Luna Lost

10. Luna’s Pull

Luna read the note for the fifth time. I’ll find you again soon. There’s something I have to take care of first. —Damien.

Damien. Of course his name was Damien. Something normal like Michael or Steve would have been far too convenient for the enormous, half-naked stranger who had nearly killed two men in an alley, bled all over her couch, healed in front of her eyes and then disappeared through her bedroom window.

She lowered the note and looked around her apartment. The window was still open, allowing cool air to move through the room while rain tapped softly against the glass. Luna crossed the bedroom and shut it, then locked it before staring at the tiny metal latch.

“That feels f*****g useless.”

If Damien could move the way she’d seen him move, she doubted the lock would make much difference. Stranger still, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to.

Back in the living room, the bloodstain on the couch immediately caught her attention. She’d tried cleaning it, but a dark patch remained where Damien had been lying. Proof that she hadn’t imagined everything. Adrenaline could distort memories, sure, but it couldn’t put blood on upholstery.

She had watched his wound close.

Luna sat on the edge of the couch. She could still picture the torn flesh, the blood, then skin pulling itself together beneath her fingertips. She had touched him afterward. Nothing. No wound. Barely even a mark.

Her mind drifted toward things she hadn’t thought seriously about in years. Stories whispered when she was supposed to be asleep. Monsters. Wolves. Things that weren’t human. Her parents had always been strange about the forest, about hunting and especially about the training they’d insisted she learn.

Luna looked down at the pale crescent just beneath her wrist. A dog. That was what they’d always told her. She rubbed her thumb across the scar and for a moment remembered enormous golden eyes, warm breath and the faint sound of a growl.

Then nothing.

She pulled her sleeve over the mark.

Tomorrow she had training.

Tomorrow her father was going to answer some questions.

⸻

He didn’t.

“Again.”

Luna tightened her grip around the practice staff. “You didn’t answer me.”

Her father rolled his shoulders before settling back into position. “I heard you.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“Again.”

Luna attacked. He blocked easily, the impact rattling through her arms. She stepped back and swung from the opposite side. He blocked that too.

“What were you preparing me for?”

“Keep your left side up.”

“Dad.”

“Your left side, Luna.”

She lifted it and he attacked immediately. Luna barely caught the blow. “Jesus!”

“You dropped your guard.”

“Because I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

“Then learn to do both.”

Normally she would have laughed. Today she couldn’t.

Luna attacked again, feinting left before swinging right. Her father caught the staff inches before it connected with his ribs.

“Better.”

“What did you and Mom hunt?”

Something changed in his eyes. It lasted less than a second, but Luna saw it.

“You’ve asked that before.”

“And you didn’t answer me then either.”

“Animals.”

“What kind?”

“Luna.”

“What kind of animals?”

He came at her harder. Luna blocked once, twice, but the third strike knocked the staff from her hands. It landed several feet away.

“Pick it up.”

She didn’t move. “Why won’t you answer me?”

“Because you’re distracted.”

“No. You’re avoiding me.”

His jaw tightened. “Pick up the staff.”

Something cold moved through Luna’s stomach. Her father had always been intense about training, but something about this felt different.

Or maybe she was only noticing it now.

She retrieved the staff. “What actually bit me?”

He stopped.

There it was. The question she’d been afraid to ask.

“When I was little. What bit me?”

Her father’s gaze dropped immediately toward her hand. Not her face. Her hand.

“A dog.”

“You’ve always said that.”

“Because that’s what happened.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’re lying.”

His eyes snapped to hers. Luna’s heart thumped. She had never accused her father of lying before.

For a moment neither moved.

Then he lifted his staff.

“Again.”

“Seriously?”

“Again.”

She attacked harder this time. So did he.

The familiar rhythm swallowed the conversation. Block. Strike. Turn. Duck. Her father corrected every mistake with another blow.

“Feet.”

Luna adjusted.

“Guard.”

She lifted it.

“Faster.”

She swung.

“Again.”

Her shoulders burned. “Dad, just tell me what—”

“Focus.”

Wood cracked against wood. Her palms burned and her breathing became ragged. Every time she tried to speak, he attacked before she could finish.

Then he swept her legs.

Luna hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. She rolled onto her back, staring at the sky while her chest desperately tried to remember how breathing worked.

Her father appeared above her.

“Get up.”

Luna gave a breathless laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Get up.”

“I’m done.”

