Dark Moon: Fae/witch paranormal romance (Hells Gate Book 1)

by Terina Adams

  Dark Moon

  Hells Gate Series

  Renee Snow

  Terina Adams

  For Saxon, Jensen, Cedar, Caitlyn, Maddy, Chloe, Ethan

  Dear Reader.

  Thank you for buying Dark Moon, the first in our Hells Gate series.

  We hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we enjoyed writing it.

  Wanting more? You can sign up to our newsletters to receive bonus content like short stories, deleted scenes, POV swap chapters, giveaways and much more.

  Renee Snow & Terina Adams

  Thank you, enjoy reading.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Akasha

  About Renee Snow

  About Terina Adams

  Also by Renee Snow

  Also by Terina Adams

  Prologue

  Wyman removed his helmet and turned back to see the lights crest the hill less than half a mile behind. Slade approached blocking his view of the van barreling toward them. Once along side him, he too turned toward the headlights.

  With a scrunch of leather, and a small glow of light, Slade checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes and the curtain falls.”

  “Have Tray bring her to the junction as soon as he arrives.”

  Wyman turned his back on the van and headed for the intersection. The cold penetrated his lungs with each breath. Half an hour and his tyres would be chewing the gravel out of this shit-hole.

  In his world they called him King and his subjects paid homage to him—if they didn’t, he cut out their fucking hearts—but once a year he was brought to his knees by the weakness of his ancestors. Given the chance, he would gut the fucker instead of paying homage. Although the veil weakened at this time, it was never enough to let him through, so Lucifer was safe for now.

  The van pulled up behind him. The engine cut, and after a stretch of time, the doors opened with a clink. A scream, high pitched and desperate, destroyed the peace.

  A scuffle on the gravel meant she struggled against her jailers. “Please, don’t hurt me—what are you going to do with me? Please someone help me.”

  Someone needed to shut her up. Not because they risked exposure. Pleas from the condemned were the last things he wanted to hear. Besides, being here always pissed on his mood.

  She had to come alive and she had to come conscious, part of the deal. The sick motherfucker liked it that way. The cries of the innocent, as they met their doom, pleased him. Not that he could guarantee her innocence. Eighteen-year-old virgins were hard to find these days. In another twenty years perhaps Lucifer would have to contend with someone less pure or break the pact and settle for someone younger.

  When they’d first brought her to him, Wyman raged over the injustice. She was a beauty—why should he be forced to hand over someone more suited to his bed than the devil’s lair? Faces like hers were meant to scream his name in ecstasy whilst he road her hard. However, many women just as good, if not better, crossed his path everyday, so he let her go without having a taste. She was Lucifer’s already as far as he was concerned. He never shared toys with the devil. It tainted his soul, and Wyman’s soul was as dark as ink.

  Her sobs came closer. Wyman turned, and in the moonlight, made out the shape of Tray, striding toward him, the woman slung over his shoulder. The rest of Wyman’s guard followed. This one was a little braver than most. She didn’t scream and beg as loud, or as long, as any of the women sacrificed before her. Thank the fuck for that, or Wyman would end up taking matters into his own hands, for his own sanity, and Lucifer may well have nulled the sacrifice.

  The atmosphere around them electrified. Wyman’s scalp prickled as his cropped hair reacted to the charged air.

  Time raced them toward the juncture.

  As the fabric between the boundaries of the underworld and his lessened, he became energized with the understanding he stood so close to extreme power. If the fabric were to crumple all together, Wyman would lead his men into the underworld and claim the devil’s throne.

  Chained to this earth had its benefits, but mortals were weak and stupid, not a prize worth having.

  They’d been trapped here long enough, separated from the grand prize—uniting the devil’s realm with the mortal world, under his control.

  “Bring her forward.”

  “Oh, God. Please. Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Put her down.”

  She moaned and collapsed, crawled the distance to his feet and wrapped her arms around his ankles. “Please—don’t hurt me.”

  Tray reached down and dragged her from Wyman’s feet, pulling her up by her wrists.

  “Father.”

  At the sound of Slade’s alert, Wyman looked up and caught the shimmer in the air. A hot gust of wind rushed from the tear in space and slammed through him, trailing its infernal stench of decay, stinging the back of his throat. The girl screamed as an animal does when sensing its end. Even a mortal knew the imminent arrival of hell.

  A form emerged through the veil. The shadow of a man.

  “Greetings, King Wyman.” His tone mocked.

  “Speak again demon and the woman stays on this side. You won’t get your soul this year.”

  “I tremble in the wake of your supremacy, Lord of the Fae.”

  The demon gave Wyman the shits. If only.

  “Bring her here. Let me see if she’s worthy.”

  Tray grabbed the woman, now babbling incoherently, and pulled her closer.

  “She doesn’t look promising. Over the last few years Lucifer’s been disappointed in the declining standards of his prize. The bounty is, shall we say, somewhat tarnished.”

  “Times have changed, Demon. It’s not so easy to find an eighteen-year-old virgin anymore. If he is dissatisfied then perhaps he should come looking himself. Oh, yeah. He can’t since he’s trapped under my feet. Maybe he needs to learn to be happy with the left overs.”

  “You’re forgetting whom you belong to.”

  “You’re forgetting the divide that separates you from us. There’s nothing he can do we can’t capitalize on. With each passing year, the dark in human souls becomes ours to manipulate, Lucifer will need to be content playing with the scraps in the pit.”