Where The Moon Finds Us

Mara Ellery had never trusted a quiet forest. It wasn't that the Wychwood frightened her. Not exactly. She had spent most of her adult life wandering its paths, gathering herbs beneath its ancient trees and searching the damp earth for mushrooms after a good rain. She knew which streams ran clear and which left a bitter taste on the tongue. She knew where wild mint grew thickest, where the ground became treacherously soft after a storm, and which old beech tree had a hollow large enough for a person to crawl inside. The forest had always been familiar to her. It was the silence she didn't trust. Mara slowed her steps and listened. The basket hanging from her arm brushed against her hip as she came to a stop. Inside were bundles of moonwort, feverfew, wild thyme, and enough silverleaf to make Mrs. Wren pleased with her for at least half an hour. A few mushrooms were tucked between the herbs, although Mara knew better than to mention how long she had spent searching for them. Three mushrooms hardly justified the mud on her boots or the tear in the hem of her skirt. The Wychwood should have been alive with sound. It always was. Even on the quietest afternoons there was movement beneath its canopy: the distant call of a bird, the scratch of something small moving through fallen leaves, the creak of branches shifting against one another in the wind. Water trickled over stones somewhere beyond the trees, though Mara couldn't see the stream from where she stood. Now she could hear none of it. She turned slowly, studying the path behind her. Nothing moved. A faint uneasiness settled beneath her ribs. "Don't be ridiculous," she whispered. Her voice seemed to disappear between the trees. Mara frowned. She had been told, on more than one occasion, that she had an unfortunate tendency to expect the worst. Mrs. Wren called it pessimism disguised as common sense. Mara preferred to think of it as preparedness. There was a difference. Prepared people survived. She adjusted the basket on her arm and started walking again, deliberately refusing to hurry. The path curved between two enormous oaks whose roots had pushed through the earth like old bones. Beyond them, the trees grew closer together, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead. Alderwick was less than half an hour away. She would be home before sunset. Mrs. Wren would complain about the mushrooms, complain about Mara's muddy boots, and then secretly set aside the best portion of supper for her. The thought brought a small smile to Mara's lips. She could already hear the old woman's voice. You went into the woods for mushrooms and came home with weeds. They're herbs. They're weeds with ambitions. Mara shook her head. "You're impossible," she murmured. The forest remained silent. Her smile faded. Something had changed. She could feel it now. A breeze moved through the upper branches, but strangely, she couldn't feel it below the canopy. The air against her face remained cold and still, carrying the damp scent of moss and decaying leaves. Mara stopped again. This time she didn't speak. The sensation of being watched had become impossible to ignore. She slowly turned her head, searching the spaces between the trees. There were only shadows, trunks, and tangled undergrowth. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. At least, nothing she could see. Her fingers tightened around the basket handle. She had spent enough years in these woods to know that silence wasn't necessarily an absence of sound. Sometimes it was a warning. She continued walking. She had gone perhaps another fifty yards when the smell reached her. Iron. Blood. Mara stopped so abruptly that the basket swung forward and struck her hip. Her stomach tightened. She set the basket down carefully and looked toward the trees on her left. The smell was faint, but unmistakable. She had learned the scent of blood as a child, long before she had learned how to make medicine. Mrs. Wren had taught her how to clean wounds, stitch cuts, and recognize when an injury was serious enough to require more than herbs and bandages. Mara stepped off the path. The smell grew stronger. She pushed aside a curtain of hanging branches and stopped. A deer lay several yards away. For a moment, Mara simply stared. She had seen dead animals before. Everyone who lived near the Wychwood had. But this wasn't the work of a wolf or a bear, and it wasn't the clean kill of a hunter. The animal's body had been torn open, yet the wounds were strangely precise, almost deliberate. There was blood on the leaves. Too much of it. Mara swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. Something about the sight felt wrong. Not because the deer was dead. Because it looked as though someone wanted it to be found. She took a step backward. A branch snapped behind her. Mara froze. For several seconds, she couldn't make herself turn around. Her heart began to beat harder. She told herself it had been a deer. There were plenty of them in the Wychwood. Perhaps one had followed her down the trail. Perhaps it had stepped on a branch. She almost believed herself. Then another branch cracked. Closer. Mara turned. Nothing. Only trees. Her breathing quickened. She stared into the shadows between the trunks, searching for movement. Nothing appeared, but the sensation of being watched became stronger. She knew that feeling. She had known it once before. Twelve years ago. The memory arrived