Daughter of the Dark Moon: Book 3 of the Twin Moons Saga

by Holly Bargo

  Daughter

  of the

  Dark Moon

  BOOK 3 OF THE TWIN MOONS SAGA

  By

  Holly Bargo

  HEN HOUSE PUBLISHING

  © 2018 Karen M. Chirico

  HEN HOUSE PUBLISHING

  www.henhousepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and either fictional or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is pure coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, reprinted, or reproduced in any fashion without written permission from the author.

  Cover photograph by Lawrence Green.

  Cover design by Karen M. Smith.

  Also by Holly Bargo

  The Twin Moons Saga

  DAUGHTER OF THE TWIN MOONS

  DAUGHTER OF THE DEEPWOOD

  DAUGHTER OF THE DARK MOON

  The Tree of Life Series

  ROWAN

  CASSIA

  WILLOW

  The Immortal Shifters

  THE BARBARY LION

  TIGER IN THE SNOW

  The Russian Love Series

  RUSSIAN LULLABY

  RUSSIAN GOLD

  RUSSIAN DAWN

  RUSSIAN PRIDE

  Other Novels

  THE DRAGON WORE A KILT

  THE FALCON OF IMENOTASH

  PURE IRON

  THE MIGHTY FINN

  ULFBEHRT’S LEGACY

  Short Stories

  BY WATER REBORN

  SKEINS OF GOLD: RUMPELSTILTSKIN RETOLD

  Acknowledgments

  Gratitude goes first and foremost to my husband, David, who has learned that the voices in my head really do need to find expression. I also thank my two sons, Matt and Brian, for their tolerant acceptance: Yes, boys, Mommy really does need to write these stories, no matter how embarrassing you find it.

  I also thank my editor, Cindy Draughon. Her eagle eyes and insight improve my manuscripts immeasurably. I’m glad she also enjoys what I write.

  Further thanks go to the friends and family who offer moral support and encouragement. That means the world to me.

  I also thank Dee Owens, my marketing guru, whose expertise in social media eclipses my own and who helps keep me and my books from disappearing into ignominy.

  Finally, I must thank you, dear reader, for allowing me the privilege of entertaining you. I hope you enjoy this story.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tiny biting insects hovered nearby in the sultry summer air, but resisted the temptation of his skin as he moved like a shadow, soundless and unnoticed, through the thickly wooded state park. The very idea of reserving tracts of wilderness amused him, even though this was not his native realm. The fishy scent of fresh water nearby tickled his nose. He adjusted his direction accordingly, and then his flared nostrils caught another, more desired fragrance.

  He paused at the forest edge, observing the woman who sat on the old concrete boat ramp as she reeled in a fish with expert skill.

  “Y’all can come out now,” she called over her shoulder without looking behind her.

  He obeyed her beckons and quietly took a seat beside her as she cast her line again. They sat in companionable silence, inches apart, never touching. He did not quite know her reason for the studious avoidance of physical contact and did not question it. He simply enjoyed the soft sounds of her breathing, the rustle of her clothes, the splash of water, the rustling of leaves, and the chirps of birds. It reminded him of his home in midsummer.

  She caught another fish, deemed it inadequate for her purposes, and released it back into the water after extracting the sharp hook from its mouth. She glanced at the horizon and noted the sun’s descent and the vivid flare of color across the western sky.

  “I’ve got enough to feed both of us tonight if you’re hungry,” she invited him as she hauled up the day’s meager catch. She gathered her cooler and tackle and began the hike back to her tiny cabin. He fell into step behind her, feeling protective and watching for danger.

  “Nothing but the occasional black bear or badger around here,” she said, her voice quiet in the rustling wilderness.

  He said nothing, but shadowed her nonetheless. He knew park visitors occasionally tramped through what she considered her territory and that some of them had less than benign intentions. He’d killed one of them not three days past.

  The elimination of a tainted soul did not disturb him. After hundreds of millennia, little actually disturbed him. He glanced at the slender hips swaying with each step, the lure to masculine interest unintentional. Desire surged, a heady sensation he hadn’t enjoyed since his mate died.

  Had been killed.

  Murdered.

  That was the last time he’d seen the Erlking, who had avenged the wrong, but the Erlking’s justice had not been enough. His mate’s death shattered his soul.

  The icy fury that always followed that bitter memory sent chills up and down his spine, but did not overwhelm the sanity that most of his world believed he lost long ago. And he had for a short time, until the pull of his son, his only child, had restored him to rational thought. But now Marog, too, was dead and Mogren ruled the Unseelie Court. So, he had finally left the chill, dusty environs of his libraries and laboratories.

  He preferred it that way. He mourned Marog’s death; any father would. However, the crown prince had chosen his fate, and Uberon, the deposed Unseelie king, believed in free will if he believed in nothing else.

  Except where this one woman was concerned.

  She was his.

  The oracle confirmed it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Corinne could not help but wonder at the tall man whose shadowed presence she’d felt like an itch between her shoulder blades for the past several days. She knew the disconcerting feeling of being watched. She knew she’d been foolish to invite him to join her. Perhaps, she thought, she was simply gullible and had read far too many fluffy romance novels in which the dangerous killer had a heart of gold. Regardless, she could not force herself to endure that silent presence watching her and had called him out.

