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  BURNING MOON

  from CRAVINGS Anthology

  By

  Rebecca York

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  BURNING MOON

  Rebecca York

  * * *

  Prologue

  « ^ »

  SOME people glory in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Antonia Delarosa had learned to seek the shadows of the night.

  On this November evening, she sat in the midnight-dark lounge of the old Victorian where she lived, her narrow hands not quite steady as she shuffled and cut the tarot cards, then laid them on the table in front of her.

  No light illuminated the images. But she didn't need to fix her gaze on them. As she laid each one on the table and ran her finger over the upper left-hand corner, a familiar picture came to her.

  "The Empress," she murmured, seeing in her mind a woman wearing flowing robes and a twelve-star crown, seated on lush red pillows.

  The next card she turned over was the Knight of Cups—coming to save the day, no doubt.

  As a teenager, she had been drawn to the tarot, and she had worked with the cards for more than fifteen years, using many different decks.

  Tonight, she held her old favorites, the Rider-Waite. The one that most people thought of when they pictured the cards whose origins went back to ancient legends and religions.

  As always, she felt herself tapping into a combination of memory and awareness—her own unconscious.

  Shuffling through the deck, she turned over one more card. It showed a man and a woman standing naked under the arms of Raphael, the angel of air, who was giving them his blessing.

  "The Lovers," she breathed. That card had come up for her again and again over the past few months. Of course, it didn't always refer to a romantic relationship. Maybe she was going to mend her fences with Mom.

  "Right. And hippos will fly," she muttered.

  Her hand went back to the Empress, touching the surface lightly, and she uttered a small sound that was part distress and part wonder.

  There was another image intruding into the picture now—something that didn't belong. To the left of the woman, an animal sat ramrod straight, his mouth slightly open, his tongue lolling out between white, pointed teeth.

  "The wolf." Antonia felt a prickle of sensation travel down the back of her neck. The animal's fierce eyes stared from the card, challenging anyone who dared question his right to be there.

  She had first become aware of him weeks ago on the Magician card, his outline hazy among the greenery that festooned the underside of the sorcerer's table. She had doubted her vision then. And when she had focused her inner eye more closely, the wolf had vanished.

  But he came back the next night—on the five of Pentacles, in front of the two homeless people. The card represented bad luck or loss, but it had been upside down, which wasn't quite as bad—because it might indicate a reversal of bad fortune.

  The wolf had refused to relinquish his position under the church window, even when she had muttered "begone," and lain the card facedown on the table.

  He had returned again and again, and she couldn't guess what his presence meant.

  "You're close now, aren't you? Come out and show yourself," she challenged. "Or are you a coward?"

  "I am no coward."

  The answer echoed in the darkened room. She had spoken the words with her own lips. But she sensed the wolf's truth.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  A wolf mates for life. And what if his mate is killed? Does he slog through existence without her? Or does he find a way to end his misery?

  Grant Marshall turned the question over in his mind as he drove down the two-lane highway toward Sea Gate, New Jersey.

  He had opened the window partway, and a cold breeze off the ocean blew back the dark hair from his forehead. He knew he needed a haircut. He'd get one at the barber shop in town and hopefully get the locals talking about last month's murder.

  He wasn't the kind of man who naturally started conversations with strangers, but necessity had changed his habits.

  Once, he'd built houses. Now he was a vigilante—dedicating every moment of his existence to finding the man who had killed his life mate.

  And when he had sent the devil's spawn back to hell, he would plunge into the cold sea and swim away from shore—until his strength gave out and he could join Marcy.

  That is, if they let werewolves into heaven.

  He dragged in a lungful of the damp air, imagining that he could catch the scent of evil drifting toward him. Did the killer live in this town? Or was he only passing through—as he had passed through so many communities in the last eight years.

  Marcy hadn't been the killer's first victim. Or his final one. But Grant was close on his heels now. He knew the signs. Knew the kind of woman he preyed on. He knew how to search the Internet and newspapers for the creature's spoor. He would track down the monster and make sure it never took another life.

  He reached the town limits, then cruised down Atlantic Avenue, which was a block from the ocean. It featured a commercial district overflowing with art galleries, real estate agencies, and t-shirt shops, most of which were closed for the season. But the all-year-round establishments like the drugstore, grocery, and cleaners were still open for business.

  At the far end of the main drag and on several side streets, he saw Victorian-era houses in various states of repair. Some rivaled the decorative splendor of New Orleans's famous painted ladies. Others were worn by salt, wind, and rain.

  He found the murder house on Maple Street. A blackened wound in the flesh of the town, much like the remains of the home where his wife had died.

