Blood Moon

by Rose Marie Wolf

  The hall was eerie in the shadows and very quiet. The only sound was Davis’ slow footsteps and his heavy breathing. He tried to breath softer, but the more he tried, the louder it sounded. His heart thudded in his ears, even louder than his breath.

  There was a door to his right, and he edged near it. He placed one hand on the knob and rested the other on the grip of his gun. He swung the door open, and there was nothing but darkness. He flipped on a light, out of habit, and searched the immaculate bedroom carefully. There was nothing here. Davis exited and let the door close as softly as he could behind him.

  The house groaned and settled around him, and he felt perspiration dripping down the back of his neck and down his temple. It stung his eyes, and he wiped it away with a bloody sleeve.

  There was another door across the hall and he went to it. He opened the door and flipped the light on. It was a bathroom, spotless and empty. He continued down the hall.

  The hall eventually turned a corner, and Davis checked all the rooms along the corridor. All bedrooms, all empty. Nervousness crept into him. He felt cold all over suddenly. He turned the corner.

  The hall broke into a set of stairs several feet away, leading down and out the back. There was one more door, near the top of these stairs. He stopped before he reached it, staring down at the floor. Light spilled from the crack under the door.

  He moved slowly closer to the door, holding out one hand. It was slightly ajar, open only the smallest crack. He pushed it open slowly to peer within, taking a cautious stance, should someone jump at him.

  The door swung back, and Davis saw red.

  Blood covered the walls of the room. It soaked into the carpet. A computer monitor flashed black, blue, black, blue, and the red stood out in splotches along the screen. Papers with the smallest of crimson droplets were spilled and scattered on the floor.

  He could smell the blood this time and it made him sick. He gagged, covering his mouth with his hand. That only made it worse. He could smell his own blood caked on his palm and fingers. He jerked it away with an anguished cry.

  Her body was slumped forward, over the keyboard. A huge gaping hole oozed blood and brain matter at the back of her skull, down her neck. Her back was arched, and Davis could see the bones of her spinal column poking against her T-shirt. Her white-blonde hair was now red with drying blood.

  The smell of it…

  His breath came out in harsh gasps. His hands shook. His entire body quaked and vomit rose in his throat. He gagged again, swallowed it down and tried to force his eyes away. He couldn’t do it. The stink of her blood filled his senses.

  She was dead, undoubtedly. Blood pooled onto her work, dripping in thick, slow drops. It was splattered against her crossed legs. She had never seen it coming.

  Davis watched the blood, sickened and fascinated. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. The blood was so bright. His legs gave out and he sank to the floor, ignoring the harsh pain in his right knee when it came down on the wooden floor of the hall. He couldn’t face it anymore.

  In his mind, he saw a flash of his past. The woman he had murdered and her blood on his hands. The blood along the wall… His eyes followed it now, but it was all in his mind. This wasn’t the right place, this wasn’t the right time…but the blood…

  It was the blood that haunted him.

  He started to scream. It left him before he could stop it.

  Chapter Five

  She watched from the doorway of the warehouse, crossing her arms and leaning against the aluminum plated door. There was hardly a breeze on the air now. It had stopped storming half an hour ago, but moisture still hung in the air. There was a significant chill, but she hardly felt it through her leather jacket. Her breath came out in a fog.

  The security lights burned brightly overhead and made the whole dismal place looked slightly cheerier. At least she could see a bit. The road remained empty and dark, puddles of rainwater slicking the surface until it shone like a black river. All was silent.

  Perfect. She smirked to herself.

  She uncrossed her arms and let the limbs hang down at her side as she began to walk. Gravel crunched under her boots, the light casting a slender shadow along the side of the building.

  The warehouse was surrounded on three sides by dense trees and thickets. The front of the building was clear, holding a wide open area with plenty of parking space. The graveled area extended to the sides and around the back of the place as well. A railroad cut across the forest somewhere in the back, and the trains sounded dangerously close whenever one would pass.