  Her self-control impressed her when he’d taken a seat beside her on the old boat ramp. She’d maintained her composure, though the sight of his odd clothing identified him as either having wandered off a distant movie set or just plain weird. The supple leather of his trousers molded over hard, defined muscle. The close-fitting shafts of soft-soled boots extended to his knees. The deep ruby of his shirt caught the humid summer breeze and plastered the billowing fabric over well-defined muscles on a tall, lean frame. Covert glances gave her the impression of above average height, supple strength, pale skin, and raven hair. If she’d had an image of a fallen angel, this man matched it.

  His failure to make a sound as she walked back to her cabin both unnerved and annoyed her. She considered herself quiet, moving along the narrow footpath without crashing through overhanging branches or stumbling over exposed tree roots and loose rocks. She breathed easily as she lugged tackle and cooler and a line with two good-sized fish. If her shadow, hovering behind her like the Grim Reaper, hadn’t followed her, she would have cleaned the second fish and set it aside for the next day’s chow. As it was, she’d have to walk to the local farmer’s market to stock up on food to feed them both.

  Corinne hoped her bank account could withstand the expense of feeding more than one person, the second of whom surely boasted a big appetite. She’d grown up the youngest of six, the other five being brothers, in a family with a penchant for survival training,
primitive camping, and bow hunting. Having been impressed into household service by her mother, she grew up knowing how much “growing boys” ate. She considered the tall, broad-shouldered man walking behind her. He’d have a healthy appetite. She resigned herself to cooking both fishes and eating only half of one.

  The two-mile hike ended at her remote cabin, formerly a park cabin on park land, but sold off by the park service during the recession of the late 1980s to raise funds for continued operation. Her folks had jumped at the chance to purchase a vacation hideaway in the Appalachian foothills near Salt Fork Lake. Setting down the cooler and tackle box, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and fished the house key from her pocket. A moment later, the Grim Reaper prowled her tiny cabin, too big for its cozy dimensions.

  Corinne ignored him and got to work stowing her belongings in their proper places. In such a tiny space, organization and tidiness were mandatory. He followed her back outside to the stump of an old oak leveled off and sanded smooth after the remnant gales of a southern hurricane had toppled it. Cleaver in hand, she lay one largemouth bass on the stump and raised the blade. Another hand wrapped around her wrist, holding it. She looked into the silver eyes of the stranger. He raised one finely drawn eyebrow and, without speaking, gently extracted the cleaver from her hand. With his other hand, he drew her away from the stump. He gave her a pointed look that needed no words to explain he would clean the fish.

  “Whatever,” she muttered and shrugged her shoulders before going back inside. It was, she mused, quite possibly the most idiotic thing she’d done that day, leaving a strange man outside with a cleaver. What if he happened to be an axe murderer?

  Cleaver murderer.

  Kitchen killer.

  She snorted and giggled at her own absurdity as she pulled a cast iron skillet from the cupboard and set it on the stove. A twist of the wrist, a hiss, and a whoosh, and blue flame rose from the burner. Corinne found some dill-infused olive oil and drizzled it into the pan. A heady scent quickly rose. She grabbed a bundle of asparagus and rinsed the spears, cut a lemon in half, got out the salt and pepper and retrieved yesterday’s leftover rice pilaf. She loosened the lid on the rice and popped it into the small microwave oven for reheating.

  Corinne’s guest slapped down two perfectly cleaned and filleted fish on the countertop beside her. Without speaking, the man turned on the spigot and washed his hands and the cleaver in the sink. Corinne found her gaze drawn to those hands, large but not crude, the fingers long and elegant and capable looking. When he finished, she rinsed the fillets, patted them dry with paper towels, dredged them in seasoned flour, and lay them in the skillet. The flesh sizzled. She dumped the asparagus spears into the skillet, too. Knowing she had a few minutes—not many—she pulled down two of her four plates and retrieved the necessary silverware.

  “Thanks for cleaning the fish,” she said and held out the plates and silverware. “You can set the table. Cups are in the upper cabinet left of the sink. Napkins are in the drawer below the silverware.”

  The man looked down his straight nose at her, faintly horrified, but he took what Corinne handed him and obeyed her order. With a spatula, she checked the underside of the fish and, satisfied with the golden brown color, flipped it. She turned the asparagus spears to ensure they cooked on all sides, squeezed the lemon over the contents of the skillet, and sprinkled everything with salt and pepper. The correct buttons pressed, the microwave hummed and the old turntable rattled.

  She placed a potholder on the table and transferred the skillet from the stovetop to the table. A moment later, she transferred the reheated rice to the table and extracted a serving spoon from a drawer.

  “Bon appétit,” she said in her best imitation of Julia Child as she seated herself and gestured for her guest to take the seat across from her.

  He looked at her with a puzzled frown.

  “I’m not a good mimic,” she acknowledged with good cheer. “You should hear my Jacques Pépin imitation. It’s even worse.”