so suddenly that it stole her breath. She was eleven again, curled beneath the kitchen table with her knees pressed against her chest. Her mother's hand covered her mouth, trembling so violently that Mara could feel the shaking in her fingers. Her father had been standing somewhere beyond the table, though Mara could only see his boots. There had been blood on the floor. A great deal of blood. And something had been breathing outside the house. Slowly. Heavily. Then she had seen the eyes. Gold in the darkness. Mara blinked hard. The memory disappeared. She was twenty-three. She was standing in the Wychwood. She was alone. And something had just moved behind her. She ran. She didn't stop to gather her basket or think about the path. She simply ran, branches tearing at her sleeves as she plunged deeper between the trees. Her boots slipped over wet leaves, and more than once she nearly fell, but she kept moving. Behind her came footsteps. Not paws. Footsteps. Two feet. Mara's heart lurched. She knew what that meant. She ran faster. The trail should have been just ahead. She knew it. She had walked this route hundreds of times. The creek would be beyond the next rise, followed by the old stone wall and the road into Alderwick. She only had to reach the road. A root caught her boot. Mara pitched forward and hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Pain shot through her knee. She rolled onto her back, gasping, and for several seconds could do nothing but stare at the branches overhead. Then she heard it. A growl. Low. Deep. Close enough that she felt the vibration of it in her chest. Mara pushed herself backward through the leaves. "No," she whispered. The word sounded pathetic. She hated that. She had promised herself years ago that she would never again be the frightened little girl beneath the kitchen table. But when the creature stepped from between the trees, fear made a liar of every promise she'd ever made. It was enormous. That was the first thought that managed to reach her. It stood upright, easily seven feet tall, with shoulders broader than any man's and arms that seemed unnaturally long. Dark fur covered most of its body, though patches of skin showed along its chest and throat. Its hands ended in black, curved claws. Its face was almost human. Almost. Its mouth was too wide. Its teeth were too long. And its eyes were the same impossible amber she remembered from the night her parents disappeared. Mara stopped breathing. The creature tilted its head as though studying her. Then it took a step. Mara's body screamed at her to run. Her legs refused. Another step. The creature's nostrils flared. Mara suddenly understood. It could smell her fear. A strange calm settled over her then, the kind that sometimes came immediately before panic. Her mind began throwing thoughts at her with absurd clarity. So this is how it happens. Mrs. Wren is going to be furious about the mushrooms. The thought was so ridiculous that Mara almost laughed. Almost. Then a man's voice came from behind the creature. "Don't." The creature stopped. Mara looked past it. A man stood among the trees. She noticed his stillness before anything else. He wasn't wearing armor, and he carried no visible weapon. His clothes were dark and practical, the long coat weathered enough to suggest he spent more time outdoors than in drawing rooms. His hair was nearly black, though the fading light caught warmer strands near his temples, and a narrow scar cut through one eyebrow. He was tall. Not merely tall, but imposing in a way that had nothing to do with his height. There was a quiet physicality about him, the sort of presence that made a room feel smaller when he entered it. But he wasn't looking at the creature. He was looking at her. His eyes were gray. Not pale gray. Not silver. A deep, storm-colored gray that seemed almost colorless in the fading light. "Stay where you are," he said. Mara stared at him. There was something about his voice she couldn't place. It was low and controlled, but beneath the calm was a strain she couldn't quite hear and yet somehow felt. The creature turned toward him. The man's attention remained on Mara. "Whatever happens," he continued, "don't run." Mara looked from him to the creature. "That isn't particularly reassuring." The words escaped before she could stop them. For the briefest moment, surprise crossed his face. Then the corner of his mouth moved. It wasn't quite a smile. "No," he said dryly. "I imagine it isn't." The creature lunged. The stranger moved. Mara barely had time to understand what she was seeing before his hand closed around the creature's throat. He caught its momentum and drove it sideways into a tree. The impact shook the branches overhead, sending dead leaves raining down around them. The creature roared and swung a claw toward his face. He caught its wrist. Mara stared. There was no struggle. The creature was larger than he was, yet the stranger held it with terrifying ease. The muscles in his forearm tightened, but his expression remained strangely calm. Then something changed. His jaw tightened. His breathing slowed. His eyes darkened. For one impossible moment, Mara thought the gray had disappeared completely. Gold flickered beneath his lashes. The creature saw it too. Its snarl faltered. It was afraid. Mara watched the stranger lean closer. "Leave," he said. The creature pulled against his grip. His fingers tightened. "Now." Something passed between them that Mara couldn't understand. The creature tore itself free and fled into the trees. The stranger did not follow. He remained still, staring after it. His hands were clenched. His breathing had become uneven. Mara watched him closely. There was something wrong. Not with the man himself. With the effort he was making to remain one. After several seconds, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. His shoulders rose with the breath, then lowered as he forced himself to relax. When he opened his eyes again, they were gray. Human. Mara wasn't sure why that frightened her almost as much as the gold had. He turned toward her. Their eyes met. