Supernatural Thriller Full Wolf Moon
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Fans of Brian McGreevy’s Hemlock Grove or Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan’s The Strain Trilogy will want to sink their teeth into this thought-provoking thriller in werewolf’s clothing.
On the Back Cover:
Tulenar Japanese Internment Camp, 1942
In the wake of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, no one believes a greater evil stalks Japanese nationals and their American born children than what they are already suffering.
Forced from their homes along the West Coast of the U.S. and Canada, placed into internment camps for the duration of the war, no one believes a werewolf is behind the grisly deaths plaguing the residents of the camp. Not Capt. Max Pierce, nor politico Doris Tebbe. Only Navajo healer David Alma Curar believes. And he has his own reasons for following the beast’s bloody trail to Tulenar.
“K.L. Nappier will be one of those authors where readers eagerly await to purchase her next book. I rate this as Highly Recommended.” ~ Lea Schizas, the Muse Book Reviews
A Look Inside:
Full Wolf Moon
Book I of the Full Wolf Moon Trilogy
Copyright © 2004, 2007, 2009, 2010, 2011 owned by K.L. Nappier
All rights reserved under United States, International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Night. Full Moon.
There wasn’t an inch of earth the beast didn’t know. It had roamed the world since the dawn of humanity, its memory rich and full, flowing through muscle and brain. Loping along the road to Tulenar after the long, burning run, it was confident in direction, comfortable with the path, eyes bright and fixed toward its goal.
A quarter mile before reaching camp, it veered toward the hills and climbed to a weather-ravaged point that overlooked the high, new fence and lighted windows. The moon shone down from a cloudless sky, the beast’s silver pelt sparking where the breeze rippled the fur. Here, it waited for the camp’s lights to wink out.
There were tales in the scents floating up to the beast. The guards at their posts evoked little interest. The wooden structure on the hill and its little village of fresh, wooden houses, leaked intriguing anxieties but the beast would ignore them tonight. The scents told the beast that the best kills were in the camp proper. It padded down the hillside and circled to Tulenar’s eastern edge.
The barbed wire snapped like sparrows’ bones between its jaws, the metallic taste reminiscent of blood and teasing the beast toward its desire. The kill was warm and moving two structures ahead, an old male. By the way his scent filtered through the smell of wood, the beast knew he was still in the barracks.
It swiveled its ears toward the prey’s shelter, the smells and sounds of future kills dulling as they settled into sleep. But in a moment the distinctness of the chosen one sifted away from the others. His were lazy murmurs and shuffling, then gradually he became more active, moving to the far end of the barracks.
The kill emerged. But with him were two young ones, a male and female, their redolence betraying apprehension well before their gestures and noises did. The prey walked a few paces from the barracks with them, his head down as he listened intently to the young ones. When their nervous chatter quieted, the old man stopped walking with them and spoke, his voice low and earnest.
The prey’s soothings and motions didn’t hint of his own anxieties. But this was often true with the old, wise ones. That was what made them choice kills. The beast found it hard not to fidget. The more outwardly calm the old man appeared, the more tenderly he comforted, the keener became the beast’s hunger.
But at last -at last! – the young ones went back into the barracks, leaving the beast and its kill to one another.
The old man settled gingerly onto the steps of the barracks, lit a cigarette and looked into the round, blanched face of the moon, his white hair glowing. The beast began to salivate. It stayed tucked in the shadows, waited, reining temptation, reining exhilaration. Wait, now. Wait.
In time the cigarette was smoked. The old man stood, stretched, stepped away from the barracks and sauntered toward the fence, away from the beast. It tensed, eyes darting, ears swiveling, as it considered the need to stalk. But after stopping for a moment, gazing past the strained tendons of the barbed wire, the kill turned back, directly into the path of the beast.
So very easy, this one.
The beast stepped into the full light of the moon. The old man saw it. The beast caught him with its steady gaze, sensed and smelled the amazement, knew the man was glamoured by its awful beauty, shimmering under the moon. It curled its lips back from its teeth, the saliva glistening on the fangs, and that was when it was struck with the tangy must of awe lurching into terror. Now.
The beast leapt with the grace and strength of millennia. The old man hadn’t even time to gasp as the jaws locked around his head, and he was dragged through the fence, shards of barbed wire tearing through his shirt to the flesh.