Moon of Fire (The Blood Pack Trilogy #1)

by H. D. Gordon

  “I don’t want you to hurt them,” she said.

  I blinked at her innocently. “And I’ve no intention of doing so.”

  Delia’s lips pursed slightly in a skeptical manner, and one side of my mouth pulled up in a half smile.

  “They’re idiots,” Delia said. “And ignorant… but they’re just kids.”

  Though I didn’t let it show, I was taken aback a bit at the fact that the reputation I’d developed had not been lost on my twelve-year-old sister.

  I nodded. “I know. Which is why you should have no trouble believing me when I say I have no intention of hurting them. I don’t harm children.”

  Delia’s dark eyes narBowied. “Or their families.”

  I sniffed, running a hand under my nose before returning it to my jacket pocket. “Well, now, kids are products of their families.”

  “Dita, please.”

  My jaw clenched as we approached one of the rundown shacks on the edge of The Mound, and joined up with a couple of the other neighborhood kids so that they could walk with our group to the schoolhouse in Borden. Their mothers were there, and they waved and thanked me for escorting the kids, as they did every morning.

  I knew from the look in their eyes that they were afraid of me, that they had heard things about me that would make most think twice before sending their little ones off to school with me, but I gave the same tight-lipped smile and single nod I gave every weekday, and we were on our way. The Mound was a dangerous place to outsiders, but for the most part, we looked after our own. And despite their socio-economic station, the other mothers knew that the true monsters were the business males in their fine clothes and fancy carriages. We would pass by their mansions on our way to the school, and it was not unheard of for young Wolves from the slums to go missing in those parts, taken and never to be seen again.

  So the mothers might think me a vagrant, a violent Wolf with a reputation for brutal and ambitious exploits, but they also knew that their children would make it to their lessons if I walked alongside them.

  Unlike the males in suits, after all, I was the monster they knew, born and raised in the same slums in which they were rearing their children.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Delia, my thoughts coming back to the conversation at hand. “I’m just going to have a talk with them… The names?”

  Delia bit her lip and told me.

  Chapter 4

  After dropping the children off at the schoolhouse, which sat on the edge of the small town serving the large swaths of open land making up the Southlands, I headed deeper into the gathering of squat and ugly buildings.

  The Zouri, a wide, muddy river that cut through the landmass all the way to the Northern Territory, flanked the western side of the town, and cast a perpetual fog over the area. Goods and people were transported down the river daily, and large steam-engine boats could be spotted sailing off in either direction at most hours.

  The Zouri was the source of what relatively little wealth was gathered here. The merchants, sailors, and ship workers were a step above the people who dwelled in the slums, but no where near as “fortunate” as the handful of supernaturals who owned the boats, wares, and people who came and went.

  The town, known as Borden, after the prominent Wolf family that had largely built and still ran the area, was made entirely of red brick, mortar, and concrete, with dusty streets that turned dreadfully muddy in the rain, and a market where local merchants gathered at the end of the week to sell food, clothing, and other goods from rolling carts and out of the backs of wagons.

  The spaces in between were filled with old flats no one I knew personally could afford, and many sat empty as a result. My father insisted that when he was a young pup, these apartments had been held by middle class people of all races, but as wages remained stagnant, the people had slowly been forced out, and the flats had been renovated into luxury spaces with rent that was triple the original amount.

  Now, many of those well-to-do families lived in slums like The Mound, their heads spinning about just how they’d gotten there and why it was so damn hard to get out.

  These were questions with answers that I didn’t fully have, but had quietly made it my mission to obtain them. I figured that if I wanted to pull my family out of the crippling poverty that had accompanied us all our lives, I should probably know how we’d ended up there in the first place.

  In the meantime, as always, there was business to attend to.

