Blood Moon_A novel of the Paramortals

by Livia Quinn

  "I said, 'looks like you're in a predicament'. I ain't surprised. My jail was known for its lack of recidivism." A shrill cackling laugh followed and Jack spun around again.

  "Where are you? Show yourself," he demanded, looking through the bars at the stairwell. There'd been no sound of footsteps on the stairs or anywhere else.

  "What are you lookin' for out there?" The voice came again from beside him.

  Jack whirled and stared at the pale apparition, not two feet away as a matter of fact, though fact was a questionable term for, "What the—"

  The figure that materialized in front of Jack was dressed in unrelieved black, from his hat to his boots, a Pinkerton style suit coat over a black button up shirt. He leaned against the heavy metal bars near the chain that supported the metal bed slats and pulled on his scruffy beard. "You ain't never heard of the Hangin' Sheriff?"

  Jack frowned, No, but perhaps he shouldn't admit it to this…what was he? "Are you… real?"

  The man, who appeared to be in his 50s, though Jack couldn't be sure, bent over at the waist and slapped his knees with a guffaw. "Real, he asks." He laughed until tears should have been streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, but weren't, then he wiped his eyes of the nonexistent tears and shook his head. "What kind of sheriff are you, Lang? Why, I'm dead, son, a ghost. A specter. I like that term better ma'self."

  If Jack had encountered this man—ghost—earlier in the year he would've called it a hallucination, a mirage, or possibly he might have suspected a reaction to some over-the-counter meds, but these days... hell, a ghost, as surprises went, registered only a one on his Destiny shock-o- meter.

  "No, sir. I have to say this is a first. I'm glad to meet you unless you're here to carry out your specialty." Jack looked over at the dumbwaiter, the rope that might have been used for hanging his inmates still tied to the bars and draping down into the shaft.

  "Whatcha lookin' at? Cripes, boy. I ain't gonna hang ya. I'm here to help you escape."

  Jack's heart thumped hard. "You have a key? I can't touch—"

  "Yeah, yeah. I been watching." The sheriff scratched his cheek.

  Jack's eyebrows rose. He hadn't sensed him even a little.

  His companion laughed again, this time, it was kind of a crazy laugh. "You can't see me unless I wantcha to. Understand?" He squinted up at Jack, his chin jutting forward. "You're one of them dragons, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir." The sir probably wasn't necessary but Jack figured he'd get further with respect, even well…under these circumstances.

  "Then you probably know about Halloween, about the open door and all? Normally, I wait until the 31st to make an appearance, but see, I figured, if I was to wait, you'd be a hung sheriff." He slapped his thighs again. "He-he-he. Get it?" He pointed to himself, "Hanging sheriff?" then at Jack and winked, "Hung sheriff."

  "So, you can just pop in whenever you want?" Jack asked, ignoring the ghost's gallows humor.

  "Nah, it's because of that danged moon—all about the Blood Moon over here, ya know? Makes it easier, lengthens..." His eyebrows crashed down and he rubbed his chin, squinted one eye closed then looked up at the ceiling. Jack followed his gaze but saw only… concrete. "Lengthens the t...tie—what do they call it on Facebook?"

  "Timeline." Jack frowned. "You're on Facebook?"

  "No, are you crazy? I'm a ghost, see?" He pushed his hand into Jack's torso startling him, but he didn't feel anything. "Weren't have no way to peck on a phone. It's handy though. I can read over somebody's shoulder and stay...uhh..."

  "Current?" Jack offered.

  "Right, but that moon makes everything amp... stronger and stretches out that timeline, so we can cross early." He held out his hands by his sides as if to say, 'And Voila. Here I be.'

  Jack shook his head. Why was he conversing with someone who was admittedly… dead? Still, he asked, "How long have you been here?" Maybe if he showed a little interest in the sheriff's history, which he seemed proud of, it would lock in his inclination to help.

  He studied the ghost in black. On the left lapel of his coat hung a six-pointed star. It read Sheriff - Beauregard Parish. Now he remembered. He'd read about the jailor when researching his move from Memphis to Louisiana.

