by June Stevens
Immortal Moon
By: June Stevens Westerfield
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Immortal Moon
Copyright ©2015 June Stevens Westerfield
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63422-153-5
Cover Design by: Marya Heiman
Typography by: Courtney Nuckels
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
~Smashwords Edition~
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To Patricia. Thank you for raising such a wonderful son so that I could marry him and get you as my second mom.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgements
About the Author
I sidestepped the fist coming at my head and my opponent pitched forward, his balance off. Taking advantage of the situation, I slammed my fist into his flabby gut. As he doubled over, he reached up and grabbed my thick, red ponytail, yanking me backwards.
Why was it always the hair? It never failed. It didn’t matter how big, buff, or macho the guy was, he always went for the hair. Biting my lip, I turned so my back was to him and let him pull me until I could feel his hot, rank breath on my neck. Lifting my knee, I kicked back as hard as I could. My aim was just right, and my foot connected with soft flesh. It was a low blow, but then, so was hair pulling.
“Gah!” the sailor cried out, releasing my hair. I turned to see him fall to his knees, both hands cupping his nether region. I finished him off with a foot to the shoulder, sending him sprawling on his back. The small crowd around the makeshift ring cheered so loud they drowned the ref calling out the ten-count. I stood back, catching my breath. The ref was halfway through the count when the sailor flipped onto his stomach, and then rose to his knees. By the time the count reached nine, the sailor was on both feet, if stumbling a bit.
Damn! That kick to his groin should have put him out. The ref stopped counting, and the fight was back on.
I watched him, warily taking in every movement as he turned and glared at me. His face was bright red, rage radiating from him. Great. I pissed him off, and now I had a three-hundred-pound rage monster to contend with. The thought was barely complete when he charged at me, letting out a gruff, angry growl. With my back at the edge of the ring and the sailor’s arms outstretched on either side, there was nowhere for me to go to get out of his way. I did the only thing I could. I started running towards him. At the very last moment before our bodies collided, I dropped low and to the side. At the same time, I stretched out my left leg, catching the sailor just above the ankle. He stumbled, his momentum sending his entire body airborne. For one long second, he flew through the air, and then came crashing down face-first several feet away.
Pushing to my feet, I turned to see the sailor rise up to his knees, and then to his feet. Geezus, what would it take to put this guy down? Taking a deep breath, I readied myself for another round. The big man took one step forward, swayed, and crumpled to the ground. The crowd went silent, as if they were all holding their breath, while the ref started his count. The sailor didn’t attempt to get up again. He just laid there, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, and emitted an occasional moan.
“Ten,” announced the ref, and the crowd gave an ear-splitting roar.
“Once again the winner is The Spitfire!” The ref, a tall, lanky man in faded hemp-cloth overalls, grabbed my right wrist and thrust my hand high into the air. The applause doubled.
I tried not to grimace as I nodded to the crowd, which was expected. Extracting myself from the ref’s grasp, I quickly stepped over the thick rope that was looped around the center of the warehouse to create a boxing ring. Ignoring the glare of the sailor and the two guys helping him up, I strode directly to the large, dark-skinned man lounging on shipping pallets stacked against the wall near the open bay doors. “Pete, would you tell Slim to quit calling me The Spitfire?”
“Aww hell, Anya, the crowd loves it,” Pete drawled. “When the patrons are happy, they bet more, and betting against a skinny, redheaded girl called “The Spitfire” makes them happy. Very, very happy.” He waved a small, leather bag stuffed full of coins in the air before tossing it to me.
I caught it easily and pulled open the drawstring to peer inside. “Eighty bucks. That’s a damned good take for two fights.”
Pete grunted. “Yep. But, damn it, Anya, do you have to take them down so damned fast? You gotta give the people a show. They keep betting against you because you’re going up against the biggest dudes I can find, but what they really want is a performance. If you keep dropping them in the first three minutes, the bets are gonna stop rolling in. I got a business to run here.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, it’s all about the entertainment.” I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t the first time Pete had given me this lecture. “Hell, Pete, I can’t help it if you keep recruiting buffoons that don’t know how to fight.”
Pete’s Fight House was located on the riverfront for one major reason; it attracted big, burly sailors wanting to test their skills against other dudes and win a little money in the process. The bigger the guys fighting, the larger the crowds and bets they drew. When I was fighting, the crowd was always huge. It didn’t matter that I was undefeated; there was always a multitude of people willing to bet against me. The larger my opponent, the bigger the bets. But size didn’t matter as much as fighting skill. It wasn’t bragging to say I had skills in spades. I’d trained at the Academy with the City Guard recruits, and until she’d moved out a few months ago, I’d sparred daily with my sister Fiona, one of the best combat mages the Black Blade Guard had to offer. I knew what I was doing in a fight. And with few exceptions, the big guys Pete recruited rarely had any real fighting skills.
