6 Under The Final Moon

by Hannah Jayne

  It was one of those places that had always been a bar and would always be a bar because the smell of stale beer and old cigarettes had become part of the architecture. The waitresses looked like they were born there and when I opened the door, the patrons squinted at the rectangle of “light” that shone in. The bar was polished wood, long and glossy, and a dozen Naugahyde bar stools were lined up, only two of them taken. One man sat at the crook of the bar, staring into his beer, and the other was halfway down. He glanced over his shoulder when I walked in, and I could feel his eye slide from the top of my head to the bottom of my shoes. Normally, a full-body gaze like that would make my teeth clench and flush my face a pitiful red, but today I didn’t care at all. I was the daughter of Satan, a race of being that God wanted washed from the Earth, and my own idiot father who had gotten me in this stupid situation was hiding from me.

  I slid onto one of the bar stools.

  The guy was looking at me again and when I met his gaze he gave me a slight, respectful nod, then went back to tinkling the ice in his glass.

  “What can I get you?”

  The bartender looked like she had stumbled into the place one day and never left. She could have been twenty or two hundred and twenty; it was impossible to tell in the dim light and through her pancake makeup and surprised, painted-on eyebrows.

  “Um . . .” My eyes wandered to the enormous selection of booze behind her. I supposed I should have ordered something girly and middle-of-the-day respectable, but what the hell? I had evil in my family tree so boozing up at 2 PM was the least of my issues.

  “Jack and ginger, please.”

  The bartender mixed my drink and set it in front of me, standing there, hands on bar, staring me down. Her expression wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t puppy-bunny-fuzzy either, so I reached for my purse.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How much—”

  She waved me away. “It’s on me. Sam.”

  I was taken aback. “Thank you so much, Sam.”

  “It’s the least I can do for a woman who comes in here before noon looking for a stiff one.”

  My eyebrows went up and she jutted her chin toward the drink in my hand. My cheeks burned.

  “Oh, right.”

  Sam didn’t move. “What’s your name?”

  I took a small sip, my eyes watering at the ratio of mostly Jack, a few drops of ginger ale. “Sophie,” I said, voice hoarse.

  “So, Sophie, what brings you into The Clover?”

  It was only then that I noticed the giant four-leaf clover painted on the mirror behind the bar. “Just not having the greatest day is all.”

  Sam harrumphed and the two men at the bar joined in. “Welcome to the club. Cicero over there got fired by the nephew he hired, from a job he had for thirty-seven years. Larry”—she pointed a long red fingernail to the guy who checked me out when I’d walked in—“he was kicked out of his place.”

  “Can’t find a job, gonna live in this shithole forever.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant a general shithole or The Clover, but I wasn’t in any rush to clarify.

  “So,” Sam said, “what’s your story?”

  I tried to consider the best way to phrase “a race of fallen-angel half breeds is stalking me and my father was always too busy shish-kebabing sinners to come to my dance recitals,” but any way I came up with sounded weird. Instead I just shrugged, took a hefty sip, and said, “Family issues. My dad’s kind of an asshole.”

  Larry, Sam, and Cicero all grunted their understanding and sipped in my honor. And though I knew it was strangers in a seedy bar, I had already warmed to them, liking the feel of the four of us, relative strangers sharing only an emotion—only our humanity.

  I hadn’t even finished my drink when Sam poured me another one and Larry sidled two seats over. My guard was up, until he started talking and I started grinning. Cicero stayed in his corner and Sam tended to him occasionally, topping off his drink and dropping updated receipts in a cup.

  “My lady took me for everything,” he was saying into his cup. “I really shoulda known better.”

  “No, Larry.” I moved one seat closer so that I could clap a hand on his stooped shoulder. “Matters of the heart are difficult.”

  I didn’t realize I had finished my drink until Sam replaced it. I took a few sips and turned back to Larry, turning a little too fast so my thoughts started to swirl in my head.

