Nora Roberts - Wolf Moon.pdf

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WOLF MOON
Nora Roberts
Prologue
Italy
Somewhere in the Piedmont Mountains
L IKE a brush tipped in twilight, the setting sun shimmered across the valley and daubed silver-edged
shadows into the forest. Those last flaming rays wouldn’t linger, but would soon slide away to hide
behind the peaks and leave the sky a soft, purpling blue.
Simone hitched her shoulders, shifting the weight of her backpack as she watched night creep across
the wild reaches of Valgrisenche.
At least she was pretty sure that’s where she stood. She’d wandered off the path—such as it was—
hours earlier. But she didn’t care. She’d come for the adventure, for the thrill. For the freedom.
And if she was a little lost in a remote area of the Italian mountains, so what? She was in the Italian
mountains, and that’s what counted.
In any case, she had her compass, her guidebooks, and all the necessary supplies. Tomorrow, she’d
cross over into France— France , she thought with a quick hiking-boot boogie.
If the mood struck anyway, if she didn’t decide to linger on this side of the border another day or two
before she continued her journey. This glorious and personal journey.
She’d camp, but not yet. The light was fading, but the sunset was so spectacular, painting reds and
golds over the western sky. She’d always thought twilight the most magical of times. A breathless hush
that should be savored before it bled away to night.
So she’d follow the sunset for a while, fill her lungs with the sharp tang of pine from the forest, and
watch the dying sun sink onto, into, behind the snow-covered peaks.
She’d been right to come after the summer season, right to take this one year to indulge in everything
she’d dreamed about all of her life.
She’d tasted pasta in Rome, gotten drunk in Spoleto, bought an ornate silver cross from a vender in
Venice, and had a foolishly intense three-day love affair in Florence.
But most of the time she stayed off the beaten path, enjoying the hikes through the valleys and hills,
through the fields of sunflowers, the vineyards.
For a full third of her eighteen years she’d been trapped in the city, imprisoned by fate, and the system.
She’d been forced to follow the rules and had marked each day since her twelfth birthday as a day closer
to freedom.
Now she was here, following a dream. Her parents’ dream, she knew. She was living it for them. If
they had lived, they would have come long before this. They, the three of them, would have seen and
tasted and smelled and experienced.
She fingered the heavy cross hanging around her neck and watched the last rays of the sun drip
beneath the peaks.
They would have loved it.
She settled her pack more comfortably and began to walk again. There was too much energy inside
her to settle down for the night. Stars were already winking on, and the sky was mirror clear. She had
her flashlight and could follow her nose and compass until she was tired.
Another hour, she told herself, then she’d pick a spot and call it her room. She’d make a few notes in
her trip diary by moonlight.
It was warm for October in the mountains, and the exercise kept her comfortable with just her faded
jean jacket. Nearly six weeks of hiking had added muscle to her usually spindly frame.
 
Her cousin, a full year her junior, had already started to sprout breasts when Simone had moved into
the tidy, regimented house in Saint Paul. And Patty had never tired of needling her over her lack of
shape.
Or of tattling on Simone over the most minor, and sometimes fabricated, infractions.
So she’d learned to get along, coast along, and count the days.
Take a look at me now, Patty, you buck-toothed bitch. She flung her arms out, cocked one in an
exaggerated muscleman flex. I’m practically buff.
She’d cut her sunny blond hair short before she’d left Saint Paul, done it herself as a kind of ritual—
and for practicality.
Less hair, less to deal with while traveling. It was growing out a little shaggy around her triangular face,
with the bangs spilling into her eyes and most of the rest shooting up in spikes. Maybe it wasn’t precisely
the best look for her, but it was different .
She thought it might be fun to treat herself to a haircut in Paris. Maybe have it dyed magenta. Radical.
Her sturdy boots rang over rock, shuffled over dirt, as the full white moon began to rise.
It was bright enough to turn off the flashlight. She walked by moonlight, dazzled by the huge ball of it
sailing over the indigo sky, charmed when a wisp of cloud slipped over the white, then vanished again.
Watching it, she began to sing Sting’s “Sister Moon.” At her feet a thin fog began to slither and smoke
and crawl, like snakes, around her ankles.