  This hellhole was what people called the Gothic jail because of its unique architecture. The designer wanted it to be one of a kind with full lavatory facilities and a window in each cell. Prisoners had been marched straight from the courthouse through the tunnel, given a blanket and a mattress and locked up, there to stay until their time was served. No courtyards or recess here.

  He'd seen pictures but none of them captured the depression being locked within the thick walls of the place would produce. Advanced bathroom facilities notwithstanding, the 'bed' was mere metal slats and the heavy bars said clearly, "Escape is impossible."

  The article mentioned its signature feature, the spiral stairs that started at the tunnel entrance. Jack hadn't noticed the uniqueness of the cell at first, with its toilet, sink and shower, mostly because they were old and filthy and not plumbed. And at the time, he'd been struggling to breathe.

  "Them transients were takin' up parish resources. Weren't no reason not to go ahead and hang 'em from that there rafter." The 'sheriff' leaned against the sink, picking at his teeth with a piece of metal and pointed to the iron beam outside Jack's cell.

  Jack knew it probably wasn't wise, but he was curious. "Why help me escape?" The ghost shook his head as if Jack was stupid. "Why, son, yer the same as me—a parish sheriff."

  Ah, a selective sense of honor, Jack thought. But who was he to argue? "Your name is Gill, right?"

  The ghost's face brightened and he grinned, "You have heard about me!"

  Jack nodded, looked back through the bars, then at his companion. "Alright, Gill, how do we do this?"

  The cells had been scrupulously swept when prisoners were interned and the jail was largely untouched since then so Jack despaired of finding anything useful. Then Gill flipped something in his direction. He caught its shiny reflection and heard it hit the cement floor. He knelt and picked it up. It was a key, a tiny shiv actually, intended for unlocking the ancient handcuffs. Gill had been picking his teeth with it moments before.

  Within seconds Jack had the shiv inserted into his cuffs. "Thank—" he started, but the apparition was gone. Without the ability to change, Styx assumed he'd have no way of escaping, not with just his human strength. But Jack didn't plan to go through the spelled lock. Gill said he should go down the dumbwaiter. "Then you don't have to mess with that lock," he'd cackled. "I've thought of everything."

  Jack studied the dumbwaiter and the rope hanging from one bar. If that was the original rope, it might not hold his weight, but he couldn't worry about that little detail. Time was of the essence.

  Using the thin shank to open the handcuffs he freed his hands and ran his fingers along the steel edge of the garrote's teeth feeling for the locking mechanism. Hope surged through him when he located the connector, though blood trickled down his neck as the sharp teeth abraded his skin with each tug on the metal wire.

  Just as he found the depression in the part, he heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. With his sensitive hearing he made out Styx' breathing echoing off the walls of the stone stairwell and an occasional whimper. Was he hurt? Jack abandoned his efforts to remove the garrote. He would have to risk going down the dumbwaiter before Styx got to this floor.

  He reached for the bars on the contraption, but they didn't give. The rope hung there enticingly and Jack realized with a renewed sense of hopelessness that Styx had left the rope on purpose and locked the gate. Gill had been wrong. Styx had a sick sense of humor.

  "I brought you something, Sheriff."

  The heavy footfalls approached and again Jack heard a whimper. This time he recognized it. His heart pounded in his chest as the scarred man came into view, grinning insanely, a woman tossed over his shoulder, her red streaked hair swinging across his torso.

  "Tempe!" Jack thr
ew himself against the bars, hoping fear and rage alone would give him the strength to break through them. Instead, the blades tightened around his throat as he instinctively tried to shift to protect his mate. Agony blazed through him twofold as his oxygen ran out and his last thoughts were of his failure to help Tempe.

  Chapter 28

  I yield," Montana said, for the first time ever.

  The sounds of rock music blared from outside and surprised Montana, but then relief swept over her. Conor was back.

  She frowned. The music was all wrong. Conor didn't play rock music; he sang it and you were left to imagine the actual instruments of the band and background vocals.