  “Take my life, for instance. I—I know my dad is the devil. Like, the devil, devil. A really bad guy. But I still want his approval. I still want him to be my dad.” I frowned. “He was never, ever there for me.” I took another swig of my drink and this time, Larry clapped his hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a great gal. He missed out.”

  I pumped my head, feeling vaguely better as Larry and I sat there with our arms on each other’s shoulders.

  “That means a lot coming from you, Larry. Sam.” I turned to face her. “I would like to buy my friend Larry here a drink. And I would like to buy myself a drink for myself.”

  Sam’s smile was warm but a little tight. She looked from Larry to me and set a glass of water in front of me. “I think maybe you’ve had enough for a little bit, okay, sugar?”

  “But you were so nice to me.”

  Her smile widened. “I’m still being nice to you. Have a few sips, okay?”

  I did as I was told, taking two giant gulps after I caught a hint of my own breath and realized it was a fire hazard. My head was starting to buzz—a thousand angry bees working the noise into a deafening roar. I pressed my fingers against my temples and closed my eyes, feeling the entire bar shift a bit too far to the right.

  “Are we having another earthquake?”

  I felt Larry’s hand tighten on my upper arm. “No, hon, I think you’ve just had a touch too much. Have you eaten anything today?”

  I looked at Larry, trying hard to focus my eyes on the Larry that looked most corporeal.

  “My dad is the devil,” I whispered.

  I could see the smile cut across Larry’s face as he pushed the water glass to my lips. I drank gratefully, then watched as Larry eyed Sam over my shoulder.

  “You got some bread or anything back there?”

  “No, Larry,” I said, pushing the glass away. “People are hunting me. I am the Vessel of Souls. Vas ani-marum .” I cupped my hands over my mouth. “People think I don’t exist, but I do.” I glanced over both shoulders, looking for Grigori. “And other people want to kill me. They are many. They are legion.” I extended my arms to show the enormousness of the Grigori and swayed on my feet.

  Larry clutched both my arms and eyed me. “You got someone I can call for you?”

  I saw Cicero moving from the corner of my eye and a cold stripe shot up my spine. I narrowed my eyes. “I think that’s one of them,” I said to Larry. “You should call Will.”

  I edged myself against the bar, scanning for something to use as a weapon as Cicero moved closer. My heart started to pound as my stomach roiled against the alcohol.

  “You probably should get her outside,” Cicero said, holding my eye. “She don’ look so good.”

  Larry took his hands off my arms and Cicero reached for me. I could see something in his eye and a glint of something gold on his belt. I pushed myself backward, feeling my spine arc against the bar.

  “Hey!”

  Cicero and Larry snapped to attention when Sam came around the bar. I took a little longer.

  “Hands off her, guys. Thanks, but I can take care of her.” Sam reached out for me, wrapping her thin arms around my waist. “Come on, hon. We’ll splash a little water on your face, get you something from the kitchen.”

  I went with Sam feeling both relieved and slightly nauseous as she steered me toward the back of the bar, toward the lighted RESTROOMS sign.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “Drinks don’t usually hit me this hard.” I pressed my palm against my forehead, feeling
a fresh outbreak of sweat. “I don’t know what happened to me. Maybe I needed to eat something or something.”

  “That’s okay, hon. Happens to the best of us.”

  When Sam pulled open the door, I was surprised at the rush of cool air that washed over me. I turned around to ask, but she shoved me, hard. When I was able to focus, we were in a narrow alleyway and Sam’s eyes were hard, fixed, her lips pressed in a thin, pale line. She held them that way for a beat before her mouth curved up into a smile that dripped with contempt.

  “He’s going to love this.”

  I steadied myself as Sam floated in front of me. The fog was suddenly lifted when I saw the dagger glinting in the choked light of the alleyway.

  “Sam?”

  Her eyes seared into mine and they were a sizzling blue-red. Though her hand was closed around the hilt, I knew the dagger, I knew the symbol that burned into her palm.

  “You’re Grigori?”

  Sam’s smile widened. “Surprise.”

