Beneath a Midnight Moon

For Hardane, the hours seemed to crawl by, with each day the same as the last. He was given food and water and the opportunity to relieve himself twice each day.

It was an odd feeling, lifting layers of heavy cloth, then squatting over a wooden bucket to urinate when he was accustomed to standing. He tolerated the snickers of his guards, the occasional caress, wondering how women who sold their favors to strangers endured such intimacies.

He felt a deep sense of revulsion at being touched against his will. It galled him, being forced to endure the lewd stares of the Interrogator's men, having to listen to their coarse suggestions, knowing he was at the mercy of his guards, of the Interrogator, because, in his present form, he was smaller, weaker.

Late at night, when he was certain of being undisturbed, he transformed into his own shape. Resuming his own form was like slipping on a pair of old boots-comfortable and familiar.

In his own shape, Hardane prowled the confines of the small storeroom restlessly, hour after hour, his mind filling with images of Kylene. She had become the most important thing in his life. She was his woman, his wife. He longed to hold her in his arms once more, to feel the warmth of her body against his own.

Kylene. She was never out of his thoughts, his dreams. Once, he had imagined that he heard her voice pleading with him to return.

He kept track of the days as best he could. If his calculations were correct, they'd been at sea twelve days.

If his calculations were correct, they would reach Mouldour on the morrow.

And now it was night and the Interrogator had come to see him again, as he had each day, his expression smug, his ice blue eyes cold and unwavering.

Hardane stood with his back to the wall, his hands bound behind him, waiting, wondering what lay in store for him once they left the ship. Nothing good, he mused, judging by the look on the Interrogator's face. Somehow, he would have to escape his captors before they reached the Fortress.

"I had thought to execute you upon our arrival at Mouldour," the Interrogator remarked. He crossed the floor until he was less than an arm's length away from the woman he'd been sent to destroy. "But now . . ."

His eyes narrowed as he caressed her cheek. The skin was smooth and soft beneath his callused fingertips and he felt a sudden stirring in his loins. Surely, now that he had her away from Hardane of Argone, there was no need to dispose of her immediately.

Hardane jerked his head back to avoid the Interrogator's touch. "But now?"

"You would be wise not to annoy me, my lady," the Interrogator warned.

Reaching out, he caught Kylene's chin between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a cruel squeeze.

"Your life is in my hands, madam. I can let you live, or I can execute you now in any manner that amuses me."

Knowing it would be foolish to provoke the man, Hardane kept silent.

An oath escaped the Interrogator's lips. Insolent wench, he thought, and then, because she refused to cower, refused to beg, he slapped her hard across the face, taking perverse pleasure in the bright red stain that blossomed on her cheek.

"You might spend the night thinking of the last time you were a guest in the Fortress," the Interrogator suggested.

Hardane's eyes narrowed as he remembered the brutal whipping Kylene had endured at the hands of the Executioner.

"I see you've not forgotten the feel of the lash, or my promise to see you dead. Perhaps in the morning you will be more agreeable," the Interrogator mused. He placed his hand on Kylene's shoulder, let it slide suggestively down her arm, the back of his hand caressing her breast. "You might even think of some way to convince me to allow you to live."

"Don't count on it." Even as he spoke the words, Hardane knew it was a mistake, but some inner devil forced the retort past his lips, perversely determined to have the last word no matter what the cost.

Fury blazed in the Interrogator's ice blue eyes. Hardane reeled back as the Interrogator struck him across the face with the short crop he habitually carried.

The blow laid Hardane's cheek open almost to the bone, splattering blood in the Interrogator's face and over the walls.

Incensed that the man would strike a woman in such a fashion, his cheek burning with pain, Hardane spit in the Interrogator's face.

"You'll regret that," the Interrogator promised as he wiped Hardane's blood and spittle from his face. "I'll flay the skin from your body an inch at a time, madam, and then, if you're lucky, I'll let you die."

With a smug smile, the Interrogator opened the door and left the room.

Hardane waited until the Interrogator's footsteps had receded, and then he sank down on the floor, resting his head on his bent knees, his lacerated cheek throbbing from the Interrogator's blow.

The next morning, at the cry of "Land ho!" he transformed into the wolf.