  He blinked at her. She sighed, crossed herself, folded her hands, and bowed her head to quickly murmur a rote prayer over the food on the table. She crossed herself again and gave him a determinedly bright smile.

  “So, tell me about yourself, like your name,” she said as she used a fork and spatula to transfer an entire fillet and several asparagus spears to his plate. He simply looked at her. “You’ve been watching me for the last few days. I know you have. Mind telling me why?”

  She spooned rice onto his plate and he picked up his fork. She waited with an expectant attitude as he sampled her cooking.

  “Oh, I forgot drinks,” she exclaimed and jumped up to retrieve a pitcher half full of iced tea. She poured and set the pitcher on the table.

  “Will you at least tell me your name?” she begged as she filled her own plate. “You look like the Grim Reaper frowning at me.”

  Her guest met her gaze, his unblinking, and he finally replied in a low, somewhat rusty baritone, “Uberon.”

  She gifted him with a polite smile and said, steel lacing every syllable, “Thank you. Now please tell me why you’ve been shadowing me.”

  “You’re mine.”

  Corinne choked on the tea she attempted to swallow. Setting the glass down, she said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re mine,” he repeated, his voice low, quiet, and calm as though he declared nothing more momentous than the state of the weather. He gestured at his plate with his fork and added, “This is good.”

  “Glad you like it,” she replied in a dry tone and wondered why she felt no danger in his presence, especially following his strange declaration and understanding her own vulnerability alone with a stranger in a remote cabin. “You do realize that I have rights and freedom of choice. You can’t just claim me as your property.”

  “You’re weary,” he said between bites as though she’d not spoken. “When you’ve finished eating, go to bed. I shall clean up.”

  Directing an annoyed glare at the handsome brute, Corinne said, “You are sleeping on the sofa.”

  He nodded, not seeming at all disturbed by her assertion of personal autonomy. A frisson of excitement—or terror—tingled up her spine. She met his mysterious silver gaze and, strangely again, felt no fear. This man meant her no harm, despite the weird and disturbing claim of possession.

  “Uberon?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because you’re mine.”

  They finished the simple meal in silence. Uberon ate the other half of her fillet.

  CHAPTER 3

  When his woman had disappeared into the washroom, Uberon exerted a whisper of power to clean and tidy the kitchen. What would have taken an ordinary human minutes to do took him a mere few seconds. When she emerged from cleaning herself, her freshly washed hair bound in a loose braid and her body graced by short cotton pajamas decorated with yellow cats and pink teapots, the former king of the Unseelie Court nearly swallowed his tongue as the urge to take her as his mate slammed into him. She looked and smelled fresh and clean and absolutely delicious.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose, imposing stern control upon himself.

  “Bathroom’s yours,” she said. “I’ll fetch a blanket for you.”

  He nodded and rose from the chair in which he’d been sitting. He watched as she retrieved a blanket and spread it over the sofa cushions.

  “You’re a bit tall for that sofa, but beggars can’t be choosers and you’re not sleeping with me,” she said with the hint of a snarl.

  He nodded, keeping his expression mild. If he climbed into her bed, she’d not get sleep. Nor would he. He approved of her caution and the distance she seemed determined to maintain.

  “Oh, and if it gets cold—” she said and waved her hand. Fire ignited on the hearth. She waved her hand again and the fire vanished. “—feel free to light a fire.”

  The corners of Uberon’s lips curled upward in a faint smile at her small di
splay of power. He should have known that fate would not pair him with an unworthy, unequal female. She had power of her own, small power in this blighted world tainted by so much iron, but power nonetheless.

  Corinne frowned at his utter lack of astonishment. She’d meant to intimidate him, to let him know that she could protect herself if he decided to attack her. After all, most humans—ordinary humans—couldn’t will fire into existence and dismiss it with a thought. She focused and a cooling breeze flowed through the open windows, the fine mesh screens preventing most insects from entering the cabin.

  “Thanks for cleaning up,” she said and walked into her bedroom, half expecting Uberon to follow her.

  In the absence of an invitation, he allowed her privacy. Her second small display of power amused him and he wondered how quickly her power would grow and flourish away from the dampening taint of iron that surrounded people in this mundane dimension. He made his way into the washroom and availed himself of human technology. Using Corinne’s soap, he imagined the press of her warm, slippery flesh and his body responded. He stroked his thick, heavy erection once, twice, then turned his soapy hands to cleaning other body parts. He refused to give himself release. The passion of his body belonged to Corinne.

  After drying off, he wrapped the towel around his lean hips and crossed the small cabin. Easing the door open, he stepped outside. The whine and buzz of hungry insects swarmed around him for a second, then disappeared. Even insects knew better than to feast upon fae flesh, or at least this fae’s flesh.

  Probably equal to the Erlking and Enders in age, power, and capability, Uberon, the deposed king of the Unseelie Court, was the second most dangerous living creature on Planet Earth while he deigned to visit.

  “I wondered why you gave up the kingdom so easily,” came the dry remark from the most dangerous creature on Earth.

  Uberon looked at the spiral ivory horn and the flashing opal eyes. “The kingdom was Marog’s and he is gone. I have no further need of the crown.”