  Seeing the charred remnants of the structure made his throat close, and he gripped the steering wheel to steady himself.

  He should drive on past and wait until tonight to poke through the ruins of Elizabeth Jefferson's life. A wolf could pick up more clues than a man.

  Yet he couldn't stop himself from pulling to the curb, then climbing out.

  He walked around the foundation of the structure, breathing in the scents of burned wood and a crowd of people. The place had been a regular sideshow attraction. He was halfway around the blackened derelict when his sharp ears told him he had made a tactical error.

  A car was gliding slowly to a stop in back of his SUV. Turning, he saw it was a patrol car.

  Shit.

  He kept the curse locked in his throat as a cop climbed out of the cruiser, wearing a blue uniform and an attitude. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair and piercing gray eyes. The black plastic tag on his chest said his name was Wright. Probably he thought he always was.

  "Mind telling me what you're doing here?" he said, his voice lacking any touch of warmth.

  Grant stood with his hands at his sides, hoping his body language made it clear that he wasn't going to pull out a concealed weapon.

  "I read about the incident here. I thought I'd stop by the house where it happened."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm considering buying property in town," he answered, giving the cover story he'd been using for the past two years when he came to investigate one of the murder sites.

  "Let me see your dri
ver's license, please," the cop said.

  Grant pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out the plastic card, and handed it over.

  Wright studied the license, comparing Grant's dark eyes and hair to the man in the photograph. And his six-foot height, hundred and ninety pounds to the written description. He'd lost some weight since Marcy's death, and he'd never gained it back. But the license was otherwise accurate.

  "You're from Pennsylvania, Mr. Marshall?" the cop said in a flat voice.

  "Yes."

  "What are you doing down here?"

  "Like I said, I'm looking to buy a home in a town on the ocean."

  "Why here? Are you some kind of vulture?"

  "I'm a prudent investor."

  Wright walked to his cruiser. Grant followed, standing back as the cop checked his name on the onboard computer.

  Even though he was sure nothing was going to come up, he could feel his heart drumming inside his chest.

  "You're clean." The officer sounded sorry about that as he handed back the ID.

  "Yeah," Grant agreed, glad that his license didn't have "werewolf" stamped across the front.

  "We don't need outsiders coming in and taking advantage of our… tragic circumstances."

  "Thanks for the advice," Grant said, using the mild voice that worked best with aggressive small-town cops.

  He felt the man's eyes on his back as he got into his SUV and started the engine. The cop followed him to Atlantic Avenue, then sped away with his lights flashing, probably racing home for a late lunch.

  SWINGING back the way he'd come, Grant turned onto Norfolk Street. He intended to stay in town until his business was finished. Now he knew from the get-go that he'd have to watch out for the law.

  As he turned another corner, a sign caught his eye. It said BED AND BREAKFAST, CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.

  Under it was an additional line that said TAROT CARD READINGS.

  He made a snorting noise. He had never gone in for mumbo jumbo like fortune-telling, and he had no intention of starting now. No intention at all. But some impulse caused him to stop for the second time since reaching Sea Gate.

  Pulling up beside a neatly trimmed hedge, he studied the house and grounds. The Victorian's clapboard siding was painted dove gray, with darker gray trim. Neatly tended gardens surrounded the structure, and several bird feeders hung from the lower branches of large, old trees.

  What the hell, he thought. Maybe she can tell me if this is the week I get lucky.

  As he rang the bell, he was picturing a stoop-shouldered crone wearing a shapeless dress and knit shawl over her plump shoulders.

  "Yes?"

  The woman who answered the door uttered only that one brisk syllable, then went very still.

  He fought to quickly rearrange his thinking. Instead of a housedress over a dumpy figure, she was wearing gray wool slacks and an emerald-green sweater that showed off her slender curves. She looked to be in her late twenties, although a streak of white at her forehead split her shoulder-length dark brown hair, drawing attention to her lush, shiny curls. But he was more interested in her blue eyes. Though she seemed to be focusing on his face, there was something strange about the way she regarded him.

  It took several seconds for him to realize that she was blind.

  "I was looking for the tarot card reader," he said.

  "You found her."

  "But…"

  ANTONIA fought a sudden sharp stab of panic. He might leave. And she couldn't let that happen. Hoping her face showed none of the tension coursing through her, she said, "I've been working with tarot cards for a long time. I don't need to see them to read their meaning."

  An eternity elapsed as he considered the statement. Finally, he answered. "Okay."

  She had to gulp in a breath of air before she could manage to say, "Come in."

  Then she waited with her pulse pounding while he stepped into the front hall and closed the door.

  Hoping she didn't look like a nutcase, she led the way to the table in the corner of the lounge with its comfortable upholstered chairs.

