by Zoe Forward
Table of Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… Magic Dark, Magic Divine
The Cursed King
Fury Unleashed
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Zoe Forward. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Tracy Montoya
Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by kdshutterman/GettyImages
bereta and katyaulitina/DepositPhotos
ISBN 978-1-64937-242-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2021
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.
https://entangledpublishing.com/books/bad-moon-rising
To Zach and Hannah who make my world magical.
Prologue
In 1978, four Britons in the Afghanistan warzone attacked an MI6 team aiding the mujahedeen, or anti-Soviet Afghan people. Captured and convicted of treason, they were hanged. At least, that was the official record.
What really happened…
Four cornered lycanthrope brothers agreed via blood oath to assist the English monarch in fighting inhuman terrorists. But they were tricked. After providing their blood, a witch invoked a blood curse to bind them into service to the Crown.
By this blood you are bound to the monarch of England to support and defend the nation and its people against preternatural enemies, to protect the innocent, and to serve for all the days you live.
By exploiting their abilities as the strongest of the paranormal creatures of the world, Britain solved a burgeoning paranormal worldwide threat. The queen also achieved leverage over MI6 and other nations, who now needed her for help to contain otherworldly terrors.
The brothers still serve against their will as the only line of defense against the nightmarish monsters that seek to terrorize, subjugate, and decimate humankind.
They are the ultimate weapon.
The ultimate secret.
They are the Crown’s wolves.
Chapter One
She had no clue how she ended up in a car, with a low-tech cell phone on her lap, a Zippo lighter in her hand, and a printed map with directions to a club located in the heart of Berlin.
She silenced the phone’s on-the-minute countdown timer. 00:21:58.
A hasty parking attempt up the street from the club, SigNone, proved she sucked at parallel parking. But, if forced to endure another few minutes surrounded by the stench of moldy fabric and some ill-defined spoiled food in this POS Renault, she’d puke.
The tight black pants and calf-high buckle boots didn’t allow for a graceful exit from the small car. Why was she wearing pants this inflexible? The door’s molded plastic held as she heaved herself onto the high curve and upright, but no one nearby noticed her stumble to gain her footing in the high-heeled boots. Not in the pitch-black, cold night. The head-to-toe Goth outfit evoked zero memory.
Despite the thirty-nine minutes that had gone by since she’d woken up, her mind remained a void.
She couldn’t remember anything about her past.
As in not one freaking thing. Not who she was, how old she was, nor her name.
She ground her teeth as she studied texted instructions from “Unknown.”
Get him to leave SigNone’s subbasement before the counter hits zero or kiss your memory goodbye.
She didn’t want to follow cryptic orders from an asshole threatening her. But she couldn’t take the chance her memories really might be gone forever if she didn’t. When she woke up earlier that evening, the mysterious texter had sent her an internet link to a conspiracy site. The page discussed Blackout, a new drug developed by the US military that could induce amnesia. The site said the drug had been leaked onto the streets, and it hinted that only a special antidote could restore memories. Had she been given Blackout?
Scrutiny of “his” picture on the phone one more time answered no questions. She didn’t need to see the headshot again, which had been sent by her anonymous texter. She’d memorized every detail of the striking man—early thirties with longish dark hair contrasted by the stubble shadow along his pale cheeks. He glowered as if he was about to shit-kick someone. Nothing about him triggered a memory other than the fact she’d stared at the image so many times in the past half hour-plus that he seemed familiar. This man might have the antidote she needed.
Her breaths came in short gasps as she tried to remember if he should be familiar. Nothing. She needed to recall something about herself—family, friends, favorite music, her name…something. Her head suddenly pulsated, as if someone was screwing a bolt through her eye socket and into her brain. She flung out a hand to catch herself against the side of the car, held her stomach, and bowed her head against the crushing pain.
What about her age? No idea, but in the reflection of the car’s rearview mirror, she’d looked to be in her late twenties.
God, even her own face was unfamiliar.
Married or single? No ring, but she couldn’t rely on that as an indicator. Someone could’ve stolen her jewelry.
Did she smoke, given she had a lighter? There’d been no cigarettes in the car. If a smoker, she’d be craving one about now, which she wasn’t.
She traced the plain block, uppercase letters tattooed on the inside of her left wrist with her index finger: ROMAN.
What did it mean?
She wanted to know something about herself. Pressing a few fingers into her eyeballs didn’t ease the pain pulsating inside her head. I have to do what the phone says, or I’ll never remember.