  She grabbed Mathilda and ran outside, skidding to a halt as Conor swung one sword in a mighty arc, his silks swirling around his powerful thighs as he turned. Then he lunged and stabbed the other sword through an invisible opponent.

  The music carried a stout marching cadence and every movement Conor made was deliberate, precise, and violent. You will remember me... for centuries. Montana recognized the song and knew it fit his homesickness after returning from such a short visit to his people. The savagery of his movements and turbulent expression on his face meant the verdict from the past was not good.

  The mere fact that he couldn't make his own music to practice by, said as much. As the chorus built to a crescendo his steps pounded the ground as if the full weight of his dragon was in them. Faster and deadlier his strikes grew until Montana worried that he would lose himself in the violence.

  Since she was the only creature who could match him in swordplay, with the possible exception of his sister, she yelled, warning of her approach lest he skewer her inadvertently and then she jumped into the fray.

  Conor didn't smile, accepting her challenge, but she noticed the brutality of his strikes were no longer reflected on his face. Her intervention had been enough to make him aware of his surroundings again. That didn't mean he'd worked out his frustrations. He continued to spin, counter-strike and kick until she actually felt herself flagging. She might have underestimated her ability after all. Then he parried, struck her sword driving her arm away from her body and pushed off, sending his massive body summersaulting over her head. He landed with one large hand restraining her sword arm, the other braced across her neck.

  He growled, "Yield to me, Branislava."

  Montana couldn't see his face, but the grief and devastation was plain in his voice. Conor would not normally require her to yield at the end of a fight. He usually preferred that she win. But she sensed this was something he needed, so in a gesture totally foreign to her nature, she said, "I yield," for the first time ever in her long life. To the only man she'd ever loved.

  Conor's body relaxed against hers and when he spoke, his voice sounded like broken glass, "I need ye, Lass..." She turned in his arms, into his kiss. The next minutes were lost to their mutual desire, a firestorm of love and finally, compassion, as Montana held him to her chest.

  As a warrior, and a woman, who'd never given two cents for any man, she'd expected her feelings for Conor to change her somehow, make her... Less. A diminished Dinnshencha, a softened warrior. But holding Conor, being loved by him, she realized there was a new impetuous to her protective instincts. She would kill whoever had hurt him. And she might do it with her bare hands.

  She stroked his temple and heard him sigh. He'd expended so much energy and aggression. She hoped he was ready to open up to her. "Conor. My fierce dragon. Can you tell me what grieves you so?"

  His head dropped to his chest and his eyes closed briefly, but at once he rolled up and stood, holding himself erect once again, as if he could only allow himself that small respite.

  He held out his hand and lifted her to stand beside him. "I am sorry, my love. First, we must find Cinder, then River and Tempe. Do you know where they are?"

  The antebellum house River shared with Tempe on Harmony Plantation took up the entire block in the middle of Lightning Road and River felt a twinge of guilt as he saw the improvements Jack and Tempe had made to the facade.

  After receiving no answer at the front door, he made his way around the side of the house, wondering how Tempe would react to his visit. He'd hurt her over the last months, though not intentionally. If he'd been himself, he would have tried to make it up to her. But to his mind, he'd stayed away for good reason.

  Now, though, with Jack missing and Tempe pregnant, he needed to see her. For most of their lives, they'd been more than just siblings. And once he started his contracting business and moved in with her, they'd become friends and partners in the reconstruction of the old home. All that changed when he was kidnapped and she bargained that damned wish away.

  That's enough, River. Dwelling on the past won't solve anything.

  He heard barking coming from the backyard and rounded the side of the house to find Marty tied to the back porch. Efrit. How was that even possible? The imp was bound by a leash in his brown dachshund form, jumping up and down, wiggling his long body, and whipping his tail against the post with a whap, whap, whap.

  "Marty, what are you doing here?" Another yap.

  "Can't you change?"

  No, River could see that now. What he'd thought was a leash was instead a length of leather marked with dark runes. Oddly enough, the runes didn't keep River from simply unhooking the dog from the strap, and once freed, Marty changed into the imp. "He's got her. He's got Tempe. You have to do something."

