Blood Moon

by Rose Marie Wolf

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  Blood Moon

  Copyright © 2007 by Rose Marie Wolf

  Cover by Anne Cain

  ISBN: 1-59998-527-6

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2007

  Blood Moon

  Book 2 of the Moon Series

  Rose Marie Wolf

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the "real" Jason, who has been my inspiration from the very beginning.

  Chapter One

  Davis Miller watched his blood ooze through his fingers and coat his hands as he clutched at his lower leg. The pain was unbearable, but he gritted his teeth and eased his leg out from under him. Blinding pain shot through him and he screamed through his clenched teeth.

  It’s too much. The pain, it’s too much.

  He had never experienced pain such as this before and he hoped he would never feel it again. His leg was useless now. He couldn’t move it without screaming. He was going to die, he was sure of it.

  And that fucker, Simon, had been the cause of it.

  Davis added more pressure to the lower wound. He was sure the bone had shattered when the bullet went through. The meat of his calf was mutilated and the leg of his jeans was thoroughly saturated with blood. It was ripped where the bullet had entered and exited.

  The first gunshot, which was inflicted by the werewolf Jason Barnett earlier that night during the raid, had stopped bleeding, but Davis knew the bullet was still inside. It would have to be cut out.

  That meant more pain and Davis whimpered. He was squeamish when it came to pain and the thought of removing the bullet himself sickened him. He closed his eyes and fought nausea. It was something he would have to do.

  He felt lightheaded. His blood pooled onto the floor beneath him and he edged away from it. His back pressed against the wall and he focused on the torn place in his upper leg.

  It’s all his fault, Davis seethed, fucking Simon. He closed his eyes a moment a let out a hissing breath. He hated him. He hated the sneer on his face whenever he addressed him and he hated his burning, intense eyes. He hated Simon Conner with every breath in his body.

  He opened his eyes, refocusing on his bloody wound. The pain continued to wash over him and it increased when he shifted the weight of his injured leg. He clenched his teeth tightly together, so tightly he thought he felt the pressure of them cracking. He suppressed his moan of pain as he attempted to lift his lower body off the floor.

  His first try failed in a cry of pain.

  I am going to regret this.

  Once more, he took a deep breath and prepared to raise himself again. As his hips lifted and he cried out, his bloody right hand slipped into the front pocket of his jeans. His sticky fingers closed around the pocket knife he always kept on him.

  The handle was black and once shiny, but now was filmy with blood. When opened, the knife blade was sharp and glinted in the flash of lightening that struck somewhere outside. Low thunder rumbled overhead and Davis stared at the blade, knowing what he had to do with it. He wasn’t looking forward to it at all. The bullet had to come out and though he felt sick at the thought of it, he had to do it. There was no way in hell he would be going to a hospital, or a doctor to have it removed.

  “Goddamn it!” Davis suddenly bellowed in the silent and dead hall of the Paranormal Research and Development Institute’s safe house. His voice screamed back at him. A rage like no other ran through his body and if Simon had been there, facing him, Davis would’ve been all over him. There would be no room for him to react. It would be over. Simon wanted him for a scapegoat. It had all been a part of his plan.

  “Fuck!” He shouted once more. He wanted to do something to let this rage out, but it could only be vocal. It went to waste there in the empty foyer with the dead bodies littered around him. Davis took in a great gulping breath and exhaled it. His fist curled tightly around the knife’s handle.

  He stared at the lifeless form of Michael. Michael had been a part of this ill-fated mission, and although Davis didn’t know him well enough to have been friends, he had still been a colleague. And now, there he was, his cold eyes staring up at nothing. Bullet wounds gaped in his chest, the shirt ripped and bloody.

  Davis had to look away. He felt sick again. Nausea rose within him and somehow he knew this time he wouldn’t be able to fight it. His throat burned and it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The bile rose and he choked it back. He let out a thick gasp. He took a huge breath and tried to look away from all the blood and all the death, but it loomed before him vividly in his mind.

  But it wasn’t Michael he saw. The woman who had died because of him not that long ago stared up at him with fading grey eyes. Her blood poured from the exit wound in her back and all over his hands.

  The nausea won this time and Davis gave in. He turned his head and vomited all over the bottom step. He kept his eyes closed until he had finished, then wiped his mouth unceremoniously with his sleeve. The vomit left an ugly stain, but he ignored it. It was the stench of the bile that was truly horrible, and combined with the blood on the floor… He felt the desire to vomit again.

  But he was able to force it away this time and he took a deep breath. He had to get the bullet out. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep his squeamishness at bay, but he would try.

  It was all he could do.