If she found out who did this to her, who forced amnesia on her, she’d kill him…or her. Could she kill a person? Crap, her head hurt again.
Catalog what you DO know.
She didn’t despis
e the black outfit, although she gave the form-fitting bustier’s plastic boning an angry tug where it dug into her ribcage. Whatever underwear she wore—felt like a thong—rode up her ass. No, she wasn’t going to pluck her butt in public. Apparently, she wasn’t that kind of girl. But after she handled the task her texter had sent—getting this guy out of the subbasement and into SigNone’s main lounge, which would hopefully resurrect her memories—she’d find a restroom and give her underwear a solid realignment pull or remove it altogether.
She wrapped her arms around herself. Must be at least low thirties out here. Whoever designed her post-apocalyptic Goth getup forgot to include a stylish leather jacket.
Time to find this man, who hopefully had answers and the antidote. Her boots clicked on the concrete sidewalk at the fastest pace possible. Her stride couldn’t get much wider before the leather pants crimped her butt. The arches of her feet ached inside the boots as she neared the club.
The way her skin crawled at the thought of entering a club called SigNone made her suspect this wasn’t her normal scene. Maybe the name of the club was a clue. Probably not. The man she needed to find was in there. That was as deep as the name went.
No signs advertised the establishment. The only indication it existed was the low rumble of music and the two-wide line of thirty or so leather-clad people outside a battered metal door.
A pair of bearded, muscular men in black tactical gear manned the entry, each armed with a Taser. The one on the left, with six facial piercings, had a knife in his pants pocket. He balanced his weight on his right leg. Left must have an injury. She guessed his knee. Her brain peppered her with a full list of each bouncer’s strengths and weaknesses and ideal hit points.
Where had that come from?
The phone buzzed its next countdown alert against her chest where she’d stuffed it into her top. No time to wait in line. She had to skip to the front.
She strode to the bouncers and directly eyed both men. “Meine leute sind drinnen.” My people are inside. Clear German, without a hint of uncertainty.
I know German?
Both men gawked at her chest, which overflowed from the too-small top that pushed an obscene amount of white cleavage into view. No question she didn’t worship the sun or that she was stacked. They leered at her, fixated on her breasts, which made her want to deck both of them hard enough to break noses.
Do not punch either of them. Smile.
One bouncer smirked. The other opened the door and waved her through.
Focus on the positive, not the fact your boobs got you in. Language skills. Useful talent. What other languages could she speak? Nothing else popped into her head. English must be her first language since her thoughts came in it.
Deep bass tones pulsated between the brick walls inside the renovated factory-turned-club. The cavernous interior housed an enormous crush of bodies writhing to the massive sound system. Laser lights flashed colors in sync with the beat.
She pressed through people to the railing overlooking the primary dance floor. Once more, she peeked at the picture on the phone before clicking it off. In the strobe lights’ flashes, the dark screen of her phone showed her reflection: a woman with long, curly, dark hair and pale skin. She tugged a curl into her line of vision. Auburn. Natural color or dyed?
How could she not recognize herself or know if she dyed her hair? She pushed her brain to spill details. Come on. Remember. What hair products do I use?
The area behind her eyes throbbed again. She gripped the rail to catch herself when the world wobbled. A tumble over and onto the dance floor wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted.
The urge to push her brain to remember what it couldn’t was tough to stop. She forced a few deep breaths and ceased trying to see her past.
The world went blurry. Air thickened as if inhaling smoke. I remember everything since I woke up. That’s something.
The phone dinged and then buzzed twice.
New text from Unknown.
If he tries to kill you, Nova, flick open the lighter twice and give it to him.
What?
She examined the silver Zippo lighter embossed with a leafy pattern. The metal piece didn’t look like a get-out-of-jail-free card.
If she failed to find this man, she’d be a historical blank for the rest of her life, but when she found him, he might kill her? Great. This keeps getting worse.
Hold on…
My name is Nova.
She released a huge breath. Tears welled up behind her eyelids. It was such a small scrap of information she’d probably taken for granted at one point. But now, it was a lifeline—her first clue as to who she was.
The phone dinged a countdown reminder. No time for a self-indulgent breakdown.
00:15:27. She shoved the phone back into her top and clung to wisps of hope that the man in the photo would give her answers without a life-or-death showdown. She better not be a pawn in some twisted sociopath’s game. Pawns often died.
