dog. Or maybe they’d be too busy to notice him. If he was lucky.

  The pain was almost too much to bear, but he forced himself to hang onto consciousness. Forced himself to poke his head out the door and reconnoiter in the hallway. He could see an open doorway, where the ambulances unloaded the injured and the dying.

  Mustering every ounce of resolve he possessed, he staggered toward the exit.

  Someone behind him shouted. “What the hell?”

  He kept going, into the night. Into the woods.

  HE holed up in an old shed until he was strong enough to hunt. With deer meat in his belly and only a vague plan in mind, he transformed back to his human persona. He stole a car and drove west, changing his name, courtesy of a convenient gravestone in a cemetery in Canton, Ohio. He vowed to stay out of trouble from now on.

  Thirty miles west of Denver, he detoured onto a narrow mountain road, drawn by the majestic scenery, so different from the rolling countryside around Baltimore. At the edge of a pine forest, he stopped to stretch his legs. Or perhaps, fate had tapped him on the shoulder.

  As he stood in the sun-dappled forest, he realized something was badly wrong. No birds chirped in the trees. The small animals he expected to hear in the underbrush were strangely quiet. Even the insects seemed to have abandoned the area. The only sound was that of water gurgling over rocks.

  A hundred yards from the road, goose bumps rose on his arms when he found a she-wolf and her pups, sheltered by a small cave of rock—all dead. The pups nestled against their mother’s belly fur as she lay on her side, her eyes closed. The little family looked as if they were sleeping. Still, he knew the smell of death, knew they would never get up and run free, breathing in the scent of pine and earth and game.

  His vision blurred as a profound sense of loss washed over him. Was it for the lifeless wolves—or for himself?

  As he dragged in a draft of the forest air, he knew the wolf and her pups were not the only dead creatures here. There were others—too many to count.

  Some disaster had befallen the land, as if an evil magician had put the forest under a spell.

  Which, he reminded himself, was none of his business, even if it were true. He looked back toward the old Chevy he had liberated from Jack’s back lot of half-dead wrecks. He had left his own problems behind. He didn’t need anyone else’s. Still, something compelled him to walk farther into the shade of the tall pines, feeling their needles crunch under his feet. Sheltered by the forest, he probed for danger, but he knew he was alone. And he knew he wasn’t going to leave until he found out what had happened.

  Swiftly, he removed all of his clothing. Then, in the light shifting through the tree branches, he ran his hand down his ribs. His body was healing. He could see taut skin and firm muscles, although various parts of his anatomy were still marred by yellow bruises. He’d stopped peeing blood, though. The cut on his forehead, covered by a lock of dark hair, was healing, as was his split upper lip. He was damned lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth.

  For the first time since leaving Baltimore, he uttered the words that brought the change upon him. Unlike the last time when he’d barely been able to speak, his voice was strong and sure as he rode above the pain.

  Transformed, he stood and sniffed the air. Usually in the woods, he felt a raw, primal joy at his change from man to wolf. Today that pleasure was tainted by the air around him. Something raw and ugly wafted from the surface of the water where it splashed over the rocks.

  Poison, his sharp sense of smell told him. His human intellect wondered why the she-wolf had drunk the water. Maybe the smell had changed gradually, so she hadn’t known what was happening. Maybe a sudden discharge of chemicals had taken her by surprise. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t recognized the danger.

  The animal in him wanted to flee from the evil that hung like tainted fog over the landscape. The man he was overrode that instinct and forced the wolf to stay, forced him to follow the creek upstream.

  He was hardly aware of time and distance passing as he traveled through a nightmare landscape. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of man’s obscenity, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. Death and destruction followed the creek.

  A doe tried to run from him and floundered on legs that wouldn’t hold her weight. A raccoon stared with glazed eyes. He found fish floating in the water and a family of dead foxes. As he picked his way along the riverbank, heading upstream, the water changed. It had been clear, but it began to have a brown tinge. Farther on, scum clung to the rocks, and farther still, the smell of poison began to clog his nostrils.

  Then, in the distance, he saw a scar on the face of the land. Smoke belched from a tall chimney, where a mining or logging operation defiled the land.

  A sign warned: PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT.

  He ignored the admonition, but he never got close enough to discover what man-made nightmare was changing the pristine forest into a charnel house.

  He sniffed the scent of a man on the wind at the same instant a sound like a firecracker split the air, and something plowed into the trunk of a nearby tree. A bullet.

  The wolf was no fool. He turned and ran for his life. But he knew he would come back. If not in person, then in spirit.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A UNIFORMED RENT-A-COP directed Sam Morgan to a grassy parking spot beside the curving driveway. He pulled his sleek Jaguar next to a boxy Volvo, then got out and clicked the remote control lock. It was precaution he always took, although he was probably the only thief attending the Wilson Woodlock party.

  He’d garnered a
n invitation to the Montecito, California, mansion through one of the tony organizations he belonged to for the purpose of mingling with the well-to-do, especially the ones who raped the earth for their own gain. The ones who killed animals and savaged forests. The ones who poisoned water and air and earth. Liberating some of their ill-gotten wealth was his chosen profession, as well as one of his chief pleasures.

  His next target was Wilson Woodlock, whose company was currently denuding a stand of timber in Washington State with the enthusiasm of a termite nest on steroids. Woodlock. It should be Woodkiller.

  “Enjoy your evening, sir,” the rent-a-cop said as Sam strolled up the driveway.

  “I certainly will,” he answered, with the right touch of enthusiasm.

  A middle-aged couple in evening dress joined him on the curved drive, and the perfume wafting off the woman almost knocked him to the blacktop. Holding his breath, he dropped several paces behind them, pretending to admire the scenery.

  The house sat in the middle of a walled park big enough to swallow a good-sized townhouse development. Instead of cookie-cutter dwellings for the masses, wide lawns with artfully naturalized plantings stretched into the darkness.

  A blaze of lights and the buzz of conversation at the end of the driveway announced the mansion. The structure was typical of the upscale southern California neighborhood—Spanish grandee, with wrought iron balustrades and a red tile roof.

  As Sam stepped into the entrance hall, a waiter immediately approached with graceful flutes on a silver tray.

  “Champagne.”

  “No, thanks,” he answered politely. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the long-ago disaster in the Baltimore bikers’ bar. Back then he’d been rough and tumble Johnny Marshall wearing a black T-shirt and an attitude. Now he was Sam Morgan who felt as much at home in a tuxedo as he did in his wolf’s skin.