Rogue Moon: Moonstruck, #6

By Silver James

A Wolf without a pack…

Rudek Tornjak is a man scarred by his past so he walks a solitary path. He prefers it that way. While living in the shadows of the French Quarter, whispers of treachery and betrayal reach his ears—along with accusations implicating him in unthinkable acts. He comes out of hiding to confront his accusers only to discover he's under a death sentence. On the run, he encounters Isabelle Fontaine, a woman with a past of her own she'd rather keep hidden.

 

Family is everything…

As part of a large, close-knit Cajun clan, Izzy will do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe. Crossing paths with a shadowy corporation, a kidnapped boy, and a rogue Wolf places the people she cares about in the crosshairs—not to mention putting her own life and heart in jeopardy.

 

Secrets, lies, and betrayals…

…are more personal under the full moon, but when a betrayed Wolf fights for his honor, no one is safe—not even the woman he loves.

 

Warning: Doubt a Wolf's honor and you'll get a serving of hot blood and guts to go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver James
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9798201354046

Silver James

Silver James likes walks on the wild side and coffee. Okay. She LOVES coffee. Warning: Her Muse, Iffy, runs with scissors. A cowgirl at heart, she’s also been an Army officer’s wife and mom, and has worked in the legal field, fire service, and law enforcement. Now retired from the real world, she lives in Oklahoma and spends her days writing with the assistance of her two Newfoundland dogs, the cat who rules them all, and the myriad characters living in her imagination.

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE HORNED moon hung low in the winter sky, its devilish grin promising bad things to come. Rudek Tornjak was not a superstitious man but he lived by the whims of the moon. All Wolves did. Living in New Orleans reminded him of the cities of Europe. Except New Orleans had shadows. Shadows to hide in. Shadows to cloak a soul consigned to living in the dark, a soul denied an existence in the light.

Leaning against the wrought-iron railing of his apartment’s balcony, he inhaled, testing the wind teasing across the rooftops of the French Quarter. Myriad scents assaulted his sensitive nostrils. The sweet, yeasty aroma of baking bread mixed with the sour dough odor of stale beer. A drunk stumbled into the alley and urinated against the wall of the building next door. Rudy’s hackles bristled and a menacing growl rumbled in his chest. This was his territory. The urge to rip out the throat of the interloper surged through him, the raw emotion ripping through him as visceral as the sweet taste of hot blood pouring down his throat after a kill.

Rudy had found his way to this place a few years previous. Duty done, the government he’d once worked for decided to forget his existence. His body had healed but not his soul, so he’d drifted. Prague. Paris. Zurich. Venice and Rome. Istanbul. He’d even tried London followed by New York. Always restless, always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the hunters to come again, he kept drifting. Arriving in the wake of Mardi Gras, something in New Orleans called to him. Her busy streets and old architecture soothed the restless pacing of his wolf.

The drunk tripped over a metal trashcan and the ensuing racket echoed. A dog barked, quickly silenced by a harsh command from his master. Closer, a woman moaned softly as a man grunted and Rudy’s ears picked up the slap of naked flesh coming together. His cock hardened at the sound. Perhaps he would seek out a woman. Or maybe he would drive into the bayous, shed his humanity, and hunt as his wolf wanted. He was not prey. He was predator. Always.

The man in the next apartment groaned and moments later, the bedsprings squeaked as he rolled off the woman. The sharp tang of cigarette smoke drifted from their open window followed shortly by snores. Hunting in the bayous sounded better and better.

Fingertips gripped the railing so tightly the metal groaned. His fingers. They felt detached, like they belonged to someone else. He closed his eyes and growled. A face glowed against the backs of his eyelids like the after image of a flash photo. He’d only glimpsed the woman in the crowd but she haunted him. His dreams. His days. And far too many of his nights.

Two weeks ago he’d caught sight of that face through the crowd on Bourbon Street. Her hair glowed like curling embers beneath the streetlights. Her face was that of an angel. Or a devil. A devil who kept his dick hard and his thoughts stirred.

Hey, sugah. Watchu’ doin’ up there all by yer lonesome? You maybe want some comp’ny?

Rudy stared down at the hooker. She stood, weaving, in the middle of the street. Any other night, he might have gone down, paid her price and taken her in the alley. But not now. Now, his cock ached for only one woman—the elusive waif from deep within the French Quarter.

With luck, the drunk would stumble out of the alley and take care of her. If luck remained the fickle bitch he knew her to be, the woman would stand there yelling until Rudy was forced to deal with the noise. And it would not be in the manner the whore wished.

Her scent wafted up to him and killed the erection pushing against his jeans. The whore reeked of drugs, booze, and old sex—the complete opposite of the other scent. The one that eluded him when he ran in the bayous. The one that filled his heart with possibilities. The one that smelled of—.

With a snarl, he left the balcony. He would not finish that thought. He had no home, nor would he ever have one. He had no family left. No pack. Nor did he want one. Better to be alone. As he had always been. Rogue.

Between the face searing his memory and the scent branding his nose, Rudy wanted out. Away. He snagged a leather jacket on his way out the door. Taking the stairs three at a time, he all but leapt down the staircase to the first floor. He ripped open the door just in time to all but trip over the drunk as he stumbled along the sidewalk.

He snatched a wad of money from his front pocket and rammed it in the drunk’s mouth before turning him and shoving him into the whore’s arms. Go fuck yourselves stupid.

