Harvest Moon

by C. L. Bevill

  Harvest Moon

  By

  C.L. Bevill

  A Cat Clan Novella

  Thanks to Mary E. Bates, freelance proofreader of ebooks, printed material, and websites.

  Contact her at mbates16@columbus.rr.com

  Harvest Moon

  Published by C.L. Bevill at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 by Caren L. Bevill

  Harvest Moon 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 entirely coincidental.

  Note to readers:

  This is a paranormal romance novella meant to be a companion piece to the Moon Trilogy (Black Moon, Amber Moon, and Silver Moon.) It’s meant to stand alone but it might help to read the three previous novellas in order first.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Novels by C.L. Bevill

  Chapter One

  A harvest moon is the full moon closest to the autumn equinox.

  It often appears fuller and golden in color

  because of its proximity to the curvature of the earth.

  ~

  A cat is a lion in a jungle of small bushes. – Proverb

  Emma Lucia stared down at the man. Standing in the shadows of a neglected balcony, she was getting her personal fix without having to pretend she wasn’t watching him. The balcony overlooked the large room that was multipurpose depending on its need. Once it had been a ballroom made for majestic gatherings and a musical orchestra. The walls were lined with silk. The floor was constructed of Macassar ebony. Five crystal chandeliers dangled from a trompe l’oeil painted ceiling of glittering stars. Four private balcony boxes with velvet seating ringed the room.

  Presently, the grand room was a gym. The man she observed was using it as such, as did many of the Cat Clan’s membership. There were thick mats covering the hardwood floor. Exercise equipment lined one side and treadmills the other side. The man was using a punching bag that hung from an independent stand. With each powerful hit, the stand bounced and the bag swung precariously.

  The Cat Clan lived in Colorado and the state was considered their territory. It was a group of feline shifters who banded together for protection and for support. The compound was a thousand acres of mountain properties complete with a 1930’s mansion that housed their offices. The compound’s various surrounding buildings had been transformed for the Clan’s uses.

  Emma would have sighed but she was slightly afraid that the man would hear her. He was a were like her. But he wasn’t exactly like her. Certainly, Emma could hold her own in the shifters’ often violent society. Her small stature and diminutive frame often misled larger, foolhardy shifters into thinking she was easily cowed. Emma wasn’t easily anything. Her arms and shoulders were lined with sinewy muscles that could keep up with most. Her body was toned and ready for immediate action. She regularly practiced her Krav Maga forms, as well as a type of Brazilian Jujitsu that kept her safe from most attacks.

  For the remainder of those who sought to increase their power bases by taking Emma down, she had her knives. On this particular day she had six on her person. Someone who was searching her might find four, but he wouldn’t find the other two until she was using them to make the person go away. After all, a girl couldn’t count on brute strength alone.

  Did she need to mention that her shifter shape was little better than her seemingly insubstantial human form? A few of the cougars and tigers thought being an ocelot was hilarious. Sometimes called a dwarf leopard, her shifted form was the size of a domesticated feline, albeit a large domesticated feline at approximately thirty-five pounds, but it was significantly smaller than most of the other Cat Clan members’ shifted natures. Although a local pussy cat would probably turn tail and run from her altered form, she was still slighter than most of the other Cat Clan members. Emma was the solitary ocelot were in the complex.

  The fact that Emma was second in command under the man she watched was a bone of contention. Specifically, there were three active bones of contention. The most bothersome and previously mentioned detail was that she was an ocelot were. The second was that she was a female. Most of the clan members didn’t bother to understand that ocelots are fiercely territorial and will often fight to the death in their disputes. Emma had fought to the death. Fortunately, it hadn’t been her death and therefore she had proven herself.

  The final niggling element was that she was a turned were and not one born naturally. Bigotry came in all sizes and shapes. For some of the Cat Clan, that was three strikes against her and two too many. Ocelot, female, and a turned were. She supposed that meant she should go hide in a hole with her tail tucked away in shame.

  But anyone who thought that didn’t know Emma very well.

  Emma did sigh then. It was a minute sigh that was little more than a soft exhale of air. The man hesitated for an instant that was barely discernable. Then he kicked the bag with a savage movement and the stand lifted three feet into the air. It slammed back into the mats with a muffled crash. Emma blinked. She’d seen the action performed on a live individual and knew it had to hurt.

  The man followed with driving punches that made the bag squeal with agony. One seam began to rip. Emma tracked with her eyes. The man continued his zealous assault. And there went the bag. The heavy material ripped sharply and the contents spewed over the mats.

  The man said a nasty word. Emma thought he should be used to it. He did it on a regular basis. It was an ongoing joke that the Cat Clan should invest in gymnasium equipment.

  Emma took a moment to look him over. His hair was streaks of gold that had been darkened with sweat. His tall frame was corded with muscle; the measurement of his chest was probably the same number of inches that Emma was tall. His eyes were the same color as the lightest part of his hair.