“If you were being attacked, do you think whoever knocked you down would care?”

“This isn’t an attack.”

“Get up, Luna.”

Something in his voice made her obey. Her arms shook as she pushed herself upright and reached for the staff.

“Again.”

By the time he finally stopped, Luna had forgotten half the questions she’d intended to ask. Her legs felt weak, her shirt clung to her back and every muscle in her body seemed to have developed its own heartbeat.

Her father handed her a bottle of water. “You did well.”

Just like that, he was Dad again. He reached out and pushed a damp strand of hair away from her forehead.

“You’re getting stronger.”

Normally the praise would have made her smile.

Instead, Luna looked at the scar hidden beneath her sleeve.

“Yeah.”

⸻

By the time Luna reached her apartment that evening, she wanted a shower, food and approximately twelve hours of unconsciousness.

Instead, she found flowers outside her door.

A simple bouquet rested against the wall beside a small paper bag. Luna looked down the empty hallway before picking them up. A note was tucked beneath the ribbon.

For ruining your couch. —Damien.

Luna laughed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Inside the paper bag was a pastry from the little bakery two streets over.

Her favorite.

Luna stared at it. “How the hell did you know?”

Then she remembered the empty pastry box she’d left on the kitchen counter.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You snooped.”

Somehow that made her smile more.

She arranged the flowers in the only vase she owned and stood back to look at them. Her apartment suddenly felt warmer.

She wished he’d left a phone number.

The thought came too quickly.

Luna frowned at herself. She barely knew him. He was obviously dangerous. She’d watched him break a man’s wrist like it was nothing.

She should have been terrified.

Instead, she remembered his head against her shoulder in the cab, the warmth of his body and his fingers closing gently around her wrist. She remembered the way he’d looked at her afterward.

Like he’d been searching for her.

Then she remembered the blood.

Luna looked toward the couch and the dark stain still marking the fabric.

She grabbed her laptop.

How quickly can a stab wound heal?

Weeks.

Can a stab wound heal overnight?

No.

Medical conditions causing rapid healing.

Nothing.

Luna leaned back. “This is stupid.”

Then she typed:

Myths about people who heal instantly.

That was where things became considerably less scientific.

Vampires. Demons. Immortals. Witches.

Werewolves.

Luna stared at the word.

“No.”

She closed the laptop.

Three seconds later, she opened it again.

“Fine.”

The results were ridiculous. Full moons, silver bullets, curses and men transforming beneath moonlight. She almost closed it again before several descriptions caught her attention.

Unnatural strength.

Heightened senses.

Extreme speed.

Accelerated healing.

Luna sat straighter.

Her mind immediately supplied Damien standing across the alley one moment and beside her the next. The crack of the attacker’s wrist. The wound closing beneath her fingers.

She needed something better than random websites written by people who probably lived in their parents’ basements and owned decorative swords.

Luna went to her bookshelf. Her mother had given her books throughout childhood—folklore, local legends and old collections of stories she’d mostly kept because throwing away books felt criminal.

Twenty minutes later, her living room looked like a conspiracy theorist had moved in.

Books covered the floor around her laptop. Her coffee had gone cold, her hair was piled into a messy knot and she was lying on her stomach, flipping through another book.

“This is f*****g ridiculous.”

Then she found healing.

The passage described wounds closing rapidly once immediate danger had passed, the speed depending upon the strength and age of the wolf.

Luna’s mouth went dry.

She turned the page.

An old illustration showed a man standing beneath a moon, the shadow of a wolf stretching behind him. His eyes were drawn almost entirely black.

Damien.

She had seen his eyes change.

Luna’s gaze lifted toward the flowers on her kitchen counter.

A monster wasn’t supposed to send flowers.

A monster wasn’t supposed to make her laugh.

A monster certainly wasn’t supposed to make her wish he’d left his phone number.

But she had watched his flesh knit itself back together. She had watched him move faster than any human should have been capable of moving. She had seen his eyes change.

There was a word for what Damien might be.

One she wasn’t quite ready to say, even alone in her apartment.

Her fingers drifted across the scar beneath her wrist.

It tingled beneath her touch.

Then came the pull.

Soft at first. Familiar enough that Luna almost ignored it, the same strange ache she’d felt at different moments throughout her life. Except this time, when she looked toward the darkened window, something inside her seemed to answer it.

Luna stared through the glass.

She didn’t know where Damien was.

She didn’t know how to contact him.

But suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to see him again.