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Chapter One of SHADOW OF THE MOON
Berkley Sensation
By Ruth Glick, writing as Rebecca York
To be published June, 2006
CHAPTER ONE

       The thick underbrush of Rock Creek Park made the perfect cover for the gray wolf who hunted in these woods where no wolf should be.  
       He hadn’t invaded this stretch of urban wilderness to stalk deer or rabbits or any other wild animal.  He was a werewolf, and he was after much more exotic prey. 
       Laughter drifted toward him through the darkness, and he moved closer to a hulking building that perched at the edge of the woods.  A fantasy of stone and concrete, it was built to look like a medieval fortress with turrets and small, arched windows designed for privacy–or to prevent escape. 
       His supersensitive hearing picked up footsteps to his right and the strong scent of a man who hadn’t bathed in a couple of days. 
       Blending back into the shadows, the wolf watched a security guard pass on his rounds, then crept toward the front of the building.  
       It was called the Eighteen Club, and he knew the main floor housed a nightclub.  Above and below it were much more interesting private rooms–set up to accommodate any sexual fantasy that the elite of the nation’s capital could imagine.
       A long black limousine pulled up, and a man got out.  A U. S. senator, his broad smile and craggy eyebrows instantly recognizable.  Tonight he bent his head as he hurried toward the front door. 
       The wolf watched as the senator was swallowed up by the massive stone building.  Then something subtle caught his attention.  At first, it was simply an unfamiliar scent.  Something that didn’t belong out here in the woods.  Not perfume.  But skin washed with scented soap.
       He looked to his right, peering into the darkness, then blinked as he saw a shadow detach itself from a tree.  A person.  Someone slender, probably a woman, judging from her height and the feminine scent of her.  She wore black leggings, a long-sleeved black top, and her hair was tied up in a black bandanna.
       Like her body, her face was delicate.  With his night vision, he could clearly see her light eyes, her little nose, her lips that might have been sensual if they hadn’t been pressed into a thin line.
       A wisp of blond hair had escaped from her bandanna, adding an endearing touch.
       But the overall effect was no-nonsense.  He saw anger, determination, and more.  Emotions that made his chest tighten.
       What had the Eighteen Club done to her?  Alienated the affections of her lover? 
       Something dangled from a strap around her neck.  A camera.
       So what  was she doing here?  Was she part of a special security patrol?  Had she come to take pictures of the people who entered the club–so she could blackmail them?  Or was she stalking this place for the same reason as he?   And what were the odds of that?
       More cars pulled up, and she snapped away.  First she caught a man and a woman.  He wasn’t a political celebrity.  Far from it.  This guy kept his face out of the media.  But he had a reputation for getting things done–for a price.  The woman with him was a looker, wearing a barely there little dress that clung to her body.  She was slender, except for the large breasts that had probably been purchased from a plastic surgeon’s catalog. 
       The woman in black caught another patron.   A matron in her late forties or early fifties with auburn hair and a face that looked like it was just on the verge of sagging. 
       The photographer moved closer to get a better angle with her camera.  He might have growled a warning–but it was already too late.  One of the guards had spotted her.
       "Hold it right there!"
She whirled, poised to run as the guard moved quickly toward her.
       "Freeze.  Hands in the air–or I’ll shoot."

       From where the wolf stood in the darkness, he couldn’t see the woman’s face, but he felt her terror–smelled it wafting toward him in the night air. 
       "Take off your camera and put it down on the ground," the guard ordered in a voice that was edged with steel.
       With unsteady hands, she followed directions. 
The guard snatched up the camera and slung the strap over his own shoulder. 
       "Come on," he ordered. 
       "Where?"
       "Inside."
       She looked like she wanted to run.  But the gun kept her standing in place.
       "Let me go.  I didn’t mean any harm."
       "Then what were you doing?"  He gestured with his weapon  toward the camera that now hung from his shoulder. 
       The wolf waited for the answer, and gave her points for guts–and fast talking.  "I’m an amateur photographer.  I was in the woods taking pictures of the natural environment.  And I was curious about the lights of that building.  I didn’t see any No Trespassing signs."
       "Do you expect me to believe that?  When you snuck up on us at night–dressed like a damn ninja.  Move.  Down there.  Around the back."
The man started toward his victim, obviously enjoying himself.
       The wolf watched the drama.  This woman’s fate was none of his business.  That was what he told himself.  But he couldn’t make himself buy into that truth. 
       Over the past weeks, he’d discovered a lot about the Castle.  He was pretty sure that if the guard took her inside, she might never come out again alive.  And death might not be the worst thing that happened to her.
       The wolf could feel his heart pounding, his adrenaline pumping as his body tensed to strike.  Once the thought of attacking entered his mind, the savage need to hunt gathered inside himself. 
       He was in back of the guard, and the man was focused on his victim, sure that a lone woman in the woods wasn’t going to get the drop on him. 
       He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.  "Hands behind you," he ordered. 
       With a snarl, the wolf sprang forward, leaping on the man’s back, taking him down.  The handcuffs clanked to the ground.  And the guard’s finger squeezed the trigger of his gun.
       As the wayward shot rang out, the wolf went for the gun hand, chomping down until the man screamed in agony and fear as he lost his grip on the weapon.
       The woman screamed as well, but she didn’t stay around to find out what would happen next.
She turned and ran, sprinting through the woods as other guards came pounding toward the sound of the shot.
       Before the security force could catch him, the wolf leaped up.  Snatching up the camera strap in his teeth and pulling it free, he dashed after the woman, his body bracing for the thud of a bullet piercing his flesh.
       But he was lucky.  The guard was in no shape to fire his weapon, and the other men were too far away for an accurate shot in the dark.
       The wolf disappeared into the darkness, following the woman’s scent, the camera thudding against his chest.
       "What the fuck?" he heard someone shout.
       "Get the damn girl," another voice gasped.
       "And the dog."
       He kept moving.  He couldn’t see the woman now.  But he could hear her crunching across dry leaves, desperate to get away from the men with guns.
       And from the creature who had come to her rescue.  He knew that as well as he knew anything else. 
       She was in good shape; she could run fast.  And she must have made sure of her escape route, because she seemed to know where she was going.
       Too bad she hadn’t done a little more research before coming here in the first place.  The Castle was a well-guarded playground for the rich and powerful.  And anyone who tried to get too close was taking an enormous risk. 
       She fled through the woods, up an incline, then slipped partway down again.  Scrambling for purchase, she righted herself and kept going toward a residential neighborhood on the other side of the stream valley. 
       When she chanced a glance behind her, she spotted the wolf and made a headlong dash for the street.  He saw her hand go into her pocket,  probably fumbling for her keys.  She pulled out a remote control, pressed the button, and lights blinked as a car lock opened.
       The wolf was more surefooted than the woman.  He reached the edge of the woods in time to hear a car engine roar to life.
       Leaping onto the blacktop, he put on an extra burst of speed.  The car jerked, and pulled away from the curb.  Exhaust roared in his face, making him cough. 
       But he focused on the license plate, taking in the letters and numbers, committing them to memory as the woman sped into the darkness, not bothering to turn on her lights.  

 
     From SHADOW OF THE MOON,
     by Ruth Glick, writing as Rebecca York,
     Publication Date: June 2006
     Copyright © 2006 by Ruth Glick. 
     This edition published by arrangement with Berkley Publishing Group.

 
 
 

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