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then his gaze moved over her, taking in the torn sleeve of her dress, the blood on her knee, the leaves caught in her hair. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes lingered briefly on the scrape along her palm. "Are you hurt?" Mara glanced down. "I don't think so." He looked unconvinced. She shifted her weight, testing her knee. Pain answered immediately, sharp enough to make her wince. His eyes narrowed. "You are." "It's a scratch." "You can barely put weight on it." Mara looked at him. "You've known me for approximately three minutes. Are you always this bossy?" Something flickered behind his eyes. Perhaps amusement. Perhaps irritation. She couldn't tell. "Only when someone is bleeding." Mara looked down at herself again. Then she noticed the blood running along his forearm. "You're bleeding." "It's not mine." His answer came quickly. Mara looked at him. "That's somehow worse." For the first time, his expression actually shifted. His mouth twitched, and a brief, unwilling smile touched his face before disappearing again. "What?" "If it isn't your blood," Mara said, "then I don't particularly want to know where it came from." His eyes held hers for a moment. "Probably wise." There was something almost teasing in his voice now, though it was so subtle that Mara wasn't certain she hadn't imagined it. She looked toward the trees where the creature had disappeared. "Was that a wolf?" "No." "Bear?" "No." Mara waited. He said nothing. She looked back at him. "You know, most people answer questions with more than one word." "Most people ask too many questions." Mara couldn't help it. She laughed. The sound surprised both of them. It was a small laugh, breathless and nervous, but genuine. The stranger stared at her. For some reason, Mara became suddenly self-conscious. "What?" "Nothing." "You were looking at me." "I was." There was no embarrassment in his answer. No apology. Mara lifted an eyebrow. "Do you usually stare at people you've just rescued?" "No." "Then why are you staring at me?" He looked away. "I was wondering whether you were going to start crying." Mara's mouth fell open. "I don't cry." His gaze returned to her. "You almost did." "I absolutely did not." Her cheeks flamed "You were shaking." "I was being attacked by a seven-foot monster." "That tends to cause shaking." Mara folded her arms. "You aren't very comforting." "I've never claimed to be." "Clearly." For the first time, something resembling genuine amusement reached his eyes. It disappeared quickly. Mara found herself wishing it hadn't. The realization irritated her. She didn't know this man. She didn't even know whether she should trust him. And yet she was noticing the way his mouth moved when he almost smiled. That was absurd. She looked away. "Who are you?" He was silent for a moment. "Rowan." "Rowan what?" "Hale." Mara repeated the name silently. Rowan Hale. It sounded strangely familiar, though she couldn't remember hearing it before. "I'm Mara." "I know." She looked at him sharply. "You keep saying that." "Because it's true." "How do you know my name?" He didn't answer. Mara studied him. He had the sort of face that was difficult to forget. Strong jaw, straight nose, dark hair that fell slightly over his forehead, and eyes that seemed capable of changing entirely depending on what he was thinking. Except she had no idea what he was thinking. That bothered her more than it should have. "Have we met before?" "No." Again, the answer came too quickly. Mara narrowed her eyes. "You're lying." His gaze sharpened. "Am I?" "Yes." "And why do you think that?" "Because you answered before I finished asking." For several seconds he simply stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, a faint smile touched his mouth. "You're observant." "I've been called worse." "I imagine you have." The answer was so unexpectedly dry that Mara almost smiled. Instead, she folded her arms. "Do you know my family?" His expression changed. It was subtle. So subtle that someone who wasn't watching him carefully might have missed it. Mara didn't. "No." She knew he was lying. "You're terrible at that." His jaw tightened. "At what?" "Lying." "I assure you, I'm not." "Then you're very good at looking like a man who is." He stared at her. Mara stared back defiantly. Neither of them moved. Finally, Rowan exhaled through his nose. "You should go home." "I was planning to." "Now." His tone was firmer this time. Mara studied him. He wasn't simply trying to frighten her away. There was urgency in his voice. Concern. That realization unsettled her. She had spent years learning to read people. Children who grew up in difficult homes became experts at it. You learned to listen for changes in footsteps. You learned the difference between