Moon Shadows by Nora Roberts Page B

demons lighting torches in her blood.
    She locked the cage door behind her. Sat on the floor as Amico took his place by the basement steps. There she meditated for the time she had left, struggling with her mind against the monster that crouched inside her, waiting to become.
    When the change started, she fought it, battled against the pain while sweat sprang hot over her. Discipline. Control. She sat, quivering, her eyes shut, her mind and body as still as she could manage.
    Then she was being ripped to pieces. Torn out of herself; torn into herself, with the hideous sounds of her own bones snapping, mutating, lengthening while her flesh stretched to accommodate the impossible.
    Her vision sharpened. She couldn’t stop it. So she looked down in horror with eyes now more yellow than green as her fingers extended, until gold fur coated them, and the lethal claws protruded.
    She screamed, with no one to hear, she screamed against the pain and the fury. Screamed again when the fury became a dark and horrible thrill.
    Screamed until the scream became a ululant howl.
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    H E ’ D never known days to be so long, or nights to be so dark and lonely. He’d called her a dozen times—maybe more—but she hadn’t answered. All he’d gotten for his trouble was that smooth and cool voice of hers telling him to leave a message.
    So he’d left them—nonsense ones and urgent ones, frustrated ones and silly ones. Anything, he’d thought, to nudge her into calling him back.
    He was a crazy man, he could admit it. Crazy to see her again, to touch her again. To have a damn conversation. Was that too much to ask?
    But no, she had to be all mysterious and unreachable.
    And more fascinating to him than ever.
    Probably part of her master plan, he decided as he drove through the rainy Saturday afternoon. Make the man a lunatic so he’d promise anything.
    And well, maybe he would.
    He felt lightning-struck.
    There were flowers on the seat beside him. Yellow daisies this time. She just didn’t strike him as the red rose variety of female. And a bottle of champagne. The real thing.
    He was already imagining them sitting on the floor in front of the fire drinking it, making love, talking, making love again, dozing off together only to wake and slide into love and murmurs once more.
    He’d turned his schedule upside down to get off midafternoon on a Saturday. And he’d pay for it with extra bookings through the following week. But all that mattered was that she was waiting for him.
    He pulled up beside her truck, grabbed the champagne and the flowers, then ran through the rain to her front door.
    She opened it before he could knock, but his smile of greeting faded when he saw her face. There were bruises of fatigue under her eyes, dark against the pallor of her skin. And her eyes looked over-bright, feverish.
    â€œBaby, you’re sick.” Even as he lifted a hand to check her forehead for fever, she stepped back.
    â€œNo, just tired. Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
    â€œListen to Dr. Gabe. Lie down on the couch there. I’ll make you some soup.”
    â€œI’m not hungry.” But she would be. Soon. “Those need water.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it. You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well. I’d have come out to check on you. Have you seen the doctor—the people doctor?”
    â€œNo need.” Since he wanted to fuss, she let him. Gave him a vase when they reached the kitchen so he could fill it for the daisies. “I know what’s wrong with me. I made you some coffee. Why don’t you—”
    â€œSimone.” He dumped the flowers in the vase and turned totake her shoulders. “I can pour my own coffee. Go lie down. Whether you’re hungry or not, you need to eat something, and then get some rest. Once you do the first, you’re going upstairs to bed. I’ll bunk on the couch.”
    â€œNot