When the howl rose and echoed, she stumbled to a halt. The chill lanced straight into her belly, a blade
of bowel-freezing ice. Instinctively, she looked behind her, did a clumsy circle while her breath puffed out
in a muffled scream.
Then she laughed at herself. Stupid knee-jerk reaction, she told herself. It was probably a dog,
somebody’s dog running around the woods. And even if it was a wolf—even if —wolves didn’t hunt
people, or bother them. That was Hollywood stuff.
But when the howl poured through the air again—close, was it closer?—every primal nerve went on
alert. She quickened her steps, dug into her pocket for her Swiss Army knife.
No big, she lectured herself. If it was a wolf, it was just out looking for rabbits or mice, or whatever
wolves liked to eat. Or it was hoping to make a date with another wolf. It was not interested in her.
How far was the next village? she wondered, and broke into a jog, her muscles protesting as she
punished them up a steep rise. She’d just get to the village, or a house, a farm. Something that had
people and light and noise.
Out of breath she paused to listen and heard nothing but the whisper of the pines with their silver edges
etched by the light of the swimming moon.
Her shoulders started to relax, then she heard it. A rustling. There was movement in the trees, stealthy,
stalking that made her think of Hollywood again. Slasher flicks and monster movies.
But it was worse when she could see, thought she could see, the vague shape of it. Too big to be a
dog. And the moonlight glinted off its eyes, fierce and yellow as it melted into deeper shadows with a
thick, wet snarl.
She ran, ran blind and deaf with a primal, heart-strangling fear, ran through shadows and moonlight
without any thought of direction or defense, only of escape.
And never heard it coming.
It sprang out of the dark, leaped onto her back and sent her pitching forward in a full out,
knee-and-palm–ripping fall. The knife spurted out of her hand, and with harsh, breathless shrieks she
tried to claw forward.
It tore at her pack, and the feral, hungry sounds it made turned her limbs to jelly even as her feet
scrabbled for purchase. Something sharp raked her arm. Something worse pierced her shoulder.
The pain was black and bright and, combined with the fear, had her body heaving up, bowing and
bucking against the weight on her back.
The smell of it, and of her own blood, choked her as it dragged her over.
She saw what couldn’t be, a nightmare monster rising over her in the hard light of the moon. Its long,
sleek snout was smeared with blood, and its eyes—yellow and mad—glinted with a horrible hunger.
 
Her screams rang out as she slapped and beat against it, as she saw its jaws open. Saw the flash of
fangs.
Again, it sank them into her shoulder, and the pain was beyond screams, beyond reason. Weakening,
she shoved at it, her hands pushing into fur, and feeling the raging heart beneath.
Then her fingers clutched at the silver cross. Sobbing, gibbering with terror, she rammed it into that
slick pelt. This time the cry wasn’t human, wasn’t hers. Its blood spilled onto her hand, and its body
jerked on hers. She hacked again, babbling insanely, her eyes blind with tears and sweat and blood.
Then she was alone, bleeding in the dirt, shaking with cold. And staring up at the full, white moon.
Chapter 1
Maine
Eleven years later
A S she did once a month, Simone loaded her truck with what she thought of as her lotions and potions.
She whistled for her dog, waiting until Amico bounded out of the woods where he’d been treeing
squirrels—a favorite pastime—and raced over the lawn to leap into the cab of the truck.
As he always did, he sat on his end of the bench seat and stuck his big brown head out the window in
anticipation of the ride.
She flipped on the stereo, shoved the truck into gear, and started the nine-and-a-half-mile drive into
town. The distance was deliberate—not too far from town, for her own convenience. And not too close,
for her own preference. Just as the town of Eden Springs was a deliberate choice.
Small, but not so small that everyone knew everyone’s business. Picturesque enough to draw tourists,
so her enterprise could, and did, profit by them.
She had her solitude, the woods, the cliffs and work that satisfied her. She’d seen as much of the
world as she wanted to see.
She headed for the coast, windows open, the September breeze pouring in while Coldplay poured
out. Her hair, sun-kissed blond, danced. She wore it straight, so that the blunt tips stopped just above
her shoulderblades. A convenient length she could leave loose or pull back, could play with if she was in
the mood, or forget if she was busy.
