Seduced by the Moon

* * *

“You’re too far out there,” Trish said over the phone the next day in the authoritative tone reserved for bossy older sisters.

“It’s temporary, so I don’t mind.” Skylar rubbed her bloodshot eyes. Ten minutes of sleep while sitting by the window all night, gun in hand, wasn’t nearly enough for a clear head.

“I need to get this cabin boxed,” she added, like she did every time she spoke with Trish, which was every day. Sometimes twice.

“I’ll come and help,” Trish said.

“No, you won’t.”

“Then Lark can visit. She can ask for time off.”

“I’d rather choke.”

Trish’s voice deepened. “Do you know any of the neighbors?”

Like most lawyers, Trish didn’t like being crossed or argued with for any reason. As the oldest Donovan sister, Trish would lay out her argument logically and plan on wearing her down with repetition.

Skylar didn’t want to go home and didn’t want company while she explored the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. Unless hell froze over, she wasn’t going to share that objective with her sisters and get them all riled up.

Besides, the good Lord only knew what would happen if she were to utter the word werewolf, or mention being harassed by someone who hadn’t really shown themselves last night. If Trish knew any of that, half of Colorado would be on their way over before the phone disconnected.

Which might not have been such a bad idea, actually, if Skylar’s stubborn streak would have allowed it.

“The caretaker for this place lives a couple of miles down the road, Trish. I have his phone number right here.”

Trish snorted her disapproval. “Miles? Like that’s comforting?”

“I have a gun.”

Skylar’s announcement preceded a beat of silence over the line.

“You what?” Trish eventually said.

“It was Dad’s. I took it from the trunk.”

“What trunk would that be?” Trish asked. Demanded, really, in her best cross-examination style.

“The one I found in the attic here. It’s loaded and I know how to use it. We all do.”

Trish sighed unhappily. Trisha Lilith Donovan saw far too many weapons in her job as a prosecuting attorney to be comfortable with any of them. And Trish, as the eldest sibling and the only Donovan kid not named after a bird, felt responsible for the rest of the motherless girls.

“I suppose being engaged to the cop for twelve months also had its perks in the weapons department?” Trish suggested.

Skylar lowered the phone to take a deep breath so that Trish wouldn’t hear it. Trish had said “the cop,” avoiding the use of Danny’s name.

Skylar raised the receiver when she heard Trish calling her name.

“Skye? Skylar?”

“Sorry. I have something cooking on the stove. Can we talk later?”

“You’re putting me off. We haven’t discussed—”

“Good. Thanks,” Skylar interrupted. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Skye, wait. I’m sorry I brought up the cop. Really sorry.”

“No sweat. I’ve moved on, that’s all.”

“I know, but...”

“It’s all right. I haven’t been a baby for twenty-three years now. Nor have I ever needed help in making up my mind about something.”

“I know that, too. But you will always be my baby sister. You can confide in me.”

“I’m all right, I swear. My fiancé was a bastard, and it took me too long to figure that out. I’m off the hook now. That’s how I look at the breakup. Possibly it was an act of divine intervention in my favor. I feel relief, if you want the truth. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Okay?”

“Oh, all right.”

“Bye, Trish.”

Skylar signed off before the arguments could start up again, and with them the apologies about things not working out with Detective Danny Parker, who had gotten her close enough to matrimony to actually buy the dress.

But it had never been a match made in heaven, and she’d known that, deep down inside. She’d merely been going through the motions.

Worse, in terms of regrets, was realizing she’d gone along with Danny’s little mental abuses, and had been swept up in them, rather than openly exerting her true rebellious personality. That hadn’t been like her at all, really. And she hadn’t been lying to Trish about the relief.

Palming her cell phone, Skylar checked the screen for calls, half expecting Trish to call back. Then she set the phone on the table. Service was spotty in the mountains, and only seemed to like this small area in the front room of the cabin—a fact that wasn’t exactly comforting, she supposed, though Trish didn’t need to know that, either.

“And if you knew what else I found in that trunk of Dad’s, Trish, you’d send in the tanks,” she muttered.

Not only had she found the gun in that trunk, well-oiled and ready to go, it was loaded with unusual ammunition that had to have helped shape her dreams. She was sure that silver bullets weren’t the norm for anyone, outside of people chasing their own form of madness.

Glancing up at the ceiling as if she could see through the rough wooden beams, she said, “Neither are they standard in a psychiatrist’s medicine bag.”

In the past, she would have called Danny to talk about this, but she was on her own now—which left her imagination wide-open. Because shiny silver ammunition, unless merely something a collector might covet, was de rigueur for hunting...

“Werewolves.”

Skylar turned toward the window, attuned to the drop in temperature that signaled another day’s end. Nightfall wasn’t far off.

“Damn it, Trish. I need to find out what our father was up to, and why it might have killed him.”

Solving the mystery of her father’s frequent disappearances was paramount, as was finding out why he needed so much time away from everyone he supposedly loved.

But hell, Dad. Silver bullets?