Black Moon (Silver Moon, #2)

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  Ben and I hang back, waiting our turn. Maggie’s not through with Alaric just yet, and everybody else is working their magic against the Ancient mob. Cameron and Blake have electrocuted—and literally fried—two-thirds of the group. Bodies burst into flames, compliments of Jana, and, bit by bit, crumble to ashes. The remaining one-third receives complete devotion from the others, who delight in torturing their victims.

  “You ready to do this?” Ben asks, trapping my fingers in his and squeezing.

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  Smiling for the first time in a very long time, Ben replies, “There is always a choice.”

  “Mmm,” I murmur, lost in contemplation. “I guess you can say that, but I don’t see another way around this. We’re screwed if we don’t get rid of him.”

  Ben’s eyes find his family and mine, finishing off the last of the Ancients. “I don’t know; they seem to be working pretty well together. Maybe we can stay after all.”

  I scowl. “Don’t. Even.”

  He chuckles. “All right, Princess. We’ll give it a shot.” Offering a nod toward Maggie, who has officially kicked the majority of Alaric’s ass, it’s time for us to leave our mark. The final mark.

  Ben and I step forward as Maggie backs away. Everyone—the entire crew—ends movement to study us. The sun is warmer than before; its rays casting a radiant crown on the packs’ heads. There’s a certain ambiance of peace, finally. Alaric is sluggish getting up, so we take the opportunity to give our families one last smile, just in case we never see them again, and then, holding hands, we stop time. Alaric is merely a few feet away, but his face is frozen along with everything else.

  Clearing his throat, Ben says, “So, this is it.”

  “Yep.”

  “No turning back now.”

  “Nope.”

  He exhales, impatient almost. “I’m ready.”

  I grin, sensing a fresh current of adrenaline jolting through my veins. “Me too.”

  Together, we advance. Ben touches Alaric’s shoulder to bring him into the present. At first, Alaric glances around, stupidly. Then, recognition allays his features.

  “Just us, huh?” he presumes.

  “Just us,” I confirm. “But we’re not finishing the battle here.”

  Alaric’s eyebrows rise steeply. “Is that so?”

  Let me speak, Candra lovely, says Daciana. I resign my mind so she can take over.

  “Alaric, dearest . . .” My voice box is used, but the pronunciation isn’t mine. “I want these two returning to our time, our past. They alone can change history, and the future.”

  “Ah, Daciana, I thought I suppressed you so I’d never have to listen to your grating voice again,” says Alaric.

  Daciana’s emotions are my own. Alaric’s words sting momentarily, but she ignores them because she’s use to harsh confrontations with him. Through me, Daciana tightens her grip on Ben’s hand. He smiles.

  “Ulric and I both wish it,” she continues, gaining courage. Funny. She didn’t seem like she needed courage last we spoke, as she was the epitome of a giant pillar. Strong and solid.

  Alaric spits. “You and Ulric. I banished both of you for a reason—to be at peace. And I plan to remain so.”

  “Well,” begins Ulric via Ben, “it has been mutually agreed upon by the four of us that we want peace as well, and, as long as you are alive, that cannot be so. Pray tell me, brother, would you have done the same if you were in my position?”

  “What’s that?” Alaric constricts his eyes. “What have you planned?”

  “Only this final effort for a truce,” says Daciana. “If you ever truly loved me as you once said, you will leave them be.” She opens a circular portal behind us. “Let them go, Alaric,” are her last words.

  Ben and I return to our normal selves. As we take a few steps back toward the swirling matter, Ben says, “So, what’s it going to be?”

  Alaric shakes his head. “Never!”

  Ben and I share a calculating smirk, and then we leap toward the Doorway of Time. Alaric shrieks, “Noooo!” and jumps in after us. We throw our arms around his neck and body, holding on tightly, while I latch onto Alaric’s powers, rewinding the clock. Encircling us are vivid azures and violets, sparkling with starry dots. We’re falling through this material at a high rate of speed.

  “Give me the necklace!” Alaric shouts, attempting to rip it from my body.

  All three of us wrestle for two different things; Ben and me to save my locket, and Alaric to steal my power. This is the crucial part. Maggie can’t predict the past, obviously, so we knew we’d be on our own. The outcome of our future is based on our actions within this opening. Should we succeed, we can return to the past and put an end to Alaric’s mania, but if Alaric wins, we’ll lose him somewhere along the way, and he’ll have my power.