Her eyes were a gold-flecked green that suited the diamond points of her chin and cheekbones. Her
jeans, boots, leather jacket were all comfortably worn and covered a body that was ruthlessly
disciplined. As was her mind.
Discipline, Simone knew, was the key to survival.
She enjoyed the ride, a small pleasure, with the smell of the sea salting the air, the scent of her dog
warming it. The sky was bold blue and brilliantly clear. But she scented rain, far off, over the water.
It would come by moonrise.
Houses grew more plentiful and closer together as she passed the halfway point between her place
and town. Charming Cape Cods, tidy ranchers, old-fashioned saltboxes. People were starting to spread
out, edging closer to her isolation.
Nothing to be done about it.
She checked her watch. She had an appointment at the vet’s—a little detail she was keeping from
Amico as long as possible. But there was plenty of time to make the delivery, deal with whatever needed
her attention, before walking Amico down to the office for his exam and shots.
Traffic thickened, such as it was. Beside her, Amico let out a little yip of joy. She knew he loved
watching the other cars, the people inside them, the movement, nearly as much as he loved romping
through the woods at home and harassing the wildlife.
She turned down a side street, then another, easing down the narrow roads before turning into the
miserly back lot of her little store.
She’d called it Luna and had selected its location as precisely as she did everything else. This part of
 
town boasted plenty of pedestrian traffic—local and tourist.
She was deliberately early, before either her manager or her part-time clerk would arrive. It would
give her time to unload, to check her inventory, make any adjustments she wished.
After she’d parked, she let Amico out, gave him the command to sit, to stay. He’d no more break
command than he’d sprout wings and fly.
Carting boxes, she opened the back door, then whistled for him. He darted past her as she carried
cartons into the shop. She drew in the scents of rosemary and chamomile, subtle hints of tansy and
hawthorn. Dozens of fragrances ran through her senses as she set the newest stock on the counter.
Clear, square bottles of varying sizes were full of lotions and creams, bath salts and gels. Their colors,
soft or bright, illuminated the dim light.
There were soaps and balms, perfumes and tonics. All made by her own hand, from her own recipes,
from her own herbs.
That would be changing soon, she thought, switching on the lights. Couldn’t stop progress. Her on-line
service was beginning to boom, and she would need to hire more help, pass some of the production on
to others.
There was money to be made, and she needed to make it.
She went out for more stock, piling boxes up. Then began to unload them.
The skin care products always sold well, she noted. And the bath products were buzzing out the door.
She’d been smart to add a few drops of food coloring to the Irish moss shower gel. Customers liked
those deep colors.
Candles were so popular she was thinking of starting another line of them.
She spent a happy hour replacing or adding to stock and allowed herself a glow of pride and
satisfaction. Failure, she told herself, had led to success.
And sooner or later, she promised herself, she’d find what she needed most.
“Okay, baby.” With considerable regret, she pulled the leash out of her bag. Amico looked at it,
looked at her, then lowered his head as if she’d threatened him with a bat.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s insulting, but rules are rules.” She crouched down to clip it to his bright red
collar. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Her eyes stayed on his as she leaned in, nose to snout. “But there’
s a leash law, and we don’t want any trouble. Soon as we get back,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek
against his fur, “it comes off.”
She crossed to the door, slipping her sunglasses on against the sparkling light. “This is going to be a
tough day for you,” she said as they began to walk along the sidewalk. “But you’ve got to keep healthy,
right? Fit and trim? Dr. Greene just wants to take care of you.”
She took the two and a half blocks slowly, to give Amico time to prepare for what was, for him, a
very unhappy experience. And she walked slowly for herself, to prolong this rare stroll along a sidewalk
where there were people going about their business and their lives.
“I’ll scramble you eggs when we get home. You know how you love eggs. I’ll put cheese in them, and
this will be just a memory. Then we—”
Her head came up with a snap, and Amico heeled automatically. She caught a scent, elemental and
male, that had her system on quiver. The tickle low in her belly became an ache.
And he rushed around the corner, dark hair flying, worn canvas high-tops slapping pavement in a
sound that to her ears was like gunshots.
He skidded to a halt, avoiding a collision, then grinned. A slow, lazy, sort of how-ya’-doing grin.
