Blood Moon

by Angela Roquet

  BLOOD MOON

  A SPERO HEIGHTS NOVEL

  Angela Roquet

  Blood Moon

  By Angela Roquet

  Copyright 2015 by Angela Roquet

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover photography by Taria Reed/The Reed Files

  Cover design by Angela Roquet

  for my critique group

  The Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse

  Kory M. Shrum

  Kathrine Pendleton

  & Monica La Porta

  Let’s ride!

  by Angela Roquet

  Spero Heights

  Blood Moon

  Death at First Sight (August 2016)

  Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc.

  Graveyard Shift (Read for FREE!)

  Pocket Full of Posies

  For the Birds

  Psychopomp

  Death Wish

  Ghost Market

  Hellfire and Brimstone (October 2016)

  Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc. short stories

  Dearly Departed (in Off the Beaten Path)

  Hair of the Hellhound (in Badass and the Beast)

  Season’s Reapings (standalone holiday short story)

  other titles

  Crazy Ex-Ghoulfriend

  Backwoods Armageddon

  BLOOD MOON

  Prologue

  Dr. Delph sat cross-legged atop a Himalayan salt slab in the center of his private sauna. Sweat seeped from his every pore, coating his skin with a glossy, plastic shine. His silver hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and it grazed his spine as he tilted his head back to breathe in the humid air. When his eyelids cracked open, the whites glowed starkly in the dim room, spilling out a glimpse of the future saturating his mind.

  So much blood.

  The vision was the same as it had been the day before, and the day before that. Deep creases marred his face, and tears mingled with sweat as they ran down his cheeks. He was so lost in his anguish that he didn’t hear the door open and close as a pale, dark-haired man joined him.

  The man tightened his towel around his hips before seating himself on the salt ledge that circled the sauna. He glanced up at the doctor and cleared his throat.

  “Trouble in paradise, I take it?”

  Dr. Delph’s eyes resurfaced, a sullen gray that always seemed to foretell the storms that followed. “The boy cannot be saved, but his death will spell trouble for us just the same.”

  The pale man shrugged. “I’ll leave sooner.”

  “You’ll still be too late. The Fates are unbending on this matter.”

  The man leaned forward, annoyance distorting his face. “What good are your visions if they cannot be changed?”

  Dr. Delph unfolded his legs and swung them over the side of the salt slab. He picked up a folded towel from the opposite ledge and patted his face dry. “Visions are seldom meant to be changed. They’re warnings of things to come, so we can be better prepared—and markers of relevant events, so we can handle them more wisely.” He turned to pierce the man with an accusing glare.

  The man folded his arms, but his gaze slid away. “Wise is such a relative term.”

  Dr. Delph stood and covered himself with the towel. “Not nearly as relative as you’d like to believe. It is very distinct, for instance, from compassion or courage.”

  “What we do requires a great deal of both compassion and courage—”

  “But without wisdom, no amount of compassion or courage will maintain this fragile world of ours.” He opened the sauna door, then looked back over his shoulder. “Not everyone is meant to be saved, Graham. Remember that on your trip.”

  Dr. Delph waited until he was back in his room before slumping on the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands. It was a difficult decision, sending Graham away. He would be greatly missed in the coming days, but his destiny was set. Keeping him close to home would spurn the Fates, and his relationship with the divine was on the rocks, as it was.

  He closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, letting the cool silk soothe his skin. A million scenarios rushed through his mind. A million terrible solutions to the trouble that came for them now, this very moment. Compassion, he thought bitterly. It was what bound him here. And it would be what brought the whole place down on them all, if they were not very, very careful.

  Chapter One

  “Just kill me,” the boy rasped, spraying blood over the scarred oak table.

  “Shhh.” Zelda smoothed his hair back and pressed a cool hand to his forehead, willing him to sleep.

  His breath sounded like sandpaper, and his skin was dewy and hot, slick with blood. After a few seconds, his eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned into oblivion.

  When Zelda was sure he was out, she rinsed her hands in a bowl of water and unraveled the leather cord laced up her forearm. She tied her dreadlocks back and went to work, carefully stitching the skin of the boy’s shoulder back together. She had already set the broken bones in his arm. He would be whole again. Werewolves healed faster and cleaner than any human she had ever worked on.

  “How’s he doin’, Doc?” Violet crept into the kitchen to check on the latest rescue.

  Zelda sat back on her stool and snatched up a towel to wipe the blood from her hands. “He’ll live.”

  “Good.” Violet leaned against the doorframe and ran a hand through her platinum tuffs of hair. She looked like she could have been Billy Idol’s twin sister.

  When Zelda first arrived in Spero Heights, she’d found Violet with a broken jaw and a fractured wrist, squatting in the building that now served as her pub and makeshift emergency room for werewolves. Violet had been Zelda’s first patient. The boy sprawled out on the table in the pub’s kitchen was her most recent. He’d shown up at the back door as a wolf with a broken leg. It had taken a horse sedative to get him to return to human form.