a slammed door and an accidentally closed one. You learned to recognize anger before it arrived and kindness before it disappeared. Rowan Hale was difficult to read. Perhaps that was why she couldn't stop trying. "Why?" "Because this part of the forest isn't safe." "It never seemed particularly dangerous before." "It was." Mara frowned. "Then why didn't anything happen before?" His gaze moved toward the deeper woods. "Perhaps it wasn't hungry." The casualness of the answer made Mara's stomach tighten. She looked toward the trees. "What was that thing?" He didn't answer. "Rowan." His eyes returned to hers. "I don't know what you saw." "You were fighting it." "I know." "So you must know what it was." He was silent. Mara's frustration grew. "You can't just refuse to answer every question." "I can." "You really are insufferable." "I've been told." "By women?" A faint smile returned. "Among others." Mara smiled despite herself. For one strange moment, the fear that had gripped her seemed farther away. Then Rowan's gaze dropped to her throat. His expression changed. Mara instinctively touched the pendant resting against her skin. It was a small silver disk, worn smooth from years of handling. A crescent was engraved into the center, surrounded by a pattern so delicate that Mara had never been able to determine whether it was writing or simply decoration. Her mother had given it to her. At least, that was what Mara had always been told. Rowan stared at it. His face went completely still. Mara noticed. "You know this." "No." "That's another lie." His jaw tightened. "You shouldn't wear it." Mara closed her fingers around the pendant. "Why?" "Because it's dangerous." She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "It's a necklace." His eyes lifted to hers. "No," he said quietly. "It isn't." Something about the way he said it made the humor disappear from her face. "What is it?" He looked away. The movement was small, but Mara noticed it. He was hiding something. "Rowan." His eyes returned to hers. For a moment, he seemed to be considering whether to tell her. Instead, he asked, "What was your mother's name?" Mara went still. "What?" "Your mother's name." "Why?" He didn't answer. The hesitation told her more than words might have. Mara's fingers tightened around the pendant. "Elise." The effect was immediate. Rowan's face changed. Recognition. Pain. Something darker beneath both. Mara felt a chill move down her spine. "You knew her." "No." "You did." His gaze dropped. "No," he repeated, but this time the word sounded different. Less certain. Mara took another step toward him. "How?" He looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly, "You shouldn't be here." She frowned. "I've been coming here since I was twelve." "And you've been lucky." "I don't believe in luck." "Then perhaps you should start." Mara studied him. There was something almost bitter in his voice. She wondered what had happened to him. The thought came unexpectedly. She didn't know this man. She shouldn't care. Yet she had seen the way his hands shook after the creature left. She had seen the fear in his eyes. Not fear of the creature. Fear of himself. Mara knew something about that kind of fear. Perhaps that was why she couldn't stop looking at him. "Are you always this difficult?" she asked. His eyebrow lifted. "Are you always this curious?" "Usually." She chimed. "I can tell." Despite herself, Mara smiled. Rowan looked at her for a moment too long. Something changed in his expression. His gaze softened. Not much. But enough. Mara felt an unfamiliar flutter low in her stomach and immediately dismissed it. Shock. Adrenaline. Anything but attraction. She had just watched a monster try to kill her. She wasn't going to develop feelings for the strange man who had rescued her. That would be absurd. Rowan seemed to come to the same realization at exactly the same moment. His expression closed. He stepped back. The distance between them suddenly felt deliberate. "Go home, Mara." She frowned. "You've said that several times." "Because you haven't listened." "Perhaps I want answers." His gaze hardened. "You don't." "I do." She said persistently. "No." The single word carried enough weight to silence her. Mara stared at him. He looked toward the sky. The last light of day was disappearing beyond the trees. The moon was beginning to rise. Mara followed his gaze. It appeared between the branches, enormous and pale, its light silvering the edges of the forest. "Why are you looking at the moon?" Mara asked him confusion in her tone. He didn't answer. Mara looked back at him. "What happens when it rises?" His shoulders stiffened. For a moment he seemed to be deciding whether to tell her. Then his eyes met hers. "Nothing you need to worry about." Mara frowned. "That sounds suspiciously like something a person says immediately before something happens." His mouth twitched. "You're determined to be difficult." "I've been told." This time, the almost-smile lasted longer. Then his expression changed. He looked at her as though he'd forgotten, for one brief moment, that he was supposed to stay away. His gaze lingered on her face. Mara became suddenly aware of the space between them. The quiet. The moonlight. The strange warmth of his attention. Then Rowan looked away. "You should be afraid of me." Mara considered that. Perhaps she should. Every sensible instinct told her that she should. But when she looked at him, she didn't