She saw his face—could see nothing else. Dusky skin over strong bones, haloed by a waving mass of
damp black hair. His mouth looked as though it had been etched on his face, sculpted there. His eyes
were brown, a deep, sumptuous brown. She could see them through the dark lenses he wore.
She knew them.
“Hi. Sorry.”
His voice was like a stroke on bare flesh and had her blood swimming into her head.
“Running late. You one of mine?”
The dizziness was passing into something else, some deep and painful need. “Yours?”
 
“You my eight o’clock? Ah . . . Simone and Amico?”
“Dr. Greene is . . .” She could feel a sound, primal and desperate, clawing at the back of her throat.
“Ah, didn’t get the notice?” With a shake of his head, he opened the door to the vet’s office. “We had
some problems with that. I took over a couple of weeks ago. Uncle Pete—Dr. Greene—had a bout of
angina about a month ago. Aunt Mary put her foot down about retirement. He still consults, but I moved
up from Portland. Been wanting to anyway. Gabe,” he said, offering a hand. “Gabe Kirby.”
She couldn’t touch him, didn’t dare, and had the wits to give Amico a hand signal. The dog sat and
politely offered his paw.
With a laugh, Gabe accepted. “Nice to meet you. Come on in.”
He stepped inside the waiting room and spoke directly to the woman manning the desk. “I’m not late.
My patient’s early, and we’ve been outside getting acquainted.”
“You are late. Four minutes. Hello, Simone. Amico!” She had a wide face, crowned by a curly mop
of hair in a shade of red never seen in nature. “How you doing, handsome?”
Simone gave him the release sign so he could prance around the desk to be petted.
“ ’Morning, Eileen.” Discipline, Simone reminded herself. Discipline meant survival. Her voice was
cool and calm. “I’m sorry to hear about Dr. Greene.”
“Oh, he’s fine. Time for fishing and sitting in his hammock. Only downside for him is Mary’s watching
his diet like a hawk. And she’s threatening to make him sign up for a yoga class.”
“When you see him, tell him I said to take care of himself.”
“Will do. I see you met this one.”
“She talks about me like that because I got under her feet every time I visited when I was a kid.” He
was leaning against the desk, casual, all the time in the world, but his eyes stayed on hers, and she saw
the alertness, the intellect, and the interest.
“Are we set up for Amico?”
“All set.” The phone on Eileen’s desk began to ring. “Don’t worry, Simone. He’s young, and has
trouble getting moving in the morning, but he’s a good vet.”
“I was not late,” Gabe said again, turning toward the exam room. “Come on back. So, tell me, Amico,
how’ve you been feeling? Any complaints?”
“He’s fine.” She concentrated on regulating her breathing, on focusing on her dog, who began to
quiver when they entered the exam room. “He gets nervous before an exam.”
“That’s okay. Me, too. Especially when it involves s-h-o-t-s.”
She managed a smile. “He doesn’t like them.”
“That’s ’cause he’s not crazy, right, boy?” He crouched again, running his hands over Amico’s face,
his body, down his legs, giving him a playful rub, while—she noted—those long-fingered hands checked
his frame, his bones.
“Handsome dog. Good healthy coat, clear eyes. Beautiful eyes,” he amended, smiling into them.
“Somebody loves you.”
There was a rock on her chest, pressing on her heart so that it tattooed like a trapped bird. But her
voice was cool and clear. “Yes, I do.”
“Let’s get your weight, pal.”
Before Gabe could lead the dog to the scale, Simone snapped her fingers, pointed. Amico stepped
onto the scale.
“Smart dog. And in fighting trim.” He took the chart, made some notes. And was humming some tune
under his breath.
What was it? “Pretty Woman,” she realized and couldn’t decide if she was flattered or embarrassed.
“We’ll get him up on the table. Will he give me any trouble when I check his teeth, his ears?”
“No. Amico, su .”
Obediently, the dog bunched down, then jumped onto the table. “ Sedersi. Restare .”
“Cool,” Gabe said when Amico sat. He was grinning again, straight at her, all interest. “Is that Italian?”
“Yeah.”
Gabe picked up his otoscope, shone the light in Amico’s ears. “You Italian?”
 

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