  She thrust the dagger at me and I jumped, my action feeling slow and lumbering against Sam’s sudden litheness. She was faster with the blade than she had been with the drinks, which meant that I sobered up rather quickly, every constricted blood vessel screaming that I was in serious danger and likely to become chop suey in the near future.

  “He sent them all after you and I was just supposed to keep watch.”

  I watched Sam’s knife arc in the air a hairbreadth from my nose and reached out, grabbing her by the forearm. Her grin grew even wider, more grotesque, as if she was enjoying the struggle.

  “It’s no fun to watch.”

  I didn’t see her fist as it came flying at me fast, making contact with my jaw. I heard the sickening sound of bone hitting bone, of my teeth clacking together as my saliva soured and my head lolled back. I lost my grip on Sam’s dagger hand, and she lunged again, pinning me against the Dumpster just before I dove right, hearing the excruciating howl of metal grating against metal as her blade struck the can.

  She grabbed at me before I was clear, her clawed hand catching my ponytail, pulling until my scalp screamed and I was sure there was blood. I still pulled against her, looking everywhere for something that could be used as a weapon. I turned and kicked out, landing my foot square in Sam’s rib cage, hearing her “ooaf!” as her fingers released my hair. She folded at the waist and I stumbled, free now, crashing to the concrete, feeling my palms burn and splinter as I slid. I could make out the glint of a green glass bottle just to my left, and I grabbed it, rolled onto my feet, and blindly swung. I felt the blade slice into my forearm a split second before the bottle made contact with Sam’s wrist, bending it backward and sending the dagger flying. We both heard the metal hit the concrete and both dove for the blade, each trying to snatch it before it slid out of reach under the Dumpster.

  Sam and I were bellies down, shoulder to shoulder.

  “You bitch!” she growled, while springing on me with superhuman speed.

  “Get—the hell—off—me!”

  Her thighs were clamped around my rib cage and if we hadn’t been locked in a fight to the death, I would have complimented her on her nutcracker-like strength. But that was before she lurched forward and her hands closed on my throat, her thumbs digging into my windpipe.

  A blanket of red wafted in front of my eyes and my lungs were aching for breath. Sam kept squeezing, and as I clawed at her, she kept thunking my head along the concrete. I could feel the skin at the base of my head splitting, could feel the warm goo as blood bubbled up and then my head made contact with cement.

  My ripping at her palms was futile so I went for her eyes, my stomach lurching as my right ring finger slipped into the socket, mashing into her eyeball. I had the spongy orb against the pad of my index finger, pushing until she howled. She slapped her hands to the injured face and straightened up, giving me the millisecond opportunity I needed to reach for another glass bottle and thwack it cleanly at her temple. The thrashing thoughts in my head, the spastic beating of my heart, the desperate gasps for breath all stopped the second Sam crumpled, her form looking much smaller as she slid off me, a trickle of cherry-red blood oozing from her temple.

  I sucked my legs in and crawled on hands and knees toward the door we had come out of, but it was solidly locked. My purse was inside with my cell phone and, probably the sad lineup of empty glasses left as I had drunk my way into Sam’s blade.

  I limped to the mouth of the alley and onto the street, my eye burning where a rivulet of blood poured from a gash on my eyebrow. My tongue poked around in my mouth, testing for loose teeth, and every single one of them felt as though they had been knocked at the root. My jaw throbbed. My arm stung and itched where the dagger had sunk in, leaving a four-inch slice that was dribbling a trail of red blood spatter as I walked.

  I knew my nose was bleeding. When I raised my slightly good arm, my shoulder screamed in protest, but I raked my fingers—gingerly—over my head, pulling a handful of loose locks, sticky and matted with blood.

  That’s the last time I go drinking alone.

  I rounded the corner and stopped at the open door to The Clover, my ears ringing as I scanned the seemingly empty bar, looking for my purse. It was on the stool where I had left it, about eight feet from the door, the open rifts of How Do You Talk To An Angel sailing out of it as Alex rang my phone.