  The day was warmer than it had been these previous weeks, the whisper of fall clinging hopelessly to the air. Large, gray puffs of steam from the boats traversing the Zouri could be seen drifting over the rooftops, soon to disappear amongst the clouds. The sky was a shade of cornflower blue I knew well, along with the scent of animal feces and mud that always hung around the banks of the large river, thanks to the horses that also brought travelers to and fro by land.

  The dirt road I was walking on led onto the dirt street bisecting the town, taking me past a few storefronts and vendors who took one look at me and pretended to be suddenly very interested in other things. I could never be sure if it was the perpetual hard-eyed indifference I’d adopted out of necessity over the years, or if my minor reputation was beginning to precede me. Maybe it was both.

  The fog rolling off the water was thick this morning, hanging low over the dusty streets and obscuring the shop windows and building edifices. One of the large steamboats blasted its horn, and a group of fat pigeons took flight as if they were offended, causing some horses that were tied up near a trough to whinny and shake their heads. I kept on with my swift but easy pace, my boots collecting dust as I moved down the street, my hips swaying with the weight of the revolvers strapped and hidden around them.

  At the edge of the town, nestled close to the docks serving the Zouri, was the area known as The Row. Here, one could find all manner of things, both needed and unnecessary. Lining the street were small inns and eateries, gambling dens and speakeasies, where one could obtain the alcohol, Wolfsbane or any other manner of indulgence that the government was currently trying to prohibit. Seer-sanctioned magic kept the ornate blue street lamps burning at all hours, the orange flames casting a glow over the place that made shadows appear to dance along the cobblestone ground and walls of the buildings.

  The structures here were mostly concrete, and older than the nicer remodeled buildings in other parts of Borden, but they held a stately façade thanks to the craftsmanship of their architecture. A couple hundred years ago, Borden had been a port that supernaturals all around the world stopped at, and this had brought many artists to the area. The stone gargoyles and three-story high murals adorning the buildings were remnants of their influence, and this, along with the sanctioned use of magic, had kept the town alive all these years.

  If one was a smart Wolf, The Row was where one could make quick money and valuable but dangerous acquaintances. If one was not smart, The Row was where one might end up dead.

  As always, I monitored my surroundings discretely but thoroughly. I passed the flickering lampposts, their orange glow doing little to pierce the fog rolling in off the Zouri. A few more blocks took me to an alley with an old wooden door leading into the building on my right hand side.

  I knocked thrice, and after a few moments, a slat opened and dark eyes appeared through the space. I raised my brows at the viewer expectantly, and the door opened up.

  “Morning, Dita,” said Bowie, the short, pudgy Wolf that was always on the door at this time of day.

  I inclined my head in greeting as Bowie ushered me inside. The interior of the building was much less impressive than the outside. It opened into a small space with a stool, on which Bowie stood to peer out at any visitors. The space was always dimly lit and smelled strongly of booze, tobacco, and other substances. This past week the Hounds had raided the place, but regardless of the scents, had found nothing but a smiling Bowie and an older Wolf sweeping the dark and stained wooden floor.

  Bowie’s mustach
e twitched as he looked up at me from his shorter height, despite the fact that I was not a tall female, but rather, of average stature. “I’m sorry, Dita, but I need to check you before I can let you in.”

  I unbuttoned the silver buttons on the lower part of my jacket, revealing the revolvers at my waist. “This is all I’m carrying,” I said.

  Bowie nodded, taking the guns and locking them in a cabinet on the side of the small room before giving me a look that said, Rules are rules.

  Sure, I thought. Unless you’re the one who makes them.

  Holding my arms out at my sides, I allowed Bowie to pat me down from ankle to chest, making sure to give him a deadpan I-will-kill-you stare to remind him to keep his touching respectful. He only grinned sheepishly up at me.

  Once the doorkeeper was reasonably satisfied that the small dagger he found in my boot—I’d just shrugged upon his discovery—was the only other weapon I was carrying, he took a key from the ring on his belt and opened the interior door.