  “Let. Go.” I grind my teeth in frustration. Alaric’s not giving up, and neither are we. The obstacle we face is passing through this portal and reaching the other side, alive. I can’t hold out for much longer; my nose already drips blood and my body feels as if it might spontaneously combust. We are all stretched thin. Our instructions are clear: drop Alaric somewhere along the way so he’s trapped in another time period. Yeah. That’s not happening.

  Ben clutches Alaric’s fingers, tugging them away from my locket. I free myself from Alaric and hold onto Ben so strongly I think I might hurt him.

  “Do it now,” I say, losing my focus. The outer corners of my vision are less clear, more obscure. “Ben!” I wail. Oh god, I can’t control it any longer.

  In one final attempt, Ben shakes off Alaric, and we watch him disappear into the twisting nether surrounding us, gone forever.

  Placing one hand on each of my cheeks, Ben mumbles something about—

  We crash-land in a dark alley; me in a pile of spoiled food and trash, Ben in between the heaps of debris. I groan at the pain my butt just endured. Ben rises to his feet first, brushes his hands on the front of his jeans, and then helps me up. My body is weak, so he has to do most of the work.

  Ripping off a piece of his shirt, he cleans up the blood from my upper lip. “There,” he says. “It’s gone.” He slides one arm around my waist, and I use him as a crutch.

  Past the long stretch of the alleyway, peoples’ voices chatter, and the hubbub is so loud I can’t focus on a single conversation.

  “Where are we?” I ask, voice croaky.

  Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “More importantly, what era are we in?”

  He pulls me closer against him. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ll figure everything out.”

  We slog to the end of the lane. Every muscle in my body physically aches, and my stomach is weak from hunger. Food will be nice; someplace we can sit and eat in peace. No crazy family members. No Ancients. Just the two of us.

  At the end of the passage, it doesn’t take me long to figure out why so many people are clamoring. The street is lined with tables supporting makeshift cloth roofs. Children dart across the road where horses pull wooden carts loaded with hay, food, or animals. Let’s not talk about the fact that this marketplace, filled with dozens of prospective sellers and buyers, is completely out of date.

  “Ben . . . their clothes . . .”

  “Uh huh,” is all he manages to murmur, at first. He follows with, “I don’t believe we’re in Kansas anymore, Princess. Or Connecticut. Whatever.”

  Many of the citizens have stopped their duties and solely focused on us, whispering amongst each other. I glance at our clothes and compare it to theirs. No one, not a single soul, wears jeans or T-shirts or tennis shoes. The women dress in plain dresses and linen caps, the men sport long-sleeve tunics covering tights and square-toed shoes.

  I let go of Ben and step onto the cobblestone street . . . and am almost trampled by a horse. I jump out the way, tugging on the sleeve of the nearest person I can find—a man, who doesn’t look much older than Ben and I.

&nb
sp; “Excuse me, sir? My friend and I are a bit lost. Can you tell us where we’re at, exactly?”

  His eyes dart to the commoners surrounding the market like he’s afraid we’re here to cause trouble and he might need a back-up, since it’s obvious we’re not from here.

  Finally, he finds his voice. “Even so, m’lady. Yer in Colchester.”

  “Colchester? Where’s that?”

  His jaw slacks, eyes thin in uncertainty. “England, o’course.”

  Oxygen is sucked from my lungs. Panic clutches my windpipe, my stomach, my body, giving them all a firm shake. I should’ve known something like this would’ve happened, that we’d arrive somewhere other than Hartford. But England?

  My mouth dries, nearly choking me when I ask the next question: “And w-what year is it?”

  This is the subject I fear more than anything. We’ve been so concerned about how long it will take us to return to the time period in which Alaric, Ulric, and Daciana were bitten. We need to return to the sixteenth century. Judging by the garb of these people, I’m reasonably certain of the answer. I want to hear it from this young man’s lips, though.

  His eyebrows wrinkle, forming deep creases, and he looks at me like I should be very much aware of what year we’re in. Like I’m definitely losing my mind. Ben and I are the outsiders here, the crazy ones. I’d freak out a little, too, if someone from the future showed up.

  “’Tis the year of our Lord, m’lady, fifteen hundred and sixty-nine,” he replies, and, for that split second, my heart neglects to beat.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rebecca Rogers expressed her creative side at an early age and hasn’t stopped since. She won’t hesitate to tell you that she lives inside her imagination, and it’s better than reality.

  To stay up to date with Rebecca’s latest books, check out her website at www.rebeccaarogers.com or find her on social sites such as Goodreads, Facebook, and Twitter.

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