Blood Moon

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Blood Moon Page 8

by KB Anne


  When no one answers, I return to my work.

  * * *

  Invulnerability, aggression, and superhuman strength and speed are typical werewolf traits that carry over to human form. Highly loyal to their pack and leader, they can prove to be invaluable allies. Curses can be placed on werewolves when in human form to force obedience to a “master,” similar to a household dog.

  * * *

  The author views werewolves as tools to be used and manipulated. No one should be forced to carry out another’s purpose. And while I’m well aware that the Original Werewolf wants to kill me, no one deserves to live under subjugation. Free will makes us human.

  * * *

  Werewolves can be created in a variety of ways. The most common and well-known method of transformation comes from the bite of another werewolf. This type of werewolf is the most vulnerable to death by the silver bullet or silver dagger, but it’s will is the easiest to control.

  * * *

  The night Ryan first came to my room, he didn’t know what he was doing there. He was surprised to find himself in my room. But his words that night will forever be etched in my brain: “I am not your son. There is only one that rules me. I will be your slave no longer.” That wasn’t Ryan speaking. Did Clayone manipulate him into attacking me? Gram and Mark were under the impression that Clayone’s weakness kept him locked in that church until the full moon, which was the night Ryan attacked. So wouldn’t he have been too weak to manipulate Ryan that first night? And Ryan couldn’t have found his way back up to the church. He would have said something to me or Scott. So then who was the “only one” Ryan was talking about?

  As I return to the picture, the eyes of the wolf no longer fill me with terror. Clayone might want to kill me, but this wolf is human. Ryan was human.

  * * *

  Only individuals with a strong background in witchcraft should attempt the second method of transformation. On the night of a full moon on either a solstice or a Sabbat, tie an individual to a marble alter. Slice his wrists to rid him of most of his blood. Inject a vial of werewolf blood into his veins. The timing is crucial. If the victim retains too much of his own blood, the change may not occur. If the victim loses too much blood, he may die, unless injected with large quantities of werewolf blood. When this happens, death may still be the result. Decide if the victim is worth the quantity of werewolf blood needed to save his life. The younger the participant, the more obedient the werewolf will be to its creator.

  * * *

  The gruesome guide to werewolf creation is absolutely fascinating.

  * * *

  Beware that werewolves with injected blood, especially those with large quantities, can be highly volatile and participate in extremely self-destructive behaviors. They tend to be difficult to control, but their heightened aggression and strength often make up for their poor self-restraint.

  * * *

  I turn back to the beginning of the book in search of a title page, but none exists. Morbid curiosity and a glutton for punishment keep me reading. My own strain of shock therapy.

  * * *

  The third type of werewolf is the most obedient. It is extremely powerful, nearly impossible to kill, and the most difficult to create. Planning, preparation, and timing are key elements to success. The full moon, on either a solstice or Sabbat, is ideal for intercourse when the werewolf is in wolf form. A willing female participant who is a witch is preferred but not fundamental to success. Spellbinding and hypnosis are two common methods of persuasion if the female participant is reluctant. Hypnosis has the additional effect of keeping the female in a coma-like state for the duration of the pregnancy, which lasts for nine months. The birthing process always results in death.

  * * *

  Becoming increasingly uneasy with the contents of the book, I glance through the scrawled notes in the margin.

  Restraint of the werewolf during creation must be used to ensure the life of the consort.

  The more powerful the werewolf, the more powerful the offspring.

  Werewolves often form packs with an alpha male as their leader, similar to wolves in the natural world. Occasionally, lower order members vie for power. The alpha must dominate the aggressor through a demonstration of strength. If the aggressor does not submit to the alpha, death is normally the outcome for either the assailant or the leader.

  Werewolves possess voracious sexual appetites. On the night of a full moon, they are known to take multiple partners. Three to four nights preceding the full moon, their sexual arousal increases dramatically. During this time, most werewolves are incapable of curbing their sexual appetite.

  What began as a “How-To Guide for Werewolf Creation” has turned into “Facts about Sex with Werewolves,” which I suppose if I wanted to have sex with a werewolf would be useful, but since the Original one wants to kill me, learning insider tricks is not especially helpful. Unless of course it reveals some way I can stay alive, which would be awesome. Mostly it’s downright disturbing, and coming from me, that should say something.

  18

  Discoveries and Strangers

  “Gigi, there you are!” Dad rushes over to me. “We’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  My head feels like I spent the night at a rave. “Huh?”

  “We’ve been searching everywhere for you. We suspected you would come to the library, but it doesn’t open until 8:00 a.m.”

  My eyes feel like the sandman had his way with them. “No, it’s open all night. Carman showed me around. She’s a follower of Brigit.”

  “Gigi, there’s no one named Carman who works here. I personally know all the employees.”

  “Maybe she was hired when you were gone. All I know is that there’s a woman named Carman who showed me around last night. Here, look at the stack of books she brought me.”

  He studies the pile. “Dear, why would she give you these books to read?”

  “I don’t know. I told her I dreamt about a book, and she said books we dream about are very powerful. She gave me these, then went to bed. What’s the big deal?”