He heard the sound of whistling as the crewman who brought him breakfast each morning approached the storeroom.

Hardane's hackles rose as the key turned in the lock. Had he been in human form, he might have laughed at the startled look on the man's face when he saw a wolf inside the room. But he wasn't a man now, and he was in no mood for laughter.

With a growl, he hurled himself at the hapless crewman, his mouth filling with the warm, sweet taste of blood as his teeth ripped into the man's shoulder. And then he was out the door, clawing his way up the narrow ladder, racing across the deck toward the gangplank.

He heard a shout behind him, felt a deep burning pain as an arrow pierced his right leg. And then, from the rigging, someone dropped a net over him and he knew he was well and truly caught.

Panting hard, he lifted his head to find the Interrogator staring down at him, a look of amazement in his cold blue eyes.

"Hardane," the Interrogator murmured. "Can it be you?" He turned to the seaman who had brought the wolf down with a single well-placed arrow. "Quetzel, go below and check on our prisoner."

Hardane remained where he was, bloody saliva dripping from his jaws, his gaze fixed on the Interrogator's face.

Drawn by the commotion, the other crewmen gathered around, their faces reflecting astonishment at finding a wolf on board.

Moments later, Quetzel returned. "The lady's gone, my lord."

"And Ren?"

"Bad hurt."

The Interrogator nodded, his expression one of grim satisfaction. He had lost the lady, he mused. Indeed, it now appeared he'd never had the lady at all, but perhaps he had something far better.

"How'd a wolf get on board?" Quetzel asked, still eyeing the beast.

"It's not a wolf."

"Not a wolf!" Quetzel's hand tightened on the crossbow clutched in his hand. "My lord, you can see with your own eyes that-"

The Interrogator cut him off with a wave of his hand. "This, my friend, is none other than Hardane, Lord of Argone."

Quetzel stared at the wolf, at the thick black fur, at the bloody saliva, at the arrow jutting from the bloody wound, and then a slow smile spread across his broad face. Everyone knew the Interrogator had been seeking the Wolf of Argone for months. Surely there would be a large reward for the man who had brought him down.

The Interrogator nudged the wolf in the side.

"Will you go to the Fortress as wolf or man, Hardane?" he asked harshly. "The choice is yours."

Hardane stared at the Lord High Interrogator through unblinking gray eyes. Other than Kylene and his immediate family, no one had ever seen him transform from one shape to another.

With a shrug, the Interrogator turned away. "Niles, secure the net so the beast can't escape. Quetzel, there's a large sea chest in the hold. Bring it up and lock the wolf inside, net and all. Perhaps, by the time we reach the Fortress, he'll be more agreeable."

It was a three-hour journey from the coast of Mouldour to the Fortress.

For Hardane, trapped in the net and locked inside a chest only large enough to hold him, it seemed much longer. No one had bothered to remove the arrow from his leg, and he howled with pain as the wagon jolted over the rough road. The air inside the box grew warm, stifling.

Helpless, steeped in fury, he imagined sinking his fangs into the Interrogator's throat, drinking his blood to quench the awful thirst that plagued him.

He was only barely conscious when he realized that the motion of the cart had stopped. A short time later, the chest was unlocked, the lid was opened, and he was lifted out, net and all, and dumped into an iron-barred cell.

At the Interrogator's command, a half-dozen armed men surrounded him. Then, with a vicious smile lighting his face, the Interrogator took hold of the arrow and jerked it from the wolf's flesh.

Hardane roared with pain, his jaws snapping wildly as he struggled against the net in an effort to sink his teeth into his tormentor's throat.

But the Interrogator only laughed and then, still chuckling with malicious glee, he motioned for his men to leave the cell.

Following them out, he closed and locked the heavy iron-barred door and pocketed the key.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the men, ordering two of them to remain out of sight but within calling distance.

When he was alone in the dungeon, the Interrogator pulled a stool up to the cell and sat down, his gaze fixed on Hardane. All his life, he had yearned to know the secret of shape shifting, had yearned to see it done. And now the time was at hand. Sooner or later, Hardane's control would slip and he would assume his own shape. And he would be there to see it.

