Free Shadow on the Moon by Connie Flynn

merely scowling whenever the man said a move was
too dangerous. Schumacher didn't much care for chopper pilots. They were a
rebellious breed. Yet in matters of safety he had to defer to them. In one
apparently "safe" dip, they spotted the Fish and Game van.
    "Take us down,"
Schumacher shouted into his communication headphone.
    "As soon as I find a
clearing."
    Schumacher bobbed his head and
mimicked the pilot's words, but the man had shut off his headphones and the
captain's voice was lost in the whir of engines and blades.
    "There," the pilot said,
having deigned to reestablish communication. He pointed to a field of black
rock towers. "It's a hike back up to the road, but there's plenty of room
to land."
    After second-guessing the pilot for
a while, Schumacher gave the order to land. Although the man was only doing his
job, Schumacher was ready to discipline the bastard by the time they touched
down. He wasn't used to helicopters, and the rapidly approaching earth filled
with all those eerie black outcroppings had scared a year of life out of him.
Someone ought to pay.
    Before he could voice displeasure,
his men were out of their seat belts, and he was forced to disembark so they
could toss down the weapons.
    "All this for a few canis
lupus ," mumbled Fishman, who'd somehow copped a seat on the flight.
Schumacher shot him a quelling look, receiving a shrug in return.
    The captain tightened the
fastenings on his jacket and pulled the muffs of his cap over his ears. The day
was darkening again. A chill wind swept along the ground, lifting loose leaves
and branches toward the sky, biting at his legs.
    "We have to make it
quick," the pilot advised, "else we'll run into some weather."
    Schumacher picked up a rifle from
the pile, ordered his men to go through the maze of rocks, then followed at a
safe distance. The windswept clearing was bare of snow except for drifts
hanging around the bases of the black towers and the edges of the forest. To
him, the ugly growths looked like dark fingers preparing to curl around him and
squeeze out his life. When they approached a particularly close pair, he
hesitated a moment.
    Then he heard a low groan.

 
 
 
 
    Chapter Seven

 
 
    The romp with Aphrodite had
thoroughly lifted Dana's spirits. True, she'd been disappointed when she
realized she hadn't encountered a wolf, but rolling in the snow with the frisky
dog had more than made up for it. She was still elated when she stripped off
her soggy clothes, slipped on a thermal shirt and sweat pants, and settled
beneath warm blankets.
    Waiting for Morgan's inevitable
return soon became unbearable. She felt unaccountably guilty for having ignored
his demand that she remain indoors, the last thing she should be feeling. Or
was it? After all, he had pulled her out of a wrecked vehicle and probably
saved her life. Perhaps he did have a right to be angry, since his request did
stem from the best of motives.
    But she was determined not to
cower.
    She fiddled with the binding on her
blanket, rearranged the fit of her pants, wiggled to get more comfortable. When
she finally spied the werewolf book on the bedside table, she picked it up. As
silly and far-fetched as the book was, it always held her attention.
    The wer-wolf’s strength is
prodigious. With a single sweep of its deadly claws it can vanquish foe and
prey alike. Thus, dear hunter, you are forewarned. Keep your distance until
prepared to strike. Be wary. You will get but one chance .
    The text went on to describe a
werewolf's uncanny speed, the density and keenness of claws that could cut
glass, teeth like razors, hair like wire, skin thick as an elephant's and immune
to all but the sharpest weapons.
    Its Achilles' heel, my friend,
lies in its underbelly. Soft and tender as a newborn lamb's, a single arrow or
flick of the hunter's blade will send the beast to its doom.
    The hair on Dana's arms bristled.
This was fiction, pure fiction, yet she felt sympathetic toward this