  The road was in the front and across it were even more trees. It was a secluded place, sure enough. The auto parts warehouse shut down years ago and had became a home for the vagabonds and wanderers until the hunters came and made it their hideout.

  She came here occasionally, on dark and quiet nights, to fire a few rounds at the firing range she had designed. Her feet carried her toward the place alongside the building. She watched the trees cautiously.

  Her fingers toyed eagerly with the grip of one of the .45 caliber nickel-plated USP handguns strapped at her thigh. Her fingernails slipped along the shiny metal, flipping off the safety. She drew it from the holster, slowly.

  The suppresser at the tip of the gun extended the barrel and made it a huge thing in her tiny hands. Its weight did not bother her, however, as she lifted it at arm’s length. She stared down the sight, both eyes open, focusing on a painted target several hundred feet away.

  One last time, she checked the roadway and found it clear, and then settled on her target. A wry smile moved over her painted lips. It was light enough for her to see the outline of the bright red circles and the white clearly between them. She lined them up in her sight and took aim.

  The phone in her jacket pocket began to ring.

  “Fuck!” she exclaimed. The cell phone’s shrill tone ruined the perfect setting and the woman lowered her pistol, replacing it in the holster. She grabbed the phone from her pocket and silenced the ring tone.

  “What is it now, Sean?” she demanded angrily. She perched one hand on her hip, head inclined to the side as she waited for a response.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” a familiar male voice spoke. “No need to rip out my throat.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart skipped a beat.

  “Oh, Simon. It’s you.” she answered breathlessly. He spoke again before she had a chance to apologize.

  “We’re about twenty minutes away. Is everything ready?” His voice was husky. She shivered.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. Good.” He seemed distant, his voice fading. She knotted her eyebrows together. She crossed one arm over her chest, drumming her fingers along a crease in her jacket. She grew impatient.

  “Is that all?” she finally asked. There was some noise in the background, and she listened carefully. A woman said something and a man laughed, deep and boisterous. It sounded like Eric. She smirked to herself. Some shared joke no doubt. Or maybe they were just making fun of Claire.

  “Yes, Alana, that’s all,” Simon finally answered. He paused. “We had a bit of a…incident.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrow rose, slightly.

  “Yes.” Another pause, then he gave an exasperated sigh. She knew him well enough by the tone of his voice and the way he spoke that he was not pleased. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he was glaring at someone. “She woke up from the tranquilizer and caused a commotion in the back. It’s under control now, no thanks to anyone here.”

  She didn’t hear the last few words. A loud buzzing filled her ears, an angry swarm in her mind. A cold shock swept over her body while warmth filled her face and head.

  She?

  She couldn’t hold her tongue. “She who, Simon?”

  There was a deep chuckle. Alana had lowered her arm to her side, clenching her fist. Her fingernails dug into her palm. The buzzing grew louder and she could hardly hear the words.

  “What,
Sean didn’t mention that to you? We’re bringing a few captives from the PRDI place. Make sure there’s a room ready for them. Secured,” he added. “We’re gonna need it.”

  “Who is she, Simon?” Her voice had an irritated edge to it. Her head swam, and she made a little scoffing noise. “Why do you need her?”

  Simon never answered her questions. He seemed disinterested now and was bringing the conversation to a close. He spoke quickly.

  “We’ve just entered the town. We’ll be there soon. The place better be ready.”

  The phone went dead and Alana pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the callback number on the screen in mute upset. Her mouth dropped open slightly.

  Fucking prick, she thought bitterly as she put the phone away. Her breath came out in quick, hard gasps. They turned into a fog, dissipating quickly in the chilled air. Bringing some werewolf bitch here…

  Alana didn’t know who she was or just why he was bringing her here, but she did know one thing. She wasn’t about to let her get in the way. Not this bitch, not Claire, no one.

  He was hers.