Pete snorted. “I can’t be testing their skills before I slate fights. The biggest dudes get pitted against you. It’s what people want to see. It’s up to you to make it more entertaining.”
“Okay, I’ll try harder next time.” I laughed. It was pretty much how this conversation ended every time we had it, which was weekly. “Okay, I gotta dash. I’ll catch you next week, Pete.”
“Sure thing, Anya,” Pete said, and then pulled his attention to the next fight already taking place in the ring.
I grabbed my hat, cloak, and bag from the shelf Pete kept in the corner for fighters’ belongings. Slipping my canvas shopping bag over my shoulder and across my chest, I was just about to step out the door into the late morning sun when I heard a hoarse cry behind me.
“Cheat!”
I turned to see the sailor I’d just beaten, his face scraped and
bloody, hobbling towards me with the help of his two friends.
“She’s a paranorm. No norm girl could move like that,” his friend, a tall blond wearing heavy denim pants and a grungy shirt of indeterminable color, called out.
The companion on the other side of the sailor was short and broad. His hair was a couple of shades darker than the blond man, but he wore clothes that, except for the shirt’s color, were identical to the sailor and the blond. Pretty generic clothing for sailors. His face twisted in anger. “We’ve been cheated.”
Oh, shit balls, this wasn’t good.
The standard rules for fighting houses and street-fighting leagues was that anyone could attend the fights, anyone could bet, but only norms could fight in norm-slated matches. It kept the playing field level. Vamps and Shifters had super strength and speed that gave them unfair advantages that norms couldn’t compete with. Some houses allowed mages to compete in norm fights because although they could use their powers for an advantage, most didn’t. It cut down on accusations of cheating. Of course, there were fight-house owners and bookies that had paranorms on their payroll. They were put into fights as norms to hustle, but Pete ran a clean establishment. Pete’s fights were all above board, and he hated being accused of allowing cheating in his club. Really hated it.
Before I could react in any way, Pete stood, his considerable mass sliding off the crate with the grace of a cat. I couldn’t help but grin as the three guys stopped, their eyes taking him in. When seated, his affable grin splitting his face, Pete looked as cute and cuddly as a child’s teddy bear, but when he stood, he looked more like a grizzly. It was easy to mistake the girth under his gray denim overalls as flab. But his six-foot frame was packed with solid muscle.
“I can assure you, gentlemen,” he said in his thick, jovial voice, “Anya is not a paranorm. She is just a good fighter.”
“Bullshit,” the sailor grunted, holding one arm across his ribs. I wondered if perhaps one or two had been cracked. “There is no way she’s norm. She’s too fast, too strong.”
“Yeah,” his blond buddy chimed in, obviously bolstered by the fact that there were three of them against Pete. “Look at how pale she is. And she has that cloak even though it’s plenty warm out. And why does she need a wide-brimmed hat? She’s got to be a vampire.”
That was their evidence? Oh, please. Though it was just mid-morning, it was shaping up to be a warm spring day, but it had been cool when I left home at dawn. Granted, I did wear the hat to protect my skin, but it was because the creamy, white skin tone that came with coppery red hair burned easily, and I hated freckles. But no way was I going to explain any of that to those boneheads. Instead, I grabbed my hat in one hand, the cloak in the other and, holding them out to either side of my body, took several steps backward until I was out of the building and standing full in the sun. I turned my face up towards the sky.
Vampires were allergic to the UV rays in sunlight. It was a side effect of the N-V virus that caused vampirism. Though I burned easily, a few minutes out in the sun wouldn’t make a difference, but a vampire’s skin would start turning pink after several seconds, then red within minutes. The longer the exposure, the worse the reaction. After an hour of direct exposure, most vampires would have third degree burns on the exposed area. A vampire would never step full into the sun, even if their allergy was relatively mild. Most didn’t go out between sunrise and sunset at all if they could help it. I’d only met one vampire who didn’t seem to have a reaction to the sun, but even he wore a wide hat and cloak if he went out during the day.
After a full minute, I looked back at the trio still standing next to Pete. He was grinning, and the guys all had murderous looks on their faces. I smiled sweetly, trying to not let it be a smirk. “See, not a vamp.”
“Then you are a shifter or a mage, you bitch,” the sailor growled at me, his eyes blazing.
“Whoa, fella,” Pete drawled. “There will be no name calling in my house. Just calm down.”
“Don’t tell us to calm down,” the dark-haired friend spat. “She’s a fraud, and you allowed it. You hustled us.”