  Once Emma had seen a Harvest Moon. As it powered over the horizon it had changed from a reddish hue to gold. The gold was a shade that would perfectly match the color that the man so naturally possessed. She had never forgotten it and until Emma had met him, she had never been able to compare the color.

  Romantic drivel, she scolded herself derisively. Idiotic Emma for thinking like this. The man was tall, golden, and handsome. He was well-defined from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He was also an alpha male down to the tiniest little particle in his body.

  Not perfect though, Emma considered. His nose was crooked from being broken too many times. He barked out orders when he could simply use a moderate tone. He was particularly grumpy in the morning until he’d gotten a massive caffeine fix. And God forbid that anyone should ask him where he was on Sunday evenings because he was furtively watching True Blood on HBO. Emma thought that he had a thing for Sookie Stackhouse and maybe Tara, too.

  Why all this twisted obsessive interest in him? Emma asked herself scathingly. If she could have answered the question, then she wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows of a disused balcony box studying him with all the concentration of a star struck stalker.

  She’d been with the Cat Clan for almost five years. Emma had worked her way up into the position she held through the loss of red blood cells and excessive perspiration. She hadn’t made many friends in the Clan and there was a deficiency of female felines. Speaking to her human friends about Clan matters or shifter subjects was discouraged
.

  And Emma couldn’t ask him.

  But she could kick his finely formed butt into oblivion.

  Emma soundlessly launched herself off the balcony. She didn’t aim for the man’s back but dropped onto the mats just behind and coiled into a high round kick designed to break the man’s jaw.

  The man twisted with blinding speed. The kick bounced off his shoulder. He affected a basic fighting stance and his golden eyes raptly glittered at her. “Emma,” he breathed. He shook his head and spatters of sweat were flung away like a brief rainfall.

  “Gross,” Emma said derogatorily.

  A brief smile crossed the man’s lips. He immediately went into a basic left-right combination punch. His left fist shot at her face. Emma leaned back in instantaneous response and the fist flew by her face. The man followed with the right fist. She pushed the fist away from her with her defending hand and jabbed him in his ribs. He grunted. Her arm recoiled efficiently and she drove a punch at his face without even a hint of hesitation.

  Clearly he was surprised at her aggressive maneuvers. Her fist hit him solidly in the face. The man took three rapid steps backward and touched a finger to his lip. He brought the finger back to look at the blood there. “That was perfectly executed,” he said with evident pride in his voice.

  Emma didn’t waste time speaking. The mandates of Krav Maga dictated that the individual be able to walk away safely. There was no necessity in proving themselves in a fight or to perform movements properly. If it were a real fight, Emma should have decked the man and escaped to fight another day. One of the most basic decrees of Krav Maga was to defend and counterattack simultaneously and to get away from the situation. But she wasn’t playing by those rules on this day.

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he perceived Emma’s attack. She began a front kick that would end in his stomach and was designed to bring him to his knees. But the man redirected the kicking leg with a simple wrist movement. He leaned in with his left shoulder and pivoted his body. Emma realized her mistake and tried to alter the direction of the leg as she twisted her body. The man’s right arm blasted out and hit her in the face. He hadn’t meant to do it but as Emma moved she made it inevitable.

  Then she was on her back on the mat. A split second later the man was straddling her body. His knees bracketed her torso effectively making her helpless for the moment. “Shouldn’t have changed the movement, Emma,” he hissed. “I wouldn’t have hit your face then.”

  The gene that made them all shifters was already healing the damage. She could feel the bruise dissipating. She abruptly bucked her hips and caused the man to fall forward. Clearly, he hadn’t practiced the maneuver because he reached out with both hands to brace his body. One of her arms trapped his right arm at the same time one of her legs trapped his right leg. She effortlessly bucked her hips again and tossed him over her body. Twisting with distinctively catlike motions she followed his body and drove an elbow into his face.

  Blood splattered across the mat. The man grunted again. “Jesus, Emma,” he snarled with unspoken objection.

  Emma was about to deliver her coup de grace when she stopped an instant before the groin punch would have landed directly on target. Her fist froze just above his gym shorts, leaving him with the knowledge that she could have made him writhe in pain if she had wanted to do so.

  Wheeler, the man she had been watching and the man she seemed to be obsessed with, took a deep breath. His left hand relaxed and she realized unexpectedly that he had his practice blade out. It was lightly touching the middle ribs of her torso and would have been the killing strike. If he had wanted to do so.

  Emma grimaced. She might have tossed Wheeler but she certainly wouldn’t have won the bout.

  “You should have retreated when you were supposed to,” Wheeler told her acerbically.

  Springing to her feet, Emma was halfway across the room when she responded. “My mistake,” she said quietly. She rubbed at the side of her face. The bruise was swiftly healing but it would be there for a little while.

  Wheeler rolled to his feet fluently. He put the blade back into the sheath at his waist. Then he spit out some blood. His eyes studied her intently. “Something else you…want, little Emma?”