see the monster she'd expected. She saw a man fighting very hard not to become one. "Maybe I am," she admitted. His gaze returned to hers. Mara swallowed. "But I'm still here." Something painful moved through his expression. "You shouldn't be." "Why?" Mara questioned carefully. He looked away. When he answered, his voice was so quiet that she almost didn't hear him. "Because that's what worries me." Before Mara could ask what he meant, Rowan turned and walked into the trees. She watched until the darkness swallowed him. Only then did she realize she was still holding her mother's pendant. She looked down. The silver was warm. Too warm. Mara frowned and opened her fingers. For the briefest moment, the crescent engraved into the metal seemed to glow beneath her palm. She blinked. The light disappeared. She touched it again. Nothing. "Wonderful," she murmured. Her voice trembled slightly. "Now I'm imagining glowing jewelry." She retrieved her basket, though several of the herbs had been crushed beyond saving, and began the walk back toward Alderwick. The familiar trail should have comforted her. It didn't. The forest seemed different now. Every tree appeared taller. Every shadow deeper. Every distant rustle seemed to carry meaning. Mara tried not to think about Rowan. She failed. She thought about the creature. She thought about his eyes. She thought about the way he'd looked at her pendant. She thought about the impossible strength in his hands. Most of all, she thought about the way he had said her name. Not like a stranger. Like someone who had heard it before. Like someone who had been waiting for it. By the time the first lights of Alderwick appeared through the trees, Mara had reached a conclusion. Rowan Hale was hiding something. A very large something. And whatever it was had something to do with her mother. She should have been frightened. She was. But beneath the fear, something else had begun to take root. Curiosity. Mara had always been terrible at leaving mysteries alone. She crossed the old stone bridge into Alderwick as the last of the daylight disappeared behind the hills. The village looked as it always had, with smoke curling from chimneys and warm lamplight glowing through windows. Someone had left a stack of firewood beside the baker's door, and somewhere farther down the lane a dog barked once before being silenced by an irritated voice. Ordinary. Safe. Familiar. Mara stood on the bridge for a moment and looked back. The Wychwood was barely visible from there, its dark outline stretching along the horizon. She touched the pendant beneath her blouse. For the first time in twelve years, the memory of her parents' disappearance didn't feel like an old wound. It felt like a door. And somewhere on the other side of it stood Rowan Hale. A man who knew her name. A man who knew her mother. A man who could look into the eyes of a monster and make it afraid. And, judging by the way he had looked at her before he left, a man who was afraid of her, too. ROWAN: Deep within the Wychwood, Rowan Hale stood beneath the rising moon and watched the path where Mara had disappeared. He could still smell her. Rain. Wild herbs. Warm skin. And beneath it all, something that should not have existed. Something he had not smelled since childhood. Something his father had once taught him to fear. Lycan blood. His fingers tightened around the trunk of the oak beside him. That alone would have been troubling. But it wasn't what frightened him. What frightened him was the recognition beneath the scent. The ancient part of him that had awakened the moment Mara Ellery stepped into the clearing. The part that had known her before his mind did. The part that had whispered a single word the moment he'd looked into her eyes. Mine. Rowan shut his eyes. "No." The word came out like a warning. Whether he was speaking to the beast inside him or to himself, he wasn't entirely sure. He pushed away from the tree and stared toward the distant lights of Alderwick. He should have let the creature take her. The thought was monstrous. He knew that. But allowing her to live meant something far more dangerous than one beast in the Wychwood. It meant the old blood had been found. It meant the seal had failed. It meant the people who had spent twenty-three years searching for Elise Ellery's daughter would eventually learn that she was alive. And when they came, they would not care that Mara was innocent. They would not care that she knew nothing about the blood running through her veins. They would not care that she had spent her entire life believing herself ordinary. They would come for her. Because her mother had hidden something from them. Something powerful enough to start a war. Rowan looked once more toward the village. Toward the small cottage where Mara would soon be standing, probably arguing with the old woman who had raised her. He remembered the way Mara had smiled at him. Not cautiously. Not fearfully. Warmly. As though she could see something in him that he had spent years making certain no one ever saw. That frightened him more than the Lycan blood. He had survived monsters. He had survived war. He had survived becoming one himself. But he had no idea what to do with a woman who looked at him as though there might still be something worth saving. Rowan turned away from the village. The moon climbed higher. Somewhere beyond the trees, a wolf began to howl. And deep beneath Rowan's skin, the beast answered.