  Leaving now, however impossible that seemed at the present moment, would only bring more unfortunate events upon him. Even if he could make it to the hospital, how would he explain it to the doctors? He was fucked. His only option was to do it himself. I am not going to prison for him. His silent vow was strong-willed, and with determination, he could do it, if he could just get past the pain and the bullet…

  His jeans were a ruined mess. It was no difficult task sawing them away from his upper leg as they were already ripped. Once the heavy cloth was removed, Davis would be able see the wound in all its gruesomeness. He braced himself for the mutilation.

  The wound didn’t look nearly as bad as he anticipated. The skin around the wound wasn’t as damaged as he had thought and it had stopped bleeding at least. The flesh was still red.

  “Fuck, is this ever going to hurt…” Davis breathed. Suddenly, he wished for more of his painkillers, but they had been abandoned in the long-gone van Simon and the others had fled in. A surge of anger went through him, yet again, remembering the look on Simon’s face and that tone in his voice a split second before the shot hit him.

  Planning to leave him all along…

  No, Davis thought, that doesn’t make sense. His mind jumped from erratic thought to thought. He wanted me to prove something, why would he leave me? He wouldn’t have toyed with me this long if I was just a patsy…or would he?

  Davis didn’t know the answers. What he did know was that Simon and the others had captured that damn woman and some kid, killed everyone else, and left him to take the blame. It made no fucking sense. His head was splitting open with a huge headache. The words in his head made little s
ense now. He felt dizzy.

  It was time to do what he had been dreading all along. His hand shook horribly as he edged the knife closer to his skin. His free hand pulled back the ruined denim and held the skin taut. The lower leg was useless to try to fix. The bullet there had exited through the calf and Davis was so sure the bones had shattered. He was so sure of it.

  Now or never. He sucked in a shaking gasp. He poised the knife.

  Not hesitating any longer, Davis plunged the knife in. He howled in pain, but didn’t stop. He couldn’t now. Davis felt the knife touch the bullet. A few excruciating moments later, it was out and lay wet and red in his palm.

  The silver thing fell to the floor with a dull clinging sound and the bleeding in the wound renewed. Davis pressed his palms against it, but it wouldn’t stop. It burned crimson over his hands, staining them.

  Staining his murdering hands.

  Davis choked back tears that burned in his eyes and clutched at his leg. He couldn’t take it. The pain was too much.

  The woman’s eyes stared up at him, begging him to help her. The blood stained his hands and covered the floor. It was everywhere.

  The pain…

  A moment or so later, the pain won, and Davis’ head slumped back against the wall. He had passed out.

  * * *

  The wolf knew pain in his own way. His paws swiftly found their way across the harsh concrete of man’s world and into the green yards of the residential neighborhood. His dark fur made hiding in the shadows easy, and he crouched low, against the siding on a house.

  They never knew he was there, he was that silent. He stared out at the roadways, from the direction he had come. He had been running for what felt like hours, and he was far enough away. He could no longer smell them. They didn’t know he was here.

  He was glad for that.

  Pain ripped through his chest. Others of his kind were dead. He knew that. In his wordless mind, he saw the dead, and he smelled the blood. Friends and family had suffered. But he had survived. He had gotten away.

  The cold autumn rain drenched his fur, but it washed away the blood. His wound no longer hurt. It was hardly more than a scratch now. Soon, it would be gone, and a small scar would remain an ugly reminder for a short time.

  Under the awning of this house, he rested. His tongue washed away the last traces of blood and cleansed the wound as he lay there. His eyes never left the roadway, however, and it seemed he was languid in his movements. It was as if he had become lazy.

  This wolf was quite the opposite. He was patient, but he was anxious. He would return. He had to. What if others had lived?

  In his wolfen mind, he saw the brutal images and broken bodies. It seemed unlikely that any survived, but there was always hope. He knew what had transpired, and he knew humans had been the cause of it. He refrained from growling lest someone living in this house looked out the window and saw him lurking among the shadows.

  Rain fell in a steady stream from the gutter, and ripples formed on the rain barrel that was already overflowing. The water sloshed onto the moistened ground and the wolf watched it without much interest. The darkness of the night was punctuated by the brilliance of lightning and the low rumble that accompanied it. He soon settled down, his head resting on his outstretched paws.

  Time passed sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. He dozed and his wound fully healed during the time. He couldn’t be sure just how long had passed, but something caused the wolf to finally stir from his resting place. It was a premonition of sorts, a feeling of anxiety that encompassed his entire being. It was time to go back and assess the damage. It was time to do the thing he dreaded.

  Rising from the warmth of the ground he had laid on, he stepped out once again into the October drizzle. More thunder clapped overhead as the wolf began to lope back. The rain fell steadily the entire time and he became drenched once more. His fur clung to his strong body and while he hated it, he endured it without complaint.

  The building was before him. The doors were open, as they had been when he fled. The van in front of the place was gone, and the faint smell of werekin and human combined with the damp and musty smell of wet earth and wood. He snorted in disgust.