  As soon as the door opened, the odors intensified. It was still early morning, noontime a good handful of hours off, and so the darkened tavern was mostly deserted. With a small hitch in my heart, I spotted the man I’d come to meet sitting at the bar, and went to claim the seat beside him.

  The bartender, a Wolf with a bad complexion and bald head, asked without words what I’d like to drink, but a shake of my head had him returning to the other end of the bar to continue polishing glasses.

  “You don’t partake in the poison, Miss Silvers?” asked my companion. His voice was low and deep, that of an undeniable alpha.

  I rested my hands on the bar and replied, “I’ve never made it a habit, no.”

  He looked over at me for the first time since I’d entered, and from this angle, I could see the scar that ran down the side of his face, from ear to jawbone, but was careful not to stare.

  “I suppose that’s a mark in your favor,” he said.

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  He didn’t laugh at this, but I thought maybe he almost smiled. In all the years I’d observed him from afar, I’d never seen Lukas Borden laugh.

  “Do you have something for me?” he asked.

  I reached into my pocket and removed a small, corked vial filled with clear liquid. I set it on the bar between us. Our stools were close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. Lukas picked up the vial, uncorked it, and took a sniff. His brown eyes flicked over to me and his head tilted.

  I shrugged, though I was as nervous as a rabbit in a snare. I calmed myself with the thought that if he really thought I was crazy enough to try to poison him, he wouldn’t have taken this meeting with me in the first place. But that didn’t stop my palms from growing a tad sweaty under that calculating stare.

  After a moment, he winked at me as though his hesitation were only a joke, and tipped the vial up to his lips. He sucked at his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them to look at the empty vial clutched between his thumb and forefinger.

  “That’s good moonshine,” he admitted after a final smack of his lips. His gaze flicked to me again and held. “Dare I ask how you came across it?”

  “No,” I replied.

  His eyebrows shot up at my bluntness, and I mentally checked myself. Lukas Borden was not some Wolf from the slums. He was not a male used to being spoken to in such a way. And definitely not by a female.

  “What matters is that I can get more of it,” I added. “And in a much more timely manner than the shipments from overseas.”

  “So it’s manufactured nearby, then?”

  I just held his stare.

  Lukas smirked and turned in his stool to actually face me. I could feel him assessing me, the shape of my body and the lines of my face, my lips. I pretended—as every female learns to early on in life—that his roaming gaze was not discomforting, that it did not feel like an unwanted hand trailing over my skin.

  “All right,” he said, after what I was sure was a longer assessment than he gave his potential male suppliers, “Thirty barrels by the end of the week. Can you deliver?”

  I nodded. I had fifty barrels already waiting, but there was no reason to tell him that. I stood to leave, but he stopped me with an arm on my wrist.

  I was just barely able to keep the growl from rippling up my throat, but somehow managed. Even more difficult was keeping my eyes from flaring Wolf-gold, my hands from clenching into fists. Entitled males had always flipped a switch in me, and in response to their behavior, I’d often gotten myself into serious trouble.

  So I restrained myself from lashing out at the son of the most powerful Wolf this side of the Zouri. I only looked down at where his hand was still gripping my wrist, and then met the brown of his gaze with the cold steel in mine.

  “I’ve heard stories about you, Dita,” Lukas murmured. “They say you are cunning… and cruel. It’s the former that concerns me.”

  I resisted the urge to tell him that it should be the latter.

  “You should hear the things they say about you,” I whispered instead, and let one side of my mouth curve up in a half smile.

  That smirk returned to his face, but the look behind his eyes was not lost on me. Here was a Wolf who was used to absolute control and power, a male with a reputation for violence that went far beyond mine.

  And, if I was not mistaken, that was also lust behind his brown eyes, an emotion I feared more than any anger from such a male, though I would never in a million moons have admitted it.

  He released my wrist slowly, and I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets to keep from rubbing at the sore spots where his fingers had begun to dig in, making sure to hold his stare. Any sign of submission would be seen as a weakness.