  I dashed in while every muscle and cell and fiber screamed, snatched up my purse, and dashed back out, making a beeline for the relative safety of my car while I extracted my cell phone.

  “’Lo?” I hadn’t realized my lip was puffy and split until I’d forced it to mold around sounds.

  “Lawson, it’s me.”

  “Did you find Oliver?”

  “I had to send Romero ahead. Where are you? You know what—stay wherever you are. I’m coming to get you. I think you’re in danger. I think that there are more than just the one Grigori warrior.”

  I let Alex prattle on as my tongue rubbed over my teeth, the metallic taste of blood sliding down my throat. I sighed.

  “More than one warrior? You don’t say.”

  SIXTEEN

  I waited in the shadow of a convenience store three doors down from The Clover until I could see Alex’s black SUV peeling through the traffic. I knew I wasn’t looking my best, but the expression on his face made the term “train wreck” spring to mind.

  “My God, Sophie, what happened to you?”

  I opened the car door and melted into the butter-soft leather passenger seat. Every part of my body that didn’t feel bruised stung or burned.

  “The Grigori,” I said. “Another warrior.” I worked my jaw around, hearing it pop. “I got some firsthand knowledge that there was more than that one. And, fun fact! The Grigori are letting women into their ranks. Not just a race of men anymore.”

  The edge of his lips quirked up into a half smile. “At least you’ve still got your spunk.”

  He guided the car back into the flow of traffic and I rolled my eyes—though I’m not sure if the action was voluntary or if my eyeballs had really shaken loose.

  “She did a number on you.”

  “Yeah, well, you should see what she looks like now.”

  I could feel tears edging my eyes, and I gritted my teeth—wincing at the pain it caused—but refused to cry.

  “I hate this. I can’t live like this. I want to be normal.”

  Alex didn’t look at me, but I could see his jaw relax. “Lawson, with or without an undead race hunting you down, you’re never going to be normal.”

  “Hey!”

  Crimson actually colored his cheeks. “I actually meant that as a good thing! A compliment, like ‘you’re . . . pretty cool.’ Or something.”

  I straightened in my seat, feeling a smile inch up my cracked lips.

  “There’s an emergency kit under the seat.”

  I leaned over, retrieved it, then glanced at my reflection in the mirror. “I don’t think you have enough gauze here to cove
r my whole head.” I paused. “Wait—Romero!

  “What did he say about Oliver? Did he find him—do you . . .” I paused, sucking in a shaky breath that was half hope, half dread. “Do you have Lucas in custody?”

  Alex wagged his head, his expression apologetic. “No Oliver, no Lucas.”

  I frowned.

  We coasted to a stop and he turned to me. “You should have called me,” he said softly.

  I threaded my arms in front of my chest, trying to cock an eyebrow, but it was excruciating. “It’s been a busy week.”

  Alex took the emergency kit from my lap and used one finger to gently guide my cheek into view. He used a bit of gauze to blot the dried blood and gunk from my face, then eked out the last bit of Neosporin and wrangled a few pieces of cotton and gauze from the bowels of the emergency kit, working slowly and deliberately, wincing each time I did.

  “Remember the first time I did this for you?” he asked, a slight look of mischief in his ice-blue eyes.

  “Hm, the first time? Would that be bandaging my palms outside the Hendersons’ house after I ground them in the glass? Oh, no—after Ophelia tried to high-five my face in the diner.”

  Alex swished an alcohol-dampened cotton ball over a cut at my eye.

  “Lawson, Ophelia didn’t try to high-five your face. If I remember correctly, she did. And it was less a high five, more of a smacking ten.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner sucks?”

  He grinned again, the smile going all the way up to his eyes. “It was before the Hendersons and before Ophelia even.”

  I’d planned on frowning, but was rapidly losing feeling in my swollen face, so my expression could have been the expected frown or a Real Housewives post-surgical clown grin.

  “Oh,” I said, memory inching in. “It was the chief.”

  “Your little run-in with the chief of police when he was bad. What did he try and convince you happened to you? Aliens? The ninety-nine percent?”