Daring The Moon. Sherrill Quinn

types of flotsam—pieces of wreckage and trash littering the shoreline. Wind roared into the small cove and she huddled into her coat, drawing her collar up around her neck.

      As beautiful as it was, Taite was reluctant to flounder around after dark. Turning, she retraced her steps. The sharp crack of a twig snapping made her stop before she’d gone very far. She looked around. There was no movement that she could see, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was out there.

      Surely the werewolf couldn’t have found her already. With her heart slamming against her ribs, she started walking as fast as the terrain would allow, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. If it were the werewolf, he would have already attacked her, wouldn’t he?

      But if it wasn’t him, who was it? What was it?

      She swallowed and picked up her pace. It could be the werewolf. Unlikely, since she’d only arrived an hour ago, but there was that possibility.

      Or was it all her overtaxed imagination?