  She didn't need to see where she was going. She knew the landscape of this house as well as she knew her own body. Every piece of furniture was where she had placed it. Every cup and saucer was put away where she could find it.

  She needed that order in her life. And usually her control of the environment left her feeling calm and confident.

  Not now—because she sensed something unsettling and at the same time compelling radiating from this man.

  She had learned to form quick impressions of people. That was more difficult when you couldn't see their eyes. But she liked the deep timbre of his voice. Liked the clean, woodsy scent that clung to him. Not from aftershave, but from some unnamed quality all his own.

  Yet it wasn't voice or scent that commanded her to keep him here. It was fear—that he would leave her and do something that could never be set right.

  She didn't really know what that meant. She only knew she had to find out what was troubling him—for his sake and for hers.

  She sat down, then listened for the small sound of chair legs scraping across the rug. When she heard it and knew he'd joined her at the table, she let out a small sigh.

  The cards were sitting where she'd left them. She picked up the deck and shuffled.

  "I should have introduced myself," she said. "I'm Antonia Delarosa."

  "Grant Marshall."

  He didn't offer to shake her hand, but she knew he must be watching her, probably deciding whether to go through with a reading. Should she offer to do it for free? No. Instead of reassuring him, that would probably drive him away.

  She wanted to study his expression, judge what he was thinking. She'd been sighted for the first twenty-five years of her life, and she wanted to see this man. If she couldn't do it with her eyes, she wanted to use her hands. But that would step over a social boundary she couldn't cross, so she kept her fingers on the cards.

  "I guess you're wondering if you've made a major mistake by coming here," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  When he didn't answer, she went on. "I charge fifty dollars for a reading, and I can refund your money if you're not satisfied. But I think you will be. I've had psychic abilities since I was a little girl."

  He cleared his throat. "Like what?"

  She had stories waiting at her fingertips. Setting down the cards, she said, "I'd know things—things that I couldn't explain by normal means. I remember when I was seven, waking up crying—worried about my parents. My baby-sitter couldn't calm me down, and it turned out Mom and Dad had been in an automobile accident. She broke her shoulder and collarbone, and my dad had a concussion."

  Into the silence from across the table, she went on. "That's just an extreme example. I knew other stuff. Not necessarily anything monumental. Like maybe whether a friend was going to call me on the phone. When I grew up, I did tarot card readings in New Orleans, before I lost my sight. People came back to me again and again. And they recommended me to their friends."

  "How did your parents react to your making a living that way?" he asked, and she sensed that the answer to the question was important.

  "The talent has been in my family for years. It was something we all knew about and accepted."

  "So you can see the future?" Again, tension infused the question.

  "You want to know your future?"

  "I want to know…" He stopped, swallowed, drumming his fingers against the tabletop.

  She never pushed people to reveal more than they were willing to tell her. She always let a querent—a person who came to her for a reading—give her information at his own pace.

  Breaking one of her own rules, she reached across the space that separated them and found his hand. It was large and warm and strong, with a hint of callus between his thumb and index finger. When she stroked her own thumb along his palm, she couldn't hold back a strangled exclamation.

  * * *

  Chapt
er 2

  « ^ »

  "WHAT?" the man across the table asked sharply, pulling his hand away.

  "It wasn't your fault. The fire."

  He made a low, angry sound. "She didn't die in the fire. Whoever killed her poisoned her first."

  Antonia gasped, but Grant Marshall was already speaking again. "I should have been home with her!" The words came out as a menacing growl that would have sent her running in the other direction if she hadn't been glued to her chair.

  She and this stranger were speaking a kind of shorthand now. They'd met only minutes ago. He hadn't told her that someone had burned up his house with his wife inside. She'd pulled that terrible image from his mind. And more. The fire had left him with scars. Not physical marks but guilt and unbearable pain that ate at his soul.

  "You didn't know anything bad was going to happen."

  Antonia had uttered that phrase many times in the past. Sometimes it gave comfort. Not now. There was only one thing that would give Grant Marshall any kind of cold comfort. And he didn't want her to know about it.

  He stood up. "This is a mistake," he said, sounding angry.

  Desperation came out as a plea. "Don't leave."

  "You… see too much."

  "Maybe I can help you find him," she said quickly, then sat with the breath frozen in her lungs.

  He stood a few feet away, but she imagined she could hear his heart pounding.

  When the chair scraped back again and he sat down, she allowed herself to breathe.

  "You got that picture of the burned house from my head," he said in a voice that told her he didn't want to believe her insight.

  "Because you've been focused on it for a long time."

  "What else are you going to see?" he asked.