Page 5 of Hollow Moon

A banging sound reverberated like a giant drum all around him.

Coherence was spinning out of control. Still, as the door rattled, the primal reaction of his kind welled up inside him. He was a man now. He’d have a better chance as a wolf.

He was already shirtless and shoeless. He scrabbled at the button at the top of his jeans while he muttered the ancient chant that would turn him from man to beast.

“Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen,” he said, slurring the words together in his haste. He repeated the same phrase and went on to another that had been a part of his consciousness for almost fifteen years.

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

An angry voice reached him through the fog of transformation.

“I told you not to open the door.”’

“Oh come on.”

As the door gaped wide, he leaped forward, hearing a gasp from the men who blocked his path.

“Jesus.”

“What the fuck?”

He might have stopped to gouge out a throat or two, but even with his brain in another county, he knew that escape was more important than attack.

He fled into the night, hearing the sound of gunshots behind him. A stinging pain in a leg didn’t slow his pace.

He plunged into the shadows under the trees and kept running full tilt, with no plan but putting distance between himself and the men.

CHAPTER 3

A loud sound jolted Maggie Leland awake. Springing bolt upright in her sleeping bag, she turned her head toward the mesh window of her tent. She saw no threats, only the gray light that comes before dawn.

The noise had stopped abruptly. And as she strained her ears, she detected nothing. Shouldn’t the birds be chirping in the trees?

Then she did hear something again—a rustling in the dry brush, like a creature sneaking up on the tent. No, not sneaking. As she analyzed the noise she’d heard, she decided an animal had been running amok through the underbrush out there—until the sound had subsided to the rustle.

She sat in her sleeping bag, listening, but now she could only hear the wind gently moving the branches of the oaks and sycamores above her. She’d picked this camping spot because it was isolated. And in the two-days she’d been here, living in her blue- domed tent, she’d seen no one else. But now she thought a forest creature was prowling around out there. Or maybe not.

Did she hear a groan? Was that just the wind—or her nerves?

Straining her ears, she tried to pick up something else, but heard nothing besides the tree branches skittering above her.

She had brought a semiautomatic on this camping trip because the woods were not as safe as they’d been when she’d come here as a girl with her dad and brother. Now she laid the weapon beside the sleeping bag while she wiggled out of the covering and pushed her feet into running shoes. She’d slept in warn jeans and a tee shirt. All she had to do to get ready was unzip the closure at the front of the tent and crawl through.

Outside, she crouched, shivering in the chill early morning air, listening intently as she gripped the gun and surveyed her surroundings. The stone circle where she’d built her campfire was as she’d left it. Her cooking pan and utensils were undisturbed. And the backpack she’d worn on her trek from the road was still resting against the nearby tree where she’d propped it.

Nothing seemed out of place—until she saw a pale form sprawled on the ground about thirty yards from her tent. She blinked. It looked like a naked human whose body was partially obscured by dead leaves and underbrush. With the gun in a two-handed grip, she approached cautiously, deliberately stepping on a couple of twigs to make a little noise. The figure didn’t stir, and when she reached his side, she saw it was a naked man lying prone. She took in his dark hair, his powerful muscles, and the curve of a well-toned ass. He looked to be in top physical shape except that scratches from brambles and twigs marred his skin, and a red circle on his left lower leg oozed blood.

She caught her breath, recognizing a gunshot wound. An entry wound, which meant that he’d been running away when he’d been hit.

Someone had clipped him, and she had no idea who or why. Had he fled from the cops? From thugs? Or had he been in an argument that had gotten out of hand?

She doubted there were any cops out here. But there was no way to find out what had happened without asking him—and no way to know if he was a threat to her.

As she stared at the man, she wondered if it was more dangerous to have the gun in her hand when she got closer to him—or put it out of sight. You weren’t supposed to tuck a gun into your waistband, but she didn’t see any alternative as she shoved it into the back of her jeans.

With the weapon concealed, she came down beside the man’s bed of leaves and put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cold, but not icy. She was about to turn him over when he wrenched away.

She gasped as he pushed himself up, twisting to face her.

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