  When the silence went on a little too long, I said, “You have nothing to worry about from me, Mr. Borden.”

  Lukas quirked one dark brow before blinking slowly and turning back toward the bar, resting his beefy arms atop it.

  I had no trouble recognizing the dismissal, and took this as my cue to leave, skirting past Bowie on my way out with a nod after reclaiming my weapons.

  I also didn’t miss the fact that Lukas Borden had not bothered to offer me any sort of similar assurance.

  It wouldn’t have mattered if he did, because we both knew it would have been a lie.

  Chapter 5

  Stepping out of the alley and back onto the street, I was finally able to breathe again, and the revolvers were a welcome weight once again around my hips.

  Putting up a strong front was necessary, but I was under no illusion about the kinds of Wolves I would soon be dealing with, if all went according to plan.

  If I could be considered dangerous, Wolves like Lukas Borden were downright deadly.

  I tucked these thoughts away for later as I strolled along The Row, which was quiet with the early hour. Come nightfall, Wolves and Vampires and various other creatures would crawl out of whatever crevices they’d stuffed themselves into for the previous evening and come in search of substances, socialization, and entertainment. Working ladies would stroll up the cobblestone lane that bordered the river in tight, revealing clothing and made up faces. Hustlers would lurk in the shadows and around the corners, trying to sell whatever valuables they’d managed to get their hands on. The moon would rise, reflecting silver in the waters of the Zouri, occasionally obscured by passing clouds. In a certain barn at the end of one dock, Wolves would fight in the metal cage known as The Ring—not to the death, as their ancestors once had, though accidents were certainly prone to happen—so that more fortunate people could place bets on the fighters and stave off boredom for another night.

  For now, however, there was only the sound of moving water as the Zouri carried on in its usual way, the shouts of dockworkers, and the occasional whistle of a steamboat’s horn. It was here that I would spend a good portion of my day, watching who and what came and went, who met with whom, and gathering other information that may or may not at some point be useful.r />
  “Mornin’, Miss Dita,” said Leon, as he hobbled down a dock near me, grin on his weathered face.

  I tipped my head to the Leprechaun. “Morning, Leon,” I said.

  “Heard yer girl did pretty good in The Ring last night,” he replied with a grin and raised brows, his voice the higher, whinier pitch that his kind were known for, his accent as heavy as the gut that hung over the buckle of his pants. “Ye place a good amount on her?” he asked.

  “I placed enough.”

  Leon chuckled. “Ye sure have an eye fer the fighters…” His dark green eyes gleamed as he looked up at me. “Got any tips ye wanna share?”

  I slid my hands into my jacket pockets, where they rested easily over the guns at my waist. “I would ask the same of you, friend.”

  Leon’s face grew serious, and I kept my own neutral in preparation of whatever news he was going to deliver. This was why I always stopped by the docks in the mornings; the people who worked here never missed a thing. Particularly the little Leprechauns who worked on the ships.

  “I heard Ezra Ikers was askin’ fer ye,” Leon said.

  My eyebrows rose as I absently toyed with the metal of one of the revolvers beneath the fabric of my pocket. “That so?” I asked.

  Leon nodded, his plain face grave. “Cora told me last night, while we were…” He grinned, revealing a mouth of gold-fronted teeth as his tongue darted out over his thick lips. “Ye know.”

  I gave him a droll look. “Cora was talking about me while you two were in bed?”

  Leon choked out a laugh, and looked at me like I was a heathen. I offered a tight-lipped smile back to him.

  “Maybe it was after,” Leon said. “Anyway, ye wanna know what she said er not?”

  I glanced around to make sure we weren’t being overheard, and spread a hand, telling him to get on with it.

  Leon leaned forward, and I had to resist the urge to lean back. I’d used the term “friend” in addressing him, but we both knew that wasn’t quite the case. What we had was more of a mutually beneficial acquaintance. Leprechauns, as far as I knew them, did not make friends.