Bear Moon

by Hattie Hunt

  Ripley released a long breath, glad for the reprieve. Talking about Decima was easier than discussing Ripley’s life goals. “This morning. She just wants a partnership.”

  “She’s a padfoot, Rip. She wants death.”

  I do not, Decima growled, leaping to the forefront of Ripley’s mind.

  Myrtie jerked back, her eyes wide.

  “What?” Ripley asked.

  “Your eyes, girlie-girl. They’re glowing silver and smoking.”

  Ripley took in a deep breath. Decima, want to let up a bit here? We’re not trying to scare the crap out of her.

  She doesn’t understand me and because of that she thinks it’s her right to cage me?

  Ripley needed more information. She didn’t have the history. She had no clue what had led the Kent family line to imprison the padfoots in the first place. “Her sister, Quinta, is with Sean.”

  Myrtie stared at Sean, who was slumped over a table in the far corner. “No. That is very bad. Why would the padfoot choose him?”

  Because no one would choose you, Decima spat.

  Ripley blinked the loathing away and winced a smile. “He was…closer? We don’t know.”

  “If they’re trying to undo all the work we’ve—”

  “Aunt Myrtie!” Ripley held out her hands to stop her aunt. Maybe talking about her love—non-love life was a better idea. “We don’t know what’s going on. Okay? The padfoots look for balance. They strive to keep it that way. That’s all I know.”

  “That is not the case.” Myrtie slashed her hand over the table, a dark storm of emotion on her face. “We are going to—”

  “I’m in love with Joe,” Ripley said as quickly as and as loudly as she could to stop Myrtie.

  A few patrons from the nearest tables turned toward them, but no one said anything, their interest only going so far as to determine who had the audacity to interrupt their drinks.

  Myrtie blinked, relaxing her death grip on the table.

  Ripley hadn’t even noticed she’d grabbed it.

  A smile formed on Myrtie’s lips, though her eyes remained hard. “Well, it’s about damned time.”

  Decima relaxed too, but she didn’t retreat like she normally did.

  Ripley sighed. What do you want to do?

  Decima was quiet a long moment.

  “What made you finally realize that?” Myrtie asked.

  I want revenge for what they did.

  “I don’t know. When I saw him again, I guess.” Balancing two conversations while attempting to keep two very powerful people from trying to kill one another—Ripley was not a fan. “Everything came back. I just feel better when he’s around.” Ripley tried to keep her attention on Myrtie while she asked Decima, What did they do to the padfoot?

  Myrtie huffed a chuckle and sat back.

  Not now, Ripley Kent. Decima finally backed off, her voice receding.

  Then, later.

  Yes. Later.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “With the death warrant being issued on his twin’s head?” Ripley took another sip of her drink, letting her gaze flit about the room.

  “Mmm. How are they handling that?”

  “How do you think? Not well. They missed their wedding day.”

  “Well,” Myrtie said, bowing her head, “if they want to get married before everything happens, I am an officiant.”

  Ripley perked up. “I’ll let them know.”

  Myrtie reached across the table and placed her hand over Ripley’s. “Rip, figure out what you want and then take it. You don’t know how long you have. Neither of you do.”

  Ripley didn’t know if she was talking about Decima or Joe as the other half of the neither, but it didn’t matter. She was right.

  Someone called out from the bar, and Myrtie stood. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll talk about the bar. It might be just what you need to give you roots.”

  Ripley doubted it, but she’d entertain the idea.

  Someone sank immediately into Myrtie’s abandoned chair, and Ripley looked up, prepared to rebuff whoever and their intentions.

  She stared straight into the face of Alexander Orlov, Sorgei’s brother. He gave her a friendly smile and reached for Myrtie’s glass. “I’m hoping this is what you Americans call the ‘good stuff.’”

  Ripley frowned. “What are you doing here, Alexander?”

  He poured himself a finger and a half of the whiskey and brought it to his nose. He sniffed once and set it down, tipping his head to the side in interest. “I am checking on you.”

  “You flew all the way to Oregon to check on me?”

  “It is just a plane ticket, Ms. Kent.”

  Ripley narrowed her eyes. “Everything is going as planned with the order. What are you really doing here?”

  He sipped the port, looked at the glass appreciatively, then leaned down, setting the glass on the table. “I am here to make sure you come back.”

  “I’ll fulfill the contract, Alexander.”

  “And then what? Will you stay here?”

  “I don’t know yet.” What the hell was he doing there?

  Decima stirred, wary and cautious.

  “But whatever I decide,” Ripley continued, “I will complete the work I started.”

  Alexander eyed her seriously for a moment before he sat back. “You need to understand a thing of great importance, Ms. Kent.”

  Ripley wanted to roll her eyes. Usually when a person said something was of “great importance,” it didn’t matter a whole lot to her.

  “We know what it is you really do.”

  She stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “The death barters.”

  Shi—fuck.

  “Have you listened to the news?”

  She hadn’t.

  “Death is rising. Innocent people are dying. Children. Mothers. Innocent men and women who are not in this fight. They die because you are not there.”