Almost against his will, the Interrogator felt his gaze drawn to the wolf's eyes, and as he stared into the creature's unblinking gray gaze, he was gripped by a sudden terror as a primal fear of the ancient Wolffan race rose up within him.

Old tales, heard long ago in his childhood, flooded his mind. Tales of Wolffan males devouring human young, tales of female Wolffan luring innocent men to their deaths. Tales of Wolffan men and women mating with human men and women. Those tales he knew to be true. Hardane of Argone had been conceived from such a union. It was said the blood of the Wolffan could cure warts, that they could sicken a flock of sheep with a glance, that they drank human blood, and danced in the light of the midnight moon.

With a disdainful snort, the Interrogator shook such fanciful fables from his mind. The Wolffan had the power to assume other shapes, that was all. They weren't witches; they possessed no hurtful magic.

Feeling calmer, he sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, and waited.

Plagued by thirst and the constant throbbing pain of his wound, Hardane lay panting on the cold stone floor, the weight of the net growing heavier with each passing moment. He longed for a drink, one cool drink of water, to ease his thirst.

Closing his eyes, he whined low in his throat, feeling more miserable, more alone, than he'd ever felt in his life.

As though reading his mind, the Interrogator reached for the water jug on the floor beside him. He shook it several times, the water making a pleasant swishing against the sides of the jar, and then he took a long slow drink, letting a little of the water dribble down his chin.

A low growl of rage and frustration rumbled in Hardane's throat as the scent of the water reached his nostrils. Curse the man!

With a sneer, the Interrogator put the jug aside and rose to his feet. Taking up a three-pronged lance, he slid it through the bars and jabbed at the wolf's injured leg.

Hardane howled with pain as the sharp prongs pierced his already torn flesh. Rage exploded within him, and with it the primal urge to kill.

Knowing it was futile, he began to thrash about, but the movement only entangled him more deeply in the net's web.

The Interrogator leaned forward. "Change for me, Hardane," he urged. "You'll have no food, no water, until you do."

A low-pitched snarl of frustration and rage filled the cell, and then, as the Interrogator jabbed him with the lance again, a long, anguished cry echoed off the cold stone walls.

"Change, Hardane," the Interrogator urged. "Change now, or I'll cleave your head from your body and send that fine black pelt to Kylene."

It was not an idle threat. One look into the Interrogator's cold blue eyes assured him of that.

For a moment, Hardane thought of giving up, of calling the Interrogator's bluff and putting an end to everything once and for all. But then he thought of Kylene, of the anguish his death would cause her, and he knew he could not do anything to cause her grief, not now.

He felt the transformation sweep over him, saw the Interrogator's eyes widen in stunned disbelief as wolf became man.

It took only moments, yet the Interrogator saw it all clearly, as if time had somehow slowed its pace. He saw the wolf's head change shape, saw the thick black fur disappear while the paws transformed into human hands and feet. And suddenly it was Hardane, clad in a pair of buff-colored breeches, trapped within the net. Blood stained his right thigh and dripped onto the stone floor. A long gash, black with dried blood, angled down his left cheek.

Teeth clenched against the pain throbbing through him, Hardane took hold of the net and threw it off. Then, summoning what little strength he still possessed, he stood up and faced his enemy.

The Interrogator stared at the man before him, shaken to the depths of his soul by what he'd just seen. He had always believed that the Wolffan could change shapes, he had spoken of it as if it were a known fact, but to actually see it happen was a truly frightening thing.

And then the fear left him, replaced by an immense desire to know how such an incredible feat had been accomplished.

"Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me the secret of changing."

"There is no secret," Hardane replied coldly.

"You lie! I will have the secret, or I will have your life."

Slowly, Hardane shook his head. "There is no secret," he repeated calmly. "If you wish to learn magic, seek a wizard."

"A wizard! I have no desire to learn the art of illusion or sorcery. I want to know the secret of shape shifting."

"Shape shifting is inherent in the Wolffan. It cannot be taught. It cannot be given away. It cannot be stolen."

A wordless cry of frustration rose in the Interrogator's throat. "We will see." He hissed the words through clenched teeth. "Perhaps you will sing a different song when your lady is here."