That was not the best thing he could say to Pete. I almost felt sorry for them.
Pete gave a barely perceptible nod and three beefy men came to stand behind the sailor and his buddies. “I think we should go to my office and discuss your allegations,” Pete said, his tone low and deceptively polite.
I slapped the straw hat on my head, wiggled my fingers at the scared-looking trio, and hightailed it out of there. I didn’t want to see what happened if the three guys put up a fuss.
Once I was around the corner and out of sight, I started running. Pete would keep the three occupied for a while, but I didn’t want to be nearby when they left the fight house. They wouldn’t be in a good mood.
I jogged away from the docks, weaving through the narrow alleys between warehouses and fish stands, towards my ultimate destination. I was on my way to the Public Market this morning when I got sidetracked at Pete’s, as I so often did.
I stopped running when I reached the edge of the lot outside the main market building. On any given day, it would be easy to blend in with groups of shoppers that browsed the maze of lean-tos and shacks housing blacksmiths, weavers, and other craftsmen. But today wasn’t just any day. It was mid-week during the one week a month that merchants and farmers traveled from all over Appalachia to Nash City to sell their wares. Families also traveled from hundreds of miles around to shop during market week. The lot teemed with shoppers and merchants. I knew it would be just as crowded inside the huge building that had been a sports stadium before the Cataclysm. Even if the three sailors did come looking for me, they would have a heck of a time finding me.
Just in case, though, I rolled up my cloak and stuck it in my canvas shopping bag. I did the same with the straw hat. I really did need something to protect my skin from the bright sun, but I’d made eighty bucks off the match with the sailor. I could spring for a new hat quite easily. I pulled out the ribbon holding my hair and ran my fingers through the silky copper strands falling about my shoulders. The back of my head still smarted from my hair being pulled.
Satisfied the sailor and his buddies wouldn’t automatically pick me out in a crowd with my hair down, I headed into the market building. My first stop was my sister’s booth.
“Hey, Rivs, what’s shakin’?” I called as I approached.
River turned from the bin where she was arranging a pile of tomatoes she’d grown in her rooftop garden, flashing her brilliant smile at me. The smile quickly faded into a look of motherly concern. “Anya, where is your hat? You’re going to freckle!”
I found her admonishment comical, considering she spent 90% of her time out in the sun tending her plants or working at her market booth, yet she rarely wore sun protection of any kind. Her skin was as pale as mine, paler actually. Paired with her white-blonde hair, it made her look fragile, almost ethereal. Yet she never burned or freckled.
“Geez, Rivs, don’t nag. It’s in my bag. I was thinking about buying a new hat today.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “I expected you earlier. You’ve been over at Pete’s, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing an apple out of a bin and taking a bite. If it had been anyone else in my family, I might have thought about lying, or at least giving them a smart-assed remark, but not River. Despite her eternal motherliness, she never nagged me about street-fighting. She seemed to understand it was something I needed to do, even if neither of us really understood why. When I came home with bruises or cuts, she just cooed and soothed and gave me potions or poultices to get better.
“So, I’m guessing one or more of your opponents didn’t take too well to being beaten by a little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl,” I huffed. “I’m three inches taller than you.”
She grinned. “You’re a little girl to those beefy blockheads you fight. I’m guessing you are hiding out in the crowd until they disperse.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, laughing. “Just don’t stay out too long. If you’re tired tonight at work, Pinky will know you’ve been fighting again, and he’ll be a grumpy pants for days.”
“No worries, Rivs. I’ll browse around a bit and get home in time to get plenty of beauty rest before my shift tonight.” I gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “See you later.”
She went back to her stall to help the crowd of customers perusing her herbs and vegetables.
“And don’t forget to buy a new hat!” I heard her call as I headed down the aisle towards my favorite clothing stall.
An hour later, I had two cute and sexy tops, a corset, several yards of fabric for new skirts, and a new cloth shopping bag to carry them in since my other bag was full with my cloak and hat. I also had a new wool hat with a wide floppy brim pulled down on my head so just a bit of my hair was visible. I had gone a little overboard and only had a couple of bucks from my winnings left. But, I hadn’t touched the money I’d brought to shop with, so I figured I’d actually been quite restrained.
It was nearly noon. After grabbing a fish taco at a food stall near the bridge, I headed across the river to the pub where I lived with River and our adoptive father, Pinky.
Just as I reached the highest part of Foot Bridge, the only pre-Cataclysm bridge still crossing the Cumberland River, a gust of wind blew my new hat from my head. The long, braided-leather cord kept it from flying away. Instead, it flopped against my back. I didn’t bother trying to put it back on, since I was well away from the market and heading home. Besides, I was sure the sailors had given up and gone back to their boat.