No sign of him on the dance floor, although people were packed in tight enough to make finding anyone difficult. He didn’t look like the dancing type based on his picture. He looked like a person who loomed in dark corners until he saw something he wanted. And then…
Someone pressed in behind her and put a hand on her butt.
The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne burned her nose. She spun.
Her interloper’s dark, dilated eyes dropped to her neckline. “Looking for some fun?”
Not with you. She grabbed the hand headed for her breast. With her other hand, she fisted one of his nuts. “Remove your hand from my ass and back the fuck off, or I’ll squeeze until it pops.”
Images bombarded her brain, momentary and rapid. A body crumpled on the dance floor. Pulsating lights. Screams. Bleeding…so much blood. The vision starred cheap-cologne guy at this club. Her gut said, strongly, that this was a peek into the future. At his death. For a second, she almost felt sorry for him, but then again, he hadn’t removed his hand from her ass yet.
He could be forcing her to see this… Which meant she believed people could have precognition or magic. Impossible.
“What are you doing to me?” She crushed his testicle harder. “How are you making me see this?”
A squeak emerged from him. “See what?”
Maybe she was insane and imagining him dying in a gruesome way, but it seemed so real. “Tell me!”
The offending palm came off her butt, and he raised his hands. “Crazy bitch.”
She released him. He scurried off stiffly.
The phone buzzed.
00:09:55.
No new text.
She skirted a grinding couple and a waiter with a drinks tray on the way down the stairs. A gated off area, which restricted access to somewhere farther downward, stood on the far side of the dance floor. Did the stairway behind the gate lead to the subbasement? She moved in that direction.
A graceful woman in a skintight dark dress and platinum blonde hair almost collided with her at the top of the stairs.
Nova smiled wide and said in German, “Going down?”
“Na sicher.” Of course. The woman’s accent came out thick, as if the words escaped from her nose rather than her mouth. “You?” she asked with an edge of haughty.
Nova nodded but frowned. She leaned in close. “There’s a bit of something on your chin. Want me to get it off?”
“Yes.” Ms. Platinum whirled to face away from the entrance, her cheeks flushing pink.
Nova leaned in and wiped imaginary smudge off the woman’s chin. Fast, efficient. Another smile thrown in. Instant bonding moment. Perfect.
In the brief instant of skin-to-skin connection, Nova got a flash of a man lunging at this woman, serrated knife in hand. She heard no sound but could see the woman’s mouth open as if screaming before she fell to th
e floor, bleeding.
Oh, God. Another death image. This had nothing to do with the cheap-cologne guy. Not at the club. Not tonight. But within seven years, if her strong, intuitive feelings told the truth.
Nova’s chest tightened. Did this lady know she’d visualized her death? How was this possible? Most important of all, was it real? Would it actually happen that way?
Ms. Platinum blushed and sagged as if relieved. “Vielen dank. Are you okay? You look pale.”
“Yes,” she forced out. No, she wasn’t bloody well okay. She was following orders from someone she didn’t know, someone who might’ve given her some sort of top-secret military drug to steal her memories. And, she got flashes of people dying when she touched them.
The woman waved for her to follow past the guards through the door at the top and again at the bottom of the stairs. The moment the second set of double doors closed behind them, the noise from the club upstairs faded to a distant throb of the bass.
Ms. Platinum whispered, “Who’re you here with?”
Nova scanned the dim, sparsely populated room and roamed over the four felt-top gambling tables until she found him.
Target acquired.
Whoa. The mini phone picture didn’t do him justice. He might be attractive, like…tongue-lolling-on-the-floor hot with his huge shoulders, thick chest, and his deep scowl, but above that, the man oozed power and unpredictability. His dominating presence was wrapped up in a heavy black leather jacket, tailored to fit his big frame. The concept he might attack her outright both intimidated and excited her.
What did that say about her? Was she an adrenaline junkie or some sort of masochist?
She waited for her memory to return like the reveal at the end of a magic act.
Nothing. Not one single iota of a memory popped into her mind.
Damn it.
Maybe he needed to speak for her brain to jumpstart? Perhaps he truly had the antidote.
“Him?” the lady asked, bringing her out of her daze. “He’s broody. I’ve never seen him accept a woman, but it looks as if one is making a play for him tonight.” She nodded at a stunning redhead hovering behind him.