  Emma froze. That didn’t sound like the Wheeler, who was the leader of the Cat Clan, speaking. It sounded a little playful. There was an enticing smile teasing along the curve of his lips. He looked at her as if he was…hungry.

  Her eyes ran over his powerful form. He was a foot taller than she was and weighed over a hundred pounds more. On a good day she might be able to take him down. That was, if she used all six knives, her hands, her feet, her legs, her teeth, a handy grenade, and possibly a partridge in a pear tree. Part of her duties was to keep everyone a little frosty on their fighting skills. The human population didn’t know about the Cat Clan but all the otherworlders did, and not all of them were friendly. They certainly didn’t care about human laws so the Cat Clan had to be ready.

  For five years Emma had been a part of the Cat Clan. For eleven years she had been a were. At the age of 25 she felt as though she should have a rule book that she could read for reference. Wheeler was asking her something without using actual words and she didn’t know what it was. Worse was the fact that she didn’t know how to ask what he meant. She couldn’t get the words to come out of her mouth.

  Turning away was another mistake that Emma made.

  Wheeler was on her a half second later. He was growling as he came and she started to spin back but she was too late. His massive arms came around her petite shape. Startled, Emma reacted just the way she was supposed to react. She sent her head sharply backward while she flexed her neck muscles and made her jaw like stone. The hard part of her skull connected with Wheeler’s chin. She stomped on his foot using her whole body weight and then brought the sharp end of her elbow into his abdomen. If Wheeler had been human she would have decimated him. He would have been begging for the police to take him away to the hospital.

  But Wheeler wasn’t human. He closed his grip on her and blocked her hands as she sought to hit his groin with one of her hands. The tightness of his grip began to take her breath away and black spots began to dance along the edges of her vision. Her hands drooped and he adjusted accordingly.

  “Cry uncle, Emma?” Wheeler asked provokingly.

  Emma snarled in response and bent in his arms. He gripped her tighter again until her body began to wilt.

  “Emma?” he asked again. There was a question in the timbre.

  Her head flopped onto his chest as if she had lost control of her muscles; her eyes were shut. Wheeler made an agitated noise and lowered her to the mats. “Emma?” he said and his tone was a little urgent. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Her eyes popped open. Blue eyes were staring at him with an expression of triumph. Something nudged at his throat. One of her hands had a knife in it and it was hair breadths away from slicing open his carotid artery. If the cut was done properly he would bleed out within minutes. “Anything’s fair in a fight, right, Wheeler?” she asked.

  Wheeler took a deep breath, scenting her and everything that was Emma. Slowly he pushed down and the blade began to withdraw because she really didn’t want to cut his throat. The sharp point of the German-made steel had already nicked his flesh, causing a drop of blood to trace down the muscles of his neck. His face moved downward so that he was only millimeters away from hers. His eyes stared into hers. She could feel his body pressed along her side. He was lying half over her and half next to her. Every inch of flesh that was connected seemed to throb in response.

  Emma wanted to curse and scream. Wheeler hadn’t ever shown her this side of himself. Sometimes he had girlfriends. They were often fleeting and lasted weeks instead of lengthy relationships that would have unnerved her. He had never flirted with her and Emma wasn’t certain if she would have known if he had. So what’s this?

  “Emma,” he breathed again and she dropped her knife at her side. H
er eyes drifted shut as his warm curved lips coupled with hers. The heady weight was irresistible. For a moment they stayed in that position, merely touching each other. Then Wheeler’s lips began to move sensuously on hers, making love to her mouth without the benefit of touching her with his hands. His tongue provoked her flesh and dipped inside when she opened up to him. He growled deep in his chest and suddenly his hands were clutching at her form, bringing her up against his chest, grasping her as if he would never let her go.

  There was an interlude of intense sensation. Emma lost herself in a river of feeling and wanting. It was sweaty and she could taste all of him, including the salty tang of blood, but it didn’t matter in the moment. She wanted something that she couldn’t put a name upon. She needed…

  An irritating sound became apparent. Emma blinked up at Wheeler as he slowly withdrew. He reluctantly left her in a state that both burned and chilled her entire body. He slanted a lazy grin across his face and said with wry reluctance, “My phone. Sorry.”

  Emma didn’t realize that Wheeler was breathing as hard as she was breathing. She just looked at his face as he reached for the attached phone. At the moment she thought that Wheeler was simply playing with her. She caught him by surprise when she shoved him off and he tumbled onto his back. In the next moment, she was standing at the oversized doors of the ballroom and she threw back at him, “I’ve got a contact to meet and I’m going to be late.”

  •

  Wheeler answered his cell phone with an aggravated, “Speak.”

  Killian, his head of security, answered with, “Damn. I could call back.” The tone of his Irish accented voice was clearly entertained.

  Wheeler sniffed deeply. All he could feel, breathe, and smell was Emma. He wanted her back in the ballroom where he could put his hands and his mouth on every part of her body. He wanted to forget where one started and the other one ended. “What do you want, Killian?”