Hardane took a step forward, heedless of the pain that shot through his right leg. "What do you mean?"

"I mean to bring her here, my Lord of Argone."

"Here? Why?"

"To put an end to the prophesy for now and all time."

"You have only to kill me to do that. There's no need to bring Kylene into this. She cannot fulfill the prophesy without me."

"But I also wish to know the secret of the Wolffan."

"There is no secret! Wolffan shape shifting is inbred into all who are seventh born. There's no more to it than that."

"But I think there is. And when she is here, you will tell me what I wish to know, or her life will be forfeit before your own."

Hardane's hands clenched the bars. "I warn you, Renick, harm her and even the flames of Gehenna will not keep me from ripping out your heart."

The Interrogator took a step back, unable to mask his surprise. "You know my name."

"Aye, Renick of Britha. I know who you are."

With an effort, Renick wiped the surprise from his face. No one living knew his name. Born of a whore in the back alleys of Britha, he had never acknowledged the name his mother had bestowed upon him, or taken a new one. He was the Interrogator. It was his title and his rank. Men feared it, and him.

"How came you by this knowledge?"

Hardane shook his head. "Do you think I would reveal his name and thereby put his life in danger?"

"It matters not," Renick said. "What matters now is Kylene. Whether she lives or dies depends on you. You might think of that while we await her arrival."

"You're a fool. Do you think my father will let her come here?"

A sly smile curved Renick's thin lips. "Indeed, my lord wolf, indeed."

Hardane stared after the Interrogator as he left the dungeon, the words "my lord wolf" echoing in his mind. How often had Kylene called him that, her voice low and husky with affection, with desire? Kylene. The thought of her in Renick's clutches was more frightening than the thought of his own death, however painful that might be.

His hands tightened around the thick iron bars as he tried to convince himself he had nothing to fear. Kray would never allow Kylene to leave Argone. Knowing that Hardane had been captured, his mother and father would keep a careful watch over Kylene. The precautions that were taken in time of war would be followed. The castle gates would be locked and closely guarded. Strangers would not be allowed to enter the keep. The walls would be heavily manned at all times. Kylene would be safe. He had to believe that, or he'd go mad with worry.

With a groan, he sank down to the cold stone floor and rested his forehead against the bars. He was hungry and thirsty, weak from loss of blood. His leg ached as if all the fires of Gehenna had been kindled inside, and his cheek throbbed with a dull monotony. And he was weary, so utterly weary.

But, more than that, he ached with the need to see Kylene, to hold her, hear her voice, see her smile. The pain in his thigh was as nothing compared to the fierce pain in his heart when he thought of never seeing her again.

Closing his eyes, he summoned her image to mind, wondering if he could reach out to her from such a long distance. Her name repeated itself in his mind, and he seemed to hear her voice, soft and low, whispering that all would be well. He felt her hands soothing his brow, massaging the tension from his back and shoulders.

Kylene. Fervently, he prayed for her safety and for that of his family.

A short time later, one of the guards appeared. For a moment, the man stood staring through the bars. Keeping a wary eye on Hardane, he slid a loaf of hard black bread and a bowl of water into the cell, and then he hurried away, as if the devil himself were snapping at his heels.

Hardane stared at the coarse bread with distaste, remembering the rich pastries and rolls that Old Nan had prepared, but he was in no position to be choosy. He ate the bread slowly, drained the bowl of water, wishing it were wine.

He'd no sooner finished eating than Renick appeared, followed by four heavily armed guards.

Hardane struggled to his feet, wondering what Renick had in store for him now. He didn't have long to wait.

"Chain him up," Renick ordered, and the four guards entered the cell. One remained in the doorway, his lance at the ready.

Hardane fought them as best he could, but, unarmed and wounded, he was no match for three brawny men. Still, he managed to hold his own until one of the guards kicked his wounded leg out from under him.

Pain exploded in his thigh and he reeled back, fighting the nausea that rose in his throat.

In minutes, his arms were drawn behind his back and chained to the wall behind him. A thick iron collar was fitted around his neck, and then one of the guards dropped a noose over his head and snugged it tight before securing the other end to an iron ring set high above Hardane's head.