  She removed the USP from its holster again and held it ready. Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. She lined the target again. On a second thought, she lowered the gun, removed the silencer and tossed it aside. She wanted to make some noise for once. She lifted the gun again.

  “Fuck him,” she said aloud. “Fuck all of them.”

  She fired an entire clip into the target, the sound clapping like thunder in the silence. Its echoes shook through the trees.

  Alana brought the smoking gun down, staring at the target. Numerous bullet holes had torn its way through the center of the bull’s-eye. She smirked as she returned the gun to its proper place and retrieved her silence. Then she turned and headed back toward the door, gravel once more crunching under her feet.

  She felt just a little bit better.

  * * *

  He didn’t trust him. Glen listened to the footfalls upstairs and held his breath. He had no choice. He would have to trust him.

  He listened a moment longer and, when the footsteps gave no indication of a quickened pace, let out his breath in a deep sigh. He pulled himself away from the wall he had slumped against and continued down the hall. Bloody footprints led the way to a partially opened door. The scent was coppery and strong.

  The body of a dead hunter leaned against the wall. His blood was drying to a dull crimson on the floor. His eyes were frozen in a stare of terrible fear. There was a large and still wet blood spot on the front of his shirt and down the crotch of his pants.

  Glen forced his gaze away and stepped over the man’s outstretched leg. The damage out here was bad enough, and he really didn’t want to see inside. But he had to.

  Upstairs he could hear Davis as he crept down the hall. Glen inclined his head to listen more closely. His eyes strayed from the blood-splattered door and followed the length of the hall. The ancient weapons on the far wall hovered menacingly over the scene. Something seemed odd about it, and he remembered all the times he had studied that wall as a child. Looking at it now, he knew what was wrong with the display. Something was missing.

  He didn’t need to ponder what had happened. He was already picturing it in his mind, Jason removing one of the swords and using it to take down hunter after hunter. The dead hunter at his feet was a sure testimonial to that. The wounds had looked like they had been afflicted by some blade. Glen smirked at the thought despite the grim situation.

  He had always told Jason he must’ve been a warrior in a past life, and now he was certain of that. A depressing thought entered Glen’s mind. Where was Jason? Was he still alive?

  The footsteps above him fell silent and Glen began to think on other things. He had so many question and no answers. Davis had been no help.

  Recognizing the distinct odor of werekin was something every werewolf could do, to some degree. Glen knew half-bloods possessed less of the ability and scent, and that full-bloods, in close proximity to others, could usually sniff out their own kind. He knew the scent well enough to know Davis was somehow one of them.

  But how? Glen puzzled over this, stepping away from the door and prolonging his search. At first glance, Davis appeared unbitten and unscratched. He was untainted. But the open wounds and the blood, perhaps there had been a chance of infection.

  He stood before the weapons wall, his gaze slowly moving over the broadswords and daggers in front of him.

  If a werewolf had bled and the blood had come in contact with an open wound…but that couldn’t be it. His were-scent was stronger than that of a changed-blood. Had he been born a half-blood?

  But there it was. Davis, a hunter and unknowing werewolf, was his only link to finding out what happened to the others and why Rose and Aidan were missing. He wanted to know why they had killed everyone here. He wanted to know why they had killed his family.

  There was something about the leader, Simon or whatever his name was. He could not be entirely human. He remembered facing off with the man, how he moved too fast for a normal human and his scent…

  Was Davis covering it up? Did he really know the truth behind it all? Werewolves as hunters, hunting werewolves? Something was not right. There had to be an explanation.

  Glen exhaled sharply and stared down once he felt a warm wetness on his hands. He had clenched his fists tightly in his reverie and blood now oozed from the cracks of his fingers. His sharpened fingernails were embedded in his flesh. It was a horrible habit, one that was caused by intense anger and emotion, and he let go. Blood dripped from his palm to the floor and the scent of blood in the PRDI grew fresh again.