  Decima rose to her spirit feet inside Ripley’s mind.

  “Finish what you must here, Ms. Kent.” Alexander rose to his feet. “And then return to your job. You are more important out there than you are here.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ripley tossed back the last of her drink, sipping whiskey or no, as she watched Alexander Orlov leave the bar.

  Decima, she said quietly, I don’t want to go back.

  Neither do I.

  Then, what were we doing out there?

  What we had to. A thread of regret wormed its way into Ripley’s heart.

  If Decima was so gung-ho about keeping the balance, then wasn’t that exactly where they should be? I don’t understand.

  Ripley’s poured another sip of whiskey into her glass.

  There was little comfort in the fact that her padfoot needed the whiskey just as badly as she did.

  Myrtle Hortense Kent is right.

  Ripley flinched at the use of Myrtie’s middle name. Decima really had to hate her.

  We are merely guardians.

  Okay. Isn’t that what we were doing in the Middle East?

  No. Decima leaned forward, posed to pounce. To what end, though? We were righting the scales.

  Ripley didn’t like the sound of that. What scales?

  The balance between life and death.

  Decima was so rigid, Ripley’s jaw hurt. Do you want to explain? Ripley asked, massaging the side of her face.

  Decima took in a deep breath. The humans have outgrown their lives. They cheat death, and in so doing, they destroy life.

  So, we—Ripley shook her head, not even sure what she should ask. We saved lives out there, Decima.

  No. I allowed you to trade a few lives for those we were already going to take. But the Middle East is being spurred to bring about the balance.

  Ripley slumped back in her chair. You’re fucking shitting me, right? That is batshit crazy. The political situation over there has nothing to do with balance.

  Are you so sure? Explain the m
indlessness.

  It’s…they have their reasons.

  To act in the manners of which they’ve chosen? To incite more death? To court it? To flaunt it? To invite it?

  Ripley blinked. You’re telling me that the war is your fault.

  No, but I did what I could to help it.

  So, those people, the people who died, those are on me?

  They would have died one way or another anyway. We merely brought their end sooner.

  And how did we do that?

  Decima sank back on her haunches, her ears laid back. We were the homing beacon for the grim reapers.

  What? There were grim freaking reapers, too? What the—Ripley didn’t know what to believe, what she wanted to believe.

  And that is why I worry about Quinta. She is the fifth daughter. When she finds out…

  Ripley leaned in again, like Decima was sitting right across the table from her. What? She’ll do what?

  She will kill me.

  Leaving Ripley normal again?

  She will kill us both.

  Crap. Then, we leave. We go back. Not to the Middle East. Somewhere else.

  Is there another place you are okay with killing people?

  What?

  We chose the Middle East because they have been fighting there for millennia. It is easy to incite riot. The politics made it easier. Whatever location you choose next, we will devise a new war, a new way to right the balance.

  Ripley didn’t buy that. She wasn’t a god. She had no interest in that level of responsibility. How would she sleep at night? And if we stay?

  Decima lowered her ears tighter to her head. The reapers cannot get to us inside the witch’s protections.

  What?

  The Whiskey witches put up protections around this town, around this area. Here, we are safe.

  And you want to hide from the reapers?

  I didn’t—Decima shuddered. I am a guardian. I am only meant to be a guardian. When I made that bargain, I did not realize what would be asked of me. What would be asked of us. What the shit were they in the middle of?

  So, what are you saying?

  Decima perked up, raising her ears a little. We need to stay.

  Shit. Ripley braced herself against the table and stood. She hadn’t had enough of the port to even get a buzz, which was probably good. Still, she felt a little guilty leaving her glass on the table with whiskey still in it. With so much already on the line, she didn’t need to add to the sea of shit by driving with a buzz. Her padfoot helped her to metabolize the liquor faster, but safety on the road first.

  Feeling more paranoid than was probably necessary, Ripley spent the drive to the cabin flicking her eyes between the side and rearview mirrors. No one seemed to follow her. Hell, no one even lifted an eye. Still. She was assisting in harboring a bear with a death warrant on his head. Not to mention the random visit from a Russian who suddenly knew what she was.

  Ripley shuddered. Maybe her paranoia wasn’t completely unfounded.

  The door to the cabin didn’t open until she had walked around the back of the truck to grab the bag of foodstuffs. She didn’t have to look to know it was Joe. She could feel his eyes on her. But she looked up anyway. He stood on the edge of the porch, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. Shirt, as was the apparent new custom, MIA.

  It wasn’t a bad custom.

  “Are you going to help or not?” she asked, diverting her eyes and hoping he hadn’t noticed the way she was looking at him.

  His eyes narrowed, but he came over, taking the backpack she had lugged out of the truck bed.

  Ripley reached past him and grabbed the tranquilizer gun.

  “What the hell are you doing with that?” he asked, the incredulity in his voice searing her already frazzled nerves.

  “It’s just a trank and just in case we need it. Trust me, okay? I’m not going to kill him.”

  “Unless you have to.”