  “Most of these books deal with the Dark Arts of Witchcraft. Any dedicated follower stays far away from these books. Is this all of them?” He watches me, ready to discover the truth even if it means studying my body language for the hint of a lie.

  After a cursory glance, I nod my head. As his attention shifts back to the books, I nonchalantly look around my seat. The largest volume—the one with the map and the werewolf how-to—is gone, but I’m not going to draw attention to its disappearance or open myself up to the Amorin/Dad inquisition about the book.

  Amorin lifts a stack. “Did you find the book you were looking for?”

  His eyes seem hungry to me. Immediately my guard goes back up.

  “I didn’t. How old is this cathedral?”

  “It was built around 1223 AD for defense as well as worship. The original castle was built around 450 AD. Only the foundation, a few walls, and the tower remain. The rest was destroyed.”

  That must be the castle on the map.

  “Through the centuries, Kildare fell victim to numerous invasions and shifts of power. Most of the town has been rebuilt numerous times. Eventually the invaders, namely the Catholics, realized how dedicated the Celts were to Brigit. In an attempt to convert as many pagan Celts as possible to Christianity, Brigit was brought into the church as a Saint,” he says, but instead of reverence to Brigit I note a bitterness in his gentle voice.

  In the shadows of a hallway, Carman watches us. I’m not sure why, but I decide to keep that information to myself.

  “Can you take me to the original ruins?”

  * * *

  The fresh morning air of Ireland fills me with energy. It normally takes me two or three espressos made from the dregs of the carafe at the Quikmart to feel so awake. As we walk across the grass, the largest tree I’ve ever seen sprawls across the field. It’s long-reaching branches touch the earth, the sky, and the horizon. Several scrap
s of paper fly into my hand. All I need to do is make a fist to catch them.

  “What is that tree?” I ask in wonder.

  Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “That, dear Gigi, is Brigit’s Tree. Pagans and Christian’s alike flock to the tree every year and ask for Brigit’s favor in blessing them.”

  I open the worn notes I caught.

  “Dearest Brigit, please honor me with a baby. I promise to be a loving and caring mother. Love, Amy.”

  “Brigit, Goddess of Fertility, please bless my child now and always with your love and protection. Dedicated to you always, Jen.”

  Amorin rests his warm hands beneath mine as I cradle the wishes. “Brigit is the Goddess of Fertility of Land, Animals, and People. Women pray to her for assistance in pregnancy and childbirth or for the blessing of fertility.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I whisper. A new yoke of pressure forms on my shoulders. Any more and my neck will snap.

  Suddenly, a warm breeze envelops me. The scent of lavender and lemongrass pervade it. A small purple butterfly dances on the breeze. Leaving my troubles behind, I skip across the field after it. The ground bounces with my every step, inviting me to join in on the fun, but all too soon, hard, unforgiving stone replaces the softness, and I find myself in what must be the ruins. Tall, lichen-covered, tumbledown stone walls surround me. A fleeting sense of déjà vu leaves me with the irresistible urge to pull up a particular carved flat brown stone in the floor, but it’s something I must do by myself.

  “Is there something you remember?” Dad asks, hunching over to catch his breath. Amorin trails in a few seconds later.

  “No, nothing. I was trying to catch the butterfly.”

  Sadness fills his eyes, but I don’t want to give him false hope. I am not Brigit. There are merely things I know.

  Heavy footsteps stomp behind me. Amorin’s and Dad’s eyes round. For a fleeting moment, I’m terrified it’s Clayone, but then I realize it’s the middle of the day, and we’re in the new moon phase. Turning cautiously, I find myself face to face with a large hairy brown cow. I stumble backward in shock. The cow follows me, getting close enough that I can see air steam out of its nostrils. Close enough that its long pink tongue sticks out and licks my face.

  “Ewww, gross!”

  The only reply I receive is, “Mooooooo,” before getting another sloppy sandpaper kiss from a second cow who appears before me.

  Dad and Amorin have a right jolly chuckle.

  “Gigi, Brigit had two pet cows that followed her everywhere during her time at Kildare. Through the many years of turmoil and assault on the Cathedral, descendants of the cows have remained.”

  I nod my head, acknowledging Amorin’s words but remain silent. For once, I’m glad Scott’s not around. He’d have a field day. Pet cows—seriously?

  19

  Love Bites For Reals

  Life in Ireland bites. Or, to be more clear, my life in Ireland bites. Pouring over musty old books that make me sneeze (because I’m allergic to either ancient knowledge or antique mold) makes for a real drag on life.

  The countdown to the Super Blue Blood Moon lunar eclipse approaches, and we aren’t any closer to figuring out how to stop Clayone than we were a month ago. Honestly, at this point, without Gram, Lizzie, and Ryan—even without Scott—I’m ready for Clayone to have his way with me and be done with it. Which I know is crazy talk, but if I don’t find some action soon, I’ll go insane. Certifiably insane.

  My only fun revolves around hanging out at the mound on that map, which is some raised lump of dirt too uniform to be a natural land formation but too far removed from any signs of civilization to be man-made. Unless, of course, it’s a freak of nature, which would explain why I like it so much.