  He cautiously approached the building. His footfalls fell silent upon the sidewalk, hardly stirring the little puddles in his path. The scent of blood became stronger as he approached. He licked his muzzle once, almost as if tasting the scent.

  He stepped into the place, a flash of lightning behind him signaling his entrance. He stopped in the doorway, breathing in the scent of death, of human and werekin alike. He issued a low growl.

  And that’s when a man at the foot of the stairs began to move, and began to scream.

  * * *

  She sat in the back of the van, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular. The laptop computer in front of her became nothing but a blur in her line of vision and her fingers rested idly on the keyboard. Her thoughts raced and she looked up, letting her vision adjust.

  A real fucking werewolf…everyone dead…Davis…

  Claire Hennessy didn’t bother to wipe her tears away. They dried and stiffened her face. A few tiny droplets, however, clung to her lashes. Whenever she blinked, they threatened to fall. She didn’t brush them away either.

  Eric was seated in the front seat, his beefy hands gripping the steering wheel in a death-like vise. The light filtering in from the passing street lamps illuminated his dark skin. The bandage covering his broken nose turned fluorescent beneath the light.

  His companion in the front seat was a man she hardly knew, not that she was buddy-buddy with any of them. Sean was his name and his sandy hair took on more of a blond hue when the light struck him. He spoke quietly into a cellular phone, but Claire wasn’t listening. She stared at the man across from her. Simon.

  It took all her willpower not to visibly sneer at the foul man seated across from her, but she stared at him hatefully. Lucky for her, Simon was not looking at her. His attention was, and had been, focused on the female werewolf they had taken.

  Claire watched her. She seemed lifeless, her head inclined at an angle that was surely painful, with her chin resting on her chest. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in a tangled mess. The boy beside her was pale, his head leaning back. He looked dead.

  Simon, uncharacteristic in his actions, gently pulled her head back, so that she now had the same angle as the boy. She looked pale as well. A blood stain ruined the sleeve of her T-shirt, and a few splotches of it here and there dotted her garments. Her bare feet were caked in it. Claire found herself transfixed by the dried crust of blood around the werewolf’s toes and soles. She looked away.

  Simon’s attention diverted from the woman, and he concentrated on a case in front of him. When it opened, Claire caught a glimpse of hypodermic needles and vials of some sort of liquid. She narrowed her eyes. They looked to her to be tranquilizers. Numbly and mutely she watched as, one by one, Simon filled up the syringes and capped them, neatly replacing them in the case.

  His dark eyes once caught Claire’s, but he didn’t linger any longer. After all, they had gotten what they came for. It had all been accomplished. People were dead now, the girl was in custody, and that was all there was to it.

  A real fucking werewolf…

  A flash of a man transforming into a wolf raced quickly in her mind and Claire dismissed it. She had gone silent, staring now and again at the female werewolf. She had seen one of them change. She had seen a real fucking werewolf.

  But they aren’t real. They can’t be. She didn’t know anymore. There was too much evidence. She wanted to scream for it to stop. It couldn’t be real.

  Yet she couldn’t explain what happened back there.

  No one had escaped unscathed. Eric had a broken nose, and the purple swelling of it caused his normally deep voice to have a nasally quality. Blood was all over his dark shirt. Simon had gotten slashed once or twice across the torso. His shirt was ripped and bloody and the wound beneath h
ad been red and gross. She’d offered to nurse it, as she had Eric’s busted nose, but he had blatantly refused. He tended his own wounds, and now the gauze bandages showed through the tears in his shirt. Even Sean had encountered the slightest of injuries.

  Claire let out a shuddering breath and stared out the van’s windshield, watching the world pass by in a sea of bright lights and asphalt. She closed her eyes.

  Simon had told her what had happened. Davis was dead. The werewolves had gotten to him first, and there was nothing left. Claire had felt a stab of something around her heart and had felt weak in the legs when she heard the news. She hadn’t known Davis well enough, but they had shared confidences with one another. And now he was dead.

  And the way Simon told her with a smirk on his face—he was glad he was dead. No more Davis. No more stupid shit to put up with.

  Claire wanted to cry again. The tears threatened to fall, but she blinked them away. She had cried her tears for the innocent and she had cried her tears for Davis. There was nothing she could do now but move on.

  That’s all I can do, right?

  She found she couldn’t answer her own question. Werewolves weren’t real, but how could she explain what had happened back there, what she had seen with her own two eyes? How could she account for that?

  Maybe she was the crazy one for joining this band, and maybe she should be the one getting her head examined. Right now, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea to Claire.

  She fixed her gaze on Simon once again, but the man wasn’t looking at her. He was silent, brooding, staring at the face of the female next to him, and for once, Claire thought she saw an emotion other than anger, contempt or sarcasm cross his face. She wondered what it was.

  Chapter Two

  Mutely, Simon continued to stare. A slight smile tugged on his lips. Everything was going according to plan. It was within his grasp. She was right here!