  River cursed and threw the lounge chair across the yard. Too late. He'd miscalculated. Staying away from his sister had backfired. If what Marty said was true, Styx had moved another chess piece in his game and was getting closer to pulling the trigger on that wish.

  "Where he's taken her?" River bellowed, staring down at the little imp.

  "He didn't let me follow," Marty said and hung his head.

  River's eyes narrowed as he studied him. "But you knew about him, didn't you?" Yes, he was sure of it. Marty was the family familiar. He normally stayed in his own plane until called upon or he smelled something amiss.

  "I am forbidden." His voice was a bare whisper.

  River roared. "Forbidden by whom?"

  Marty shook his head vehemently. "Forbidden. Can't say. Not allowed."

  "You were aware the dragonhunter was my brother, Marty, don't lie to me. There must be some way you can help me beat him. If not…" He couldn't bear to think of it and once again feared that Styx might read his thoughts.

  Marty paced muttering as if he'd been brainwashed, "Forbidden, I cannot say. Not a dragonhunter."

  River crossed his arms and stared down at the small familiar. "Well, he's captured a dragon. And now he's got Tempe." He pointed away from Harmony. Go on, find them. And hurry!" He spun on his heel, and stopped when he found Cinder standing very still just out of arm's reach. Her expression wasn't hostile, for once.

  "So. Styx... is your brother? That's why you won't act against him." She shook her head sending the red curls cascading over her breasts. "Now, I understand."

  River hesitated only for a moment then, making his decision, shook his head. "No, you don't. It's not that I won't act, I can't. He...I'm..." he couldn't say the word. Enslaved.

  "Let me help you." Her face reflected her sincerity.

  River turned away and stalked down to the Forge. Cinder let him walk away at first but decided he might disappear into the ether so she followed. She'd been worried over Conor's absence and what might happen if he didn't return in time, or at all. The Forge was supposed to be a spiritual, rejuvenative source for Paramortals so she'd come here to find out if it was true, if it could fix whatever was wrong with her. Then, she'd seen River speaking to someone up at the house.

  "River." She spun him around. "Listen, you bull headed djinn." The anguish she saw in his eyes staggered her and finally she understood what had driven him to lie to her. "He's got some kind of hold over you."

  River closed his eyes and dipped his head seeming too tired to respond. His voice c
ame out even, just above a whisper. "If he summons me..." he started and saw that she grasped the significance. "He purchased a wish that Tempe traded for a new amphora months ago when I was missing. He wants to use me to destroy my family."

  "But. . . he's your brother." Cinder's eyes were wide and River thought, almost innocent.

  The harsh laugh that escaped River's lungs was caustic. "Only by blood, and you'd think someone gave him a blood transfusion as much as he hates us. He says my father banished him years ago. My father is not here to confirm that, as usual. But as you can see, unless Styx orders me to intervene, I have no reason to stop you from fulfilling your mission." His eyes took on a pleading intensity. "If you hurry, we can still prevent his plan."

  He seemed more hopeful than before, as if she were his last hope. He blew out a breath, his shoulders sagging. "He's taken my sister. And. . . she's pregnant."

  Cinder was quiet for a long time. When she breathed, his eyes were drawn to the line of perspiration between her breasts, just above the intricate symbol on the protective plate at her waist. Then her breath eased out in a sigh, "I'm sorry..."

  His eyes flashed briefly lending him a predatory menace. "I'm short of patience these days, Cinder, in case you haven't noticed."

  "Okay. One of the reasons I... what happened with Styx. . ."

  River growled. ”Cut to the chase. . . why you couldn't whack him."

  Chapter 29

  You take creatures' heads off. You'll know.

  River put his fingers to his temple, his jaw clenched.

  "I'm not stalling. It's difficult to explain. When I drew my sword, a stab or a wave of emotion hit me... it came from Styx and it stopped me."

  "A spell?" River asked.

  Cinder shook her head, "I don't think so, no. It was some kind of connection."

  River's eyes narrowed, "Between you and Styx? Is this some kind of ploy?"