  But today it bores me too. I mean, I’m ready to give in and die at the hands of the Original Werewolf, so logically my afternoon reflection times aren’t enlightening me to a greater purpose other than becoming doggie kibble. By four o’clock, I’m ready to torch the place. As thoughts of gasoline and matches swirl around my head, I leave the mound behind and wander the green hills of the countryside in search of something, anything, to entertain my mind. Somewhere along the way, the path shifts from worn grass to cobblestones. The cottages, once spread out and infrequent, begin to butt up next to each other. In the far-off distance, the faint hum of music draws me to it, the moth to the flame. I wind through streets, wandering deeper into Kildare. As the music grows louder, I move faster. I need to escape for a little while.

  I need to escape forever.

  My backpack is on the dresser back at Amorin’s, but I’m not worried. I know how to get what I want, and what I want is to get into the club. My leather jacket provides automatic sex appeal, but that, too, is hanging in the closet at Amorin’s. Since coming to Ireland, my mind’s been too preoccupied to think about going out on the town. But here, now, I’m ready for action. I unzip my hoodie to reveal the cleavage. It doesn’t always work for free drinks, but it always works to get into the club. The bouncer gives me the once-over before tilting his head at the red door. Someone scrawled “Welcome to the Devil’s Den” on a chalkboard, and I know I’ve come to the right place.

  The outside looks like all the other storefronts—brick walls, awning, and one large window—but the inside opens up into an endless cavern of badass music and kick-ass dancing. Immediately, I throw my arms out and thrash to the music. It’s like coming home, and I know I’ve found my place. And this time I don’t need to catch a ride with a stranger, steal someone’s car for the evening, or get a driver. I can walk here.

  As I surrender to the music, a nameless partner moves with me. Tall. Dark. Beautiful.

  Our bodies don’t touch, but there’s no space between us. The outline of his face is barely visible in the darkness. But I feel like I’ve known him before. I feel like I’ve known him forever. Song after song we remain together.

  Heat.

  Movement.

  No end.

  No beginning.

  He’s all I want. He’s all I need.

  We fall into a familiar rhythm.

  The heat, skin temperature. I remember it all.

  Sweet escape.

  Sweet nothingness.

  20

  Green Eyes and Scones

  My pounding head reminds me of last night’s foray. I quietly groan as I bring my hand to my head, hoping, for once, I’ve been blessed with a healing touch. After a few minutes I realize I’ve no such luck. In fact, now it feels like ice picks are stabbing into my brain. All the coven believes I am Brigit, Goddess of Healing, but here I am causing damage to myself. I groan again, pulling the covers over my head, returning back to a wonderful cocoon state.

  “Rough night last night?” laughs an unfamiliar male voice with a thick Irish accent.

  I sit up, searching for the source, but the curtains are drawn, and there’s nothing but darkness and shadow. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “You don’t remember me? We seemed to get along quite well last night,” he laughs again. A white crooked smile flashes out at me as he leans forward in the chair next to the bed.

  I don’t know whether to be scared or rip his clothes off.

  “I don’t understand. How did I get here? Why don’t I remember anything? Oh god, did I? Did we?” I stumble on my words as I try to remember what went on at the club and afterwards. I peek under the covers to make sure I still have my clothes on. Which I do. Which is a relief.

  “You are an inquisitive one, aren’t you? Adventurous and inquisitive. I like that in a girl.” He leans closer, searching my face for an answer before he even asks the question, “Would it be so bad if we did?”

  I involuntarily shiver under his intense green eyes that almost glow in the darkness. I try to answer him, but my brain turns to a useless pile of shit.

  “Well, would it?” he presses, leaning closer still, his eyes locked on mine, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, because I certainly wouldn’t mind if he did. Then
suddenly, somehow, I manage to sever the spell, and I remember how to breathe, and I certainly remember my words and how to use them.

  “Yes! I don’t even know you. I don’t even know your name. I’m not even from Ireland.” Not that any of those reasons have stopped me before, but somehow it seems like a smart argument, and the truth is that even though I’ve had past hookups with people I don’t know, I have never, never, never, spent the night at their house, and that’s what freaks me out the most. I have never been in this situation before. I try leaping out of bed, but my legs get tangled in the sheets, and I fall into his chest.

  “If you wanted me in bed with you, all you had to do was ask,” he teases, cradling me to him. I breathe in his heady scent. Everything about him is familiar to me. He sets me back down on the bed, and I already miss his touch.

  “Have we met before?” I search his face for answers, but he only smiles as he sits down beside me and offers me his hand. “We’re meeting now. I’m Alaric.”

  “This feels like an awfully formal introduction after spending the night together. I’m Gigi.”

  “Did you have something else in mind?” he says, looping his arm around my shoulders.

  My heart races, and I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have poked the beast. He’d overpower me in less than a second.

  “Just relax and take a deep breath,” he says.

  When I don’t follow his advice, he shifts me gently away from him, so we can see each other’s faces.

 

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