A muscle worked in Hardane's jaw. If he tried to change into the wolf, in an effort to slip his bonds, the noose would be drawn tight around his throat, slowly strangling him.

The Interrogator watched it all with an expression of supreme satisfaction. He chuckled softly as he left the dungeon. Soon, everything he'd ever wanted would be within his grasp.

Unable to sit down because of the noose, Hardane sagged back against the wall and shifted his weight to his left leg in an effort to ease the ache in his right thigh.

Alone, he stared into the darkness, fighting the urge to transform into the wolf, knowing that to do so would bring slow, strangling death. He knew of tales of Wolffan turning into everything from lizards to birds, but there was no truth to such stories. Wizards and magicians might turn into frogs or flowers, but the only inhuman shape the Wolffan could assume was that of the wolf.

He sighed as he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

And then he heard the swish of skirts.

Curious, he opened his eyes, gasping when he saw the woman standing in the corridor.

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Kylene. But his bride radiated goodness and light, while the woman before him seemed shadowed in endless darkness.

The woman smiled at him as she unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

"So, my Lord of Argone, we meet again."

"Selene." He spoke her name as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

She nodded. "It's useless to fight him, you know. The Interrogator will have what he wants, and he cares not who he hurts to get it."

"It seems you have much in common."

Selene shrugged, untouched by his scorn.

Hardane stared at her, wishing it were Kylene who stood before him. Selene's eyes might be the same shade of brown, but they were as hard and cold as frozen earth. Her hair was as red as Kylene's, her skin the same creamy hue, her mouth as full and ripe, and yet she might have been as old and bent as Druidia for all the desire she sparked within him.

"What do you want, Selene?" he asked wearily. "Why have you come here?"

She stepped forward, close enough that her skirts brushed his legs as she traced the gash in his cheek.

"To gloat, of course. To see for myself that the prophesy will never come true, to assure myself that Kylene will never share your throne, or bear your children."

"She's your own flesh and blood. Why do you hate her so?"

"Why shouldn't I hate her? An accident of birth, and she was destined to have everything, everything, while I was to live in her shadow, simply because she was the firstborn twin."

"Do what you will, you cannot change destiny, Selene."

"You think not?" She ran her fingertips over his shoulder and down the length of one arm. "The Interrogator wants to know the secret of shape shifting. He'll do anything to make you tell him."

"There's nothing to tell."

Selene shrugged as she spread her hands over his chest. "It matters not to me. I came here to make a deal with you, Hardane of Argone."

"What kind of deal?" he asked, frowning as her hands slid down his belly.

"I want to be your life-mate, to share the throne of Argone."

"Such a thing is impossible."

"Is it?" She pressed herself against him, her hands drawing lazy circles on his shoulders. "I think not. You have only to send Kylene back to the Motherhouse at Mouldour and let me take her place at your side."

Hardane shook his head, repulsed by her nearness.

"No one else need ever know," Selene purred, grinding her hips against his. "I look like her. I sound like her. No one can tell us apart."

"I can."

"I'm offering you life, Hardane. All you have to do is accept me as your life-mate."

"You mean all I have to do is betray Kylene," he retorted. "Make a mockery of the vows we took."

Selene took a step back. "You would rather die than do as I ask?" she exclaimed, unable to believe he would refuse her.

Hardane snorted softly. "I'd as soon bed a viper as share my life with you."

She slapped him then, the sound of her palm striking his cheek echoing loudly off the damp stone walls.

"So be it. But think on this, my arrogant Lord of Argone, when she dies an inch at a time at the hands of the Interrogator, the guilt will rest on your shoulders."

Hardane felt himself trapped in the web of Selene's gaze as she stared up at him through eyes so like Kylene's, and yet so different. He felt it then, the same swirling darkness that had permeated Kylene's bedchamber the night she had vowed to be his.

A mocking grin tugged at the corner of Selene's lips. "When she lies dead at your feet, remember that I offered you a chance to save her and you turned it down. Will you be able to live with that?"

He couldn't, and they both knew it.

"Think it over carefully, Hardane," she advised as she turned away and started down the corridor. "I shall come back in a day or two to see if you've changed your mind."