Too stunned to react, the two humans gaped as Rudy strode away, his legs eating up the sidewalk with a vengeance. His chest burned with a need to escape, to leave the trappings of society—of humanity here in the city. He wanted the scent of woods, of clean air, of...prey.

Rudek Tornjak wanted to hunt. He wanted to stalk then run his quarry to ground. He wanted to sink his teeth into the throat of his kill, letting the copper tang of fresh, hot blood wash down his throat. He wanted to howl of his prowess so every creature in the bayou knew the big bad had come for them. Loup garou gonna come eat them all up for his dinner.

Retrieving his Jeep from the parking garage on the edge of the Quarter, Rudy headed away from lights, from sound, from the mass of humanity breathing his air in the city. He drove with reckless abandon, unconcerned for his own safety and only vaguely interested in that of those occupying the road with him.

He’d faced death too many times in his life to worry about a car wreck. His skin itched, stretching and cracking, as his thoughts returned as they too often did to that dungeon in the wilds of an eastern European forest. Up until two weeks ago, he would have chosen to die there.

White-knuckled, he gripped the steering wheel, his foot pressing harder on the gas pedal. He steered the Jeep in and out of traffic with reckless abandon. Blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror. A tight smile tensed his cheeks and he cut his lights even as he increased speed. His night vision was perfect and he wanted to throw his head back and howl with the freedom driving at this speed brought.

He couldn’t outrun his thoughts, though. No matter how fast he went, how far he drove, how many times he hunted the dark, secret bayous. Memories clenched his teeth and rattled his bones. The pain of having his skin filleted off. The stench of his blood and piss and bowels still filled his nostrils in the small, desperate hours just before dawn, when he would awake shivering and craving the taste of blood. Zevan’s blood. But he’d been denied that release, that revenge. Zevan died, but not at his hands.

Having lost the police pursuit, Rudy slowed to a more leisurely ninety miles per hour. He didn’t want to think about his extraction, facilitated by Wolves, members of an American SpecOps team. His mind shied away from the months spent in the German hospital.

A flash of light behind his vehicle reminded him the cops had not given up. The exit sign ahead pointed toward a roadside rest stop. He pulled in and tucked his Jeep in between two big rigs. The Louisiana Highway Patrol car continued on down the highway.

Thirsty now, Rudy drove over to the building complex holding vending machines and restrooms. He normally avoided such places, the lingering odors of all that humanity a subtle form of torture. Breathing through his mouth as a result, he almost missed the subtext of scents as he approached the vending machines.

A Wolf. One not fully grown, but still a Wolf. A scent laced with fear that choked him. Another scent lingered. That of a woman. A memory stirred deep in his subconscious. Elusive—scent and recollection both. His chest tightened as echoes from the past trapped his memories. Throwing back his head, he howled and barely resisted the urge to put his fist through the vending machine. He no longer trusted his nose where the bitch was concerned. But the young Wolf? That was something new. Fear and adrenaline cloaked the underlying scent of both boy and woman.

Yo, man! What the fuck are you doing? I’m callin’ the cops.

The trucker’s body odor swamped Rudy. He retreated to his Jeep. He needed to change. Now. Change and run wild. Run free. Before he killed this human. He could escape with the help of his wolf. Holding onto his humanity by his clawtips, he climbed into his vehicle and pointed it toward the dark ribbon of highway. He needed a new hunting ground. Needed it now.

Ten miles further on, he exited the highway. Blue Moon Bayou. The name called to him, lured him with a siren’s call every bit as sweet as a rogue moon. He found an abandoned fish camp, parked, and stripped. Rudy flashed an upraised middle finger to the horned moon. In the blink of a human eye, a white wolf stalked into the forest. He wasn’t pure white. Gray and silver and mottled black mixed into his fur so that his coat looked like the face of the full moon.

Rudy could breathe now, his nose filled with wild scents—gator, coon, mud, green growing things. Sleepy birds rustled in trees above his head, secure in the knowledge he couldn’t reach them. With ears pricked, he lifted his muzzle, getting acquainted with the sounds and smells of his environs.

The urge to run eased so he padded along a faint game trail. Scents of deer and possum teased him. He relaxed, the man sinking deeper into the wolf. This. He needed this absolution. He was a Wolf. He had no need for the trappings of civilization or pack. He’d lived as a lone wolf for years uncounted. He would die the same way.

He skirted another fishing camp, the odor of humans throwing a cloying blanket over the scent of the bayou. Rudy had no desire to touch that side of his life. In wolf form, he was free to just exist.

Detecting a herd of deer, he changed direction. Rudy angled away from the water, following a trail on solid ground. Tongue lolling, he trotted along, occasionally dropping his muzzle to sniff the ground.

The breeze kicked up. Rudy stopped, raised his muzzle, and howled. Dogs barked in the distance but the bayou around him stilled. The herd huddled nearby but a tantalizing scent teased his nose. He forgot all about the deer, all about tasting blood. His balls tightened and both wolf and man stiffened. The aroma remained elusive, wafting on the wind, smelling faintly of lemon. And something sweet just beneath the scent of forest.

His belly tightened with hunger for something besides food. Rudy focused on the faint trail, drawn to find its source by a need so primal it had no name. He stalked the scent, nose raised to catch each fleeting hint, splashing through swampy bayou without regard.

One moment it was strong, the next faded completely away. He’d wait until the breeze ruffled his fur like limber fingers on