  Decima tossed in an emotional thread of confusion for good measure. Ripley shook her head. “Let’s hope I don’t have to.”

  Joe led the way into the cabin. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dropping off the supplies like I said I was going to.”

  Rubbing his head, he leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  Ripley leaned the rifle against the doorframe, trying unsuccessfully to sort her intentions. Want. What a weird word. What did she want? What did that mean? What consequences would she have to live with by following that road? Could she be so selfish?

  Selfish? She’d been a damned beacon of death for grim fucking reapers. The world could use her to be a little selfish. Slow down the damned death a little, give the people of that region a little breathing room.

  “I’ve decided I want to…” She hadn’t decided a damned fucking thing. “I want to try and stay.”

  “Really.” He quirked his lips and looked away. “And what made you decide that?”

  She could lie to him, tell him that he was the thing that had changed her mind. Maybe she should lie to him. “I talked to her.”

  He frowned, not understanding.

  “My padfoot.” Ripley pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “Her name is Decima.”

  “What?” He uncoiled and sank into the chair beside her. “What happened? Why? Why now? And do you realize what this means? You’re an alpha.”

  Ripley shook her head. Shapeshifters who could speak to their spirit animals were typically alphas. Not always, of course, but often. “We’re not shapeshifters. We’re…something different. I don’t know what.”

  “We—wow. Okay?” His frown deepened as he leaned his elbows on his knees. “I guess I don’t understand.”

  “She—she did something. When she chose me, she made a bargain with some grim reapers and now we’re beacons of death.”

  “You’re—so—wow—what?”

  As an afterthought, taking in his reaction, she realized that might have been the wrong thing to lead with. His brother was dying and could potentially spread the virus. In so many words, she could be essentially admitting to being the reason it was happening. She needed to head that off. “We’re protected here.”

  “So, you’re not—” He gestured broadly.

  “No. That wasn’t us.” She hung her head. “But some of what’s going down in other areas of the world? That might have been us.”

  “Might have been?”

  Ripley nodded slowly, hating that somehow admitting it all made it more real. “The world is safer from us if we stay.”

  He closed his eyes, flinching like he had been slapped.

  This was going poorly. “As soon as Decima chose me, I’ve felt cursed.”

  “Decima?”

  “My padfoot.” She needed to say these words before they turned to letter soup like everything else she tried to say that meant anything. “Now, I know why. But then, I tried to run. That didn’t shake the curse. I tried to hide. That didn’t work. I tried to help. It seemed to work, for a little bit. Decima would see who would die and I would broker a deal to save them—if they were innocent, you know. Like kids. Well, there are a lot of innocents out there. And I would set up others to take their place. I would offer up militants if I could find them. I saved who I could, but it didn’t matter what I did. Most of them ended up dead later anyway.”

  Joe licked his lips.

  “I’ve been running ever since Decima chose me.”

  “But not anymore?”

  She shook her head. “No. Maybe? I don’t know. But Decima says there are protections here. We could live a normal life, or a normal life for us. We could stop—doing what we were doing. We could find happiness.”

  “And this bargain with the reapers, I doubt they’ll just let it go.”

  She shrugged a shoulder, and nerves reeled her stomach. Ripley tried to ignore the way her hands had started trembling. “But you know what that revelation did for me?”


  Joe leaned back in his chair.

  She rose to her feet, the expression on her face changing as she approached. A sultry light entered her eyes.

  He was almost afraid to ask. “What?” His hands found her hips as she straddled him.

  She sank onto his lap and smiled. “Your mother is no one compared to the shit I’ve already faced. Grim reapers? Beacon of death. She can bite me.”

  “Rip.” The word came out in a tight exhale. He wasn’t going to admit to being a prude, but he was used to making the first advance. Yes. He wanted Ripley. Yes, he craved her touch and wanted to sink himself into her claiming her as his own. It had been hell holding himself back. The time just hadn’t felt right yet. It had been too soon.

  He wanted her to stay. But the woman she’d come back as, well she was the type of woman who would take what she wanted, when she wanted. Then she would disappear. Like she had before.

  But she said she’d stay. Not for him. Because of the witches and their protections over the town.

  Did that make her decision better or worse for him?

  Better, he decided. He didn’t want her making her decisions over her life based solely on him. He wasn’t in the middle of some weird romance novel where the woman’s only thought in the world evolved him and his dick. He wanted her heart, her soul, her crazy-assed fucking mind.

  And if she was offering her body now, he would take it. Freely.

  He grabbed her head and brought her ear to his mouth. One lick…

  She gasped, shivering with pleasure on his lap.

  One taste…

  He nibbled his way down her throat, pushing the neck of her tank aside to gain access to her shoulder.

  She moaned and sank her weight on to him, pressing her pelvis into his.

  He shifted in the chair, pressing his solid, wanting manhood between her legs.

  She arched her back, mouth open, her eyes smoldering and smoky. A wildness and intensity that should scare him. A few days before, seeing her padfoot lurking behind those eyes had. But now?

  His bear rose to the surface. Just enough to let Ripley see—to feel—the animal in him.