  He could not let his anger win. He took a few breaths and counted to calm himself, a technique the PRDI had taught him from a young age. He would not be the mindless monster of rage. He was not a beast.

  Slowly, the calm washed over him and his hands grew relaxed. There was nothing he could do now with his anger. There were others to find. Jason and four PRDI members were still unaccounted for. There would be enough time later for anger and justice.

  As if returning from a trance, Glen turned to the door and hesitated no longer. He stretched out his hand, his fingertips touching the dried yet still sticky blood splattered on the door. He pushed it open the rest of the way.

  It creaked as he did so and the room was revealed. It was worse than Glen had imagined. The scents of death, blood and werekin hit him. The familiar scent of Gavin Newark, PRDI member and mentor, was strongest of all. There was another familiar scent that shocked Glen because he hadn’t expected it.

  Jason was here.

  Blood reddened the carpet and created a grim centerpiece in the death-room. Furniture was overturned, the hangings from the bed shredded on the floor. The room was dark, but thanks to his were-blood, he could see as well as in day. He wished it weren’t so.

  Gavin’s body was the first he spotted. The wounds had been deep and fatal, and had struck vital organs before his full-blood healing could even begin. He had been taken totally unaware, startled out of his sleep. Glen noted the way his body laid. He had stumbled from the bed and met his fate with a volley of bullets before falling back. His blood pooled around him.

  Again, anger welled in him and Glen breathed deeply to calm it. The metallic stench of blood assailed him. Once his rage disappeared, he turned his gaze back.

  “I’ll help destroy those that did this to you, to us,” Glen whispered as he approached and knelt beside the body. His trembling hand touched Gavin’s forehead. He was cold. Gently, he moved his hand over the eyelids of the ever-frozen stare and closed them. “I promise.”

  There was a short moment of quiet reflection, out of respect for Gavin, before Glen stood and searched again. Jason’s body lay several feet away. He was naked, lying on his side, away from Glen. His blood and were-scent grew stronger as Glen approached.

  “Fuck,” he breathed and crouched down. Glen reached out and gripped Jason's shoulder. His eyebrows fur
rowed. The skin was chilled, but not cold. There was still a bit of warmth. He was alive. He was still breathing.

  Jason was alive.

  A scream broke the silence and Glen sprang back and to his feet before he could do anything else. His gun was immediately in his hand. The anguished cry continued.

  Davis.

  Calling upon his preternatural speed, Glen threw himself out of the room. He turned down the hall, vaulted over the railing onto the middle of the staircase. At the top, he nearly tripped over a fallen and blood-crusted katana. He recognized it as the one missing from the wall. He ignored it. He hurdled over the dead hunter in the hall and was at the source of scream in a matter of moments.

  Davis was on his knees, hands clenched tightly at his sides. His screams had become sobs, racking his entire body. He shook terribly.

  Glen edged closer to him, gun still drawn. Davis had not noticed him yet. He was staring forward and into the room. Tears streamed down his red face. Saliva drooled from his bottom lip. Glen started at him in disgust and then lifted his gaze.

  The slaughter before him made his stomach leap. It flipped over as nausea overcame him. Again he smelled the blood and death.

  Mary Robbins, a former colleague of his, was askew over the computer. It was her blood that decorated the wall and it was her lifeless body Davis stared at. She hadn’t stood a chance either. Another surprise attack had taken her off-guard.

  Glen lowered his gun and took two steps forward until he was just behind Davis. There were no more sobs coming from the man now, but his shoulders still trembled. Glen stepped around him, making his presence known, and entered the room.

  Papers were everywhere on the floor. They rustled in the chilled breeze from a fan in the corner. A fine blood spray obscured the computer monitor, its screen continuously flashing. Ignoring Davis for the moment, Glen bent and picked up several sheets of the bloodied paper. Its ink was smeared with red, but he could still make out most of the words. It had been her research. He gathered the rest of the fallen papers and stood, looking at Davis.