Hunting Moon (Decorah Security Series, Book #11): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel by REBECCA YORK
Authors: REBECCA YORK
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he ordered.
“Inside the grounds—and out?”
“Yes, both.”
Raymond turned and headed back toward the kitchen door, walking confidently, but he couldn’t help wondering exactly what had happened here last night. And he couldn’t suppress a kernel of fear. He’d thought he had everything under control. But now . . .
As he stepped inside, he was thinking that Costa’s suggestion fit the tracks on the ground, but it couldn’t be what had happened, could it?
He shuddered. He should gather the group again and go back to the interrogation, but he found it impossible to focus on that now. The mystery of the man and the big dog was too unsettling.
When he passed the group therapy room, he saw that Tory and June were still there.
June looked spacey. Tory looked furtive.
“Are we going back to the session?” June asked in a slurred voice.
“Not now,” he snapped, then made an effort to appear in total control of the situation.
June still looked like her head wasn’t quite screwed on straight. Tory was trying to hide a surge of relief. He focused on her, knowing that he should get on with the process of breaking her down—because once again he was thinking that he might not have as much time as he’d assumed.
Still, he was pretty sure anything he tried now would be useless, since he needed her drugged for the process to be effective.
And, to be honest, he couldn’t force himself to continue with business as usual. Instead he headed back to his office, closed the door, and brought up a Google search page. Almost as if his hands had their own idea of what he should look for, he typed in “werewolf.”
Chapter Fourteen
As part of his general interest in delusional behavior, Raymond had read about werewolf myths. Now he went back to some standard sources. Many of the ancient stories came from Greece and Romania, but there were examples in many different cultures. In the story about Little Red Riding Hood, some scholars suggested that the wolf could have been a werewolf, not just a wolf dressed in grandma’s clothing.
He kept reading from ancient and more modern sources. The idea that the full moon exerted an influence on shape-shifters seemed to be a fairly recent invention.
He found lots of advice for spotting a werewolf in human form. Men with red hair might be candidates, also those with an index finger and middle finger the same length. And you could change a werewolf back into a man by throwing a piece of iron at his head.
Helpful, he thought, with a snort.
Everything he read was put in terms of myths or modern horror fiction. There was no suggestion that these creatures were real. But what if they actually did lurk around the world of men?
He let himself consider that possibility. If there were real werewolves, what would one be doing at this isolated facility at the edge of a national park? And why would it even want to come in here?
There was a logical answer to the first question. The Refuge was in the deep woods, a natural place for a werewolf to be prowling around. The werewolf might have been curious about the building and come to have a look. And dug his way under the fence?
But why would he be interested in Tory Robinson? Or did he even know about Tory?
Raymond had no answer, and he was still too unsettled to get back to work. Urgency still pushed at him, but perhaps it was more productive to focus on security.
The phone rang, and he glanced at the caller I.D. Gary Freemont.
Shit.
Freemont was the last person he wanted to hear from at the moment, but he could hardly refuse to take a call from the man who was funding his current project.
He picked up the receiver and said, “Raymond here.”
“Are you making progress?” the brusque voice on the other end of the line said.
“She just got here.”
“How long is this going to take?”
Raymond debated how to answer. He didn’t want to admit they’d had some kind of intruder last night—man or wolf. And he certainly didn’t
“Inside the grounds—and out?”
“Yes, both.”
Raymond turned and headed back toward the kitchen door, walking confidently, but he couldn’t help wondering exactly what had happened here last night. And he couldn’t suppress a kernel of fear. He’d thought he had everything under control. But now . . .
As he stepped inside, he was thinking that Costa’s suggestion fit the tracks on the ground, but it couldn’t be what had happened, could it?
He shuddered. He should gather the group again and go back to the interrogation, but he found it impossible to focus on that now. The mystery of the man and the big dog was too unsettling.
When he passed the group therapy room, he saw that Tory and June were still there.
June looked spacey. Tory looked furtive.
“Are we going back to the session?” June asked in a slurred voice.
“Not now,” he snapped, then made an effort to appear in total control of the situation.
June still looked like her head wasn’t quite screwed on straight. Tory was trying to hide a surge of relief. He focused on her, knowing that he should get on with the process of breaking her down—because once again he was thinking that he might not have as much time as he’d assumed.
Still, he was pretty sure anything he tried now would be useless, since he needed her drugged for the process to be effective.
And, to be honest, he couldn’t force himself to continue with business as usual. Instead he headed back to his office, closed the door, and brought up a Google search page. Almost as if his hands had their own idea of what he should look for, he typed in “werewolf.”
Chapter Fourteen
As part of his general interest in delusional behavior, Raymond had read about werewolf myths. Now he went back to some standard sources. Many of the ancient stories came from Greece and Romania, but there were examples in many different cultures. In the story about Little Red Riding Hood, some scholars suggested that the wolf could have been a werewolf, not just a wolf dressed in grandma’s clothing.
He kept reading from ancient and more modern sources. The idea that the full moon exerted an influence on shape-shifters seemed to be a fairly recent invention.
He found lots of advice for spotting a werewolf in human form. Men with red hair might be candidates, also those with an index finger and middle finger the same length. And you could change a werewolf back into a man by throwing a piece of iron at his head.
Helpful, he thought, with a snort.
Everything he read was put in terms of myths or modern horror fiction. There was no suggestion that these creatures were real. But what if they actually did lurk around the world of men?
He let himself consider that possibility. If there were real werewolves, what would one be doing at this isolated facility at the edge of a national park? And why would it even want to come in here?
There was a logical answer to the first question. The Refuge was in the deep woods, a natural place for a werewolf to be prowling around. The werewolf might have been curious about the building and come to have a look. And dug his way under the fence?
But why would he be interested in Tory Robinson? Or did he even know about Tory?
Raymond had no answer, and he was still too unsettled to get back to work. Urgency still pushed at him, but perhaps it was more productive to focus on security.
The phone rang, and he glanced at the caller I.D. Gary Freemont.
Shit.
Freemont was the last person he wanted to hear from at the moment, but he could hardly refuse to take a call from the man who was funding his current project.
He picked up the receiver and said, “Raymond here.”
“Are you making progress?” the brusque voice on the other end of the line said.
“She just got here.”
“How long is this going to take?”
Raymond debated how to answer. He didn’t want to admit they’d had some kind of intruder last night—man or wolf. And he certainly didn’t
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