  Zelda picked at the blood under her nails. “You already close up the bar, Vi?”

  “Door’s locked, but I ain’t cleaned up yet.”

  “Good. I need a drink.”

  Violet grinned. “Tequila?”

  “Tequila.” Zelda nodded and followed her back into the pub.

  Charlie, another survivor Zelda had patched up and subsequently employed, was busy running a mop over the dance floor. His bald head shone in time with the blinking white lights wrapped around every pole and banister, and even though Christmas was long over, he whistled Jingle Bells as he worked up a sweat in his Hawaiian shirt.

  Zelda pulled up a stool and folded her arms over the bar, stretching her neck from side to side with a yawn. Between managing the pub and playing Doctor Quinn with her pack of reject wolves, she found herself running on fumes most days. But it was worth it, she thought, taking a proud look around.

  The pub was smaller than the clubs she’d frequented in California. It had a cozy feel, with a gypsy touch to it. The wall behind the bar and the raised booths around the dance floor were painted a sunny yellow to offset the dark cherry floors and trim, and giant framed prints of ballerinas and belly dancers hung from the brick exterior walls.

  Not much had been done to the outside of the building, which had been a theatre once upon a time. The brickwork was worn in places, and the bulbs on the rusted marquee sign flickered occasionally from the ancient wiring. Zelda
used the mismatched letters and poster boxes to advertise the budding garage bands that played on the weekends. The only thing she had added was a neon sign above the marquee. The bright red cursive spelled out The Crimson Moon, a fitting name her two-natured staff had chosen.

  Violet tipped a bottle of top-shelf tequila over two shot glasses and filled them to the brim. She took one of the glasses and pushed it against the other, scooting it across the bar toward Zelda.

  “Cheers.”

  Zelda threw the shot back with a shudder, letting its warmth coil around her insides. She slid the glass back to Violet and nodded when the bartender held up the bottle of tequila for a second round. A nightcap was just what she needed. Her bed waited for her upstairs, in one of the projection rooms that she had remodeled and converted into a studio apartment.

  “Are you the owner of this dump?” a deep voice grumbled behind her.

  Zelda spun around on the barstool, her hand instinctively going to her charm necklace.

  Three abnormally large men stood in the center of the dance floor, looking around the pub like they’d just checked into a roach motel. They each wore a cut-off tee shirt and sported hairstyles that made mullets look respectable. Chain-link tattoos consumed each of their left arms. A black wolf paw topped the design on their exposed shoulders, with the R and M logo of the Raymore Clan from Kansas City stamped in the center.

  “Charlie?” Zelda stood and gripped the bar behind her.

  “It’s all right, Doc.” The lock on the front door clicked back into place before Charlie circled the men and held his hands up. “They came here for help.”

  Zelda bit her tongue and tried not to recoil as she looked the men over again, checking for any signs of injury. Her eyes stopped on the center man who sneered at her, like he was trying to decide if this was all a big mistake. Zelda was almost sure of it. The only thing that looked damaged on any of them was their pride for being there in the first place.

  Finally, the men parted and a girl inched forward. She couldn’t have been but twenty. Her stomach was swollen with child, and when she found the courage to look up, Zelda could see that wasn’t the only place she was swollen. A purple bruise spread from her left temple down to her jawline. The girl’s chin trembled, but she held Zelda’s gaze—at least with the eye she could open.

  “Make up a bed, Violet,” Zelda said, her eyes never leaving the girl.

  One of the men leaned into the leader of the pack and whispered loud enough for the world to hear. “This ain’t right, man. This’ll be the first place he looks.”

  “Who?” Zelda asked.

  The men tensed at her question, and the leader resumed glaring at her.

  She crossed arms. “If I’m stepping on toes to help out your girl here, I at least deserve to know who I’m dancing with.”

  The room grew still as they exchanged looks, and Zelda felt the alcohol turn to bile in her stomach before the name was even said aloud.

  “Devin Raymore.”

  Chapter Two

  Devin Raymore hadn’t been alpha of the Raymore Clan for a full year yet, and he was already running the pack into the ground. From what Zelda had heard—and seen—he was a real bastard from hell, asserting his authority through violence and drug dependency. Most of those who survived his wrath found their way to the Crimson Moon, after word spread about Violet.

  Devin Raymore’s latest victim was hesitant to let Zelda examine her. She burrowed herself under the covers of the guest bed, but not so quickly that Zelda didn’t notice the mound of scars tucked in the bend of her elbow.

  “How long have you been clean?” Zelda asked, shining a light in the girl’s good eye and cradling her chin with her other hand.

  “Six months.” The girl pressed her lips together and pulled her chin out of Zelda’s grasp. “And I’m eight months along. And yes, I’m well aware of all the horrible birth defects that my unborn children might have as a result of my reckless and selfish behavior.” She clutched the comforter in tight against her chest as her voice broke. “I quit as soon as I found out, and no amount of lecturin’ is gonna fix anything, so you can save your breath.”

  Zelda eased back and sat on the edge of the bed, resting her hands in her lap. “Lectures cost extra. I was just wondering if you had any prescriptions that needed filled through Orpheus House.”

  Setting bones and stitching flesh came easily to Zelda, but drug addiction was another animal entirely. For that, she relied on help from Orpheus House, the local rehab center.

  The girl relaxed and shook her head softly. “No, ma’am. I quit cold turkey.”

  “Even better. I’ll have Violet bring you up a bite to eat.” Zelda stood and turned for the door.

  “Wait!” The girl snatched her arm. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”

  “My apartment is just across the hall.” Zelda patted her hand. “If you need anything, dial zero and it will ring me.” She tilted her head at the phone on the bedside table.

  The girl nodded, but the furrow between her brows refused to soften. “Thank you.” She looked down at her hand, still tightly gripping Zelda’s arm, and slowly uncurled her fingers. “I’m Marla, by the way.”

  Zelda gave her a gentle smile. “You’re perfectly safe here, Marla. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Zelda left, closing the door quietly behind her, and found Violet waiting in the wide hall that ran between the projection room apartments.

  “I suppose you caught all that?” Zelda raised an eyebrow.

  Violet chewed her bottom lip and rocked from foot to foot. “Doc, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but you ain’t never met Devin—and I think you ought to know what you’re stepping in here.”

  Zelda glanced back at the guest room door and frowned before taking Violet by the elbow and leading her toward the stairs down to the kitchen. When they were safely out of earshot, she pulled the leftover barbeque from dinner out of the refrigerator and began fixing a plate.

  “Is the boy all set up in the other guest room?” she asked, glancing over at the bloody rags piled in a wash tub beside the sink.

  “Of course he is. Don’t change the subject.” Violet paced back and forth between the dining table and the long counter that sectioned off the kitchen.

  Zelda rolled her eyes. “I know what kind of monster Devin Raymore is,” she said, pushing the saucy meat to one side of the plate to make room for a scoop of fried potatoes. “I’ve patched up his handiwork enough times.”

  Violet leaned over the counter and clasped her hands together until her knuckles popped. Her eyes glazed and her voice came out in a low growl. “No. What you seen is a slice of mercy—or luck. What you seen is Devin Raymore on a good day. On his bad days, you can’t scrape enough of his handiwork off the ground to fill a bucket.”

  Zelda turned away from her and popped the plate of leftovers in the microwave, trying to hide the shiver that crawled up her spine. “You don’t think I should be helping her. Is that it?”

  Violet ran a hand through her short hair and blew out a shaky sigh. “She’s carryin’ his babies. If he had left her for dead, like he did the rest of us you got here, then it’d be a different story.”

  Zelda walked around the counter and slumped down at the kitchen table. She ran a hand over the rough cracks in the wood where a year’s worth of wolf blood had settled and dried, a sad testament to the damage she had tried to mend. It was damage she hadn’t caused, but seeing as how she couldn’t fix the carnage she’d left back in California, it felt like appropriate atonement.

  “I can’t just throw her to the wolves, Vi.” She looked up with heavy eyes. “Helping people is what I do.”

  Violet’s brows cinched together, but she nodded slowly. “I know, Doc. You just need to be careful with this one.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t tell the others yet,” Zelda suggested.

  “They’ll smell her the second they step foot in the bar.” Violet pinched her lips together and s
tood as the microwave dinged. “You know, there ain’t no reason you need to take this all on yourself. There’s people in this town better suited to help in situations like this. And you know exactly who to ask.” She staked Zelda with a meaningful look before digging a set of silverware out of a drawer and heading upstairs with the plate for Marla.

  Zelda’s stomach swirled with a toxic mixture of excitement and terror. She knew exactly who to ask for help. She just didn’t know if she was willing to pay the price that a favor from Logan Chase would cost.

  Chapter Three

  Zelda woke up early Sunday morning. The pub was quiet, and it would be until later in the afternoon. The wolves had recently taken interest in a little Methodist church on the edge of town. They were pack creatures, and while the environment Zelda offered at the pub had a certain air of family to it, it was still a business.

  The wolves had tried to come together under her roof, and they’d tried to mark her as more than just their employer. Even though she wasn’t a wolf herself, they viewed her as one of their own. She was their savior and provider. But as much as Zelda cared for them, she’d let her past remain a big fat question mark. It made them wary of her, but it was just as well. She didn’t radiate dominance the way wolves needed in an alpha. The only one who hadn’t pressured her to take on more leadership had been Logan Chase.

  When Logan looked into Zelda’s eyes, it wasn’t with reverence and gratitude. It was with something much more primal, and it did strange things to Zelda’s insides. Hiring him had been a bad idea. He asked questions the others let lay. He fingered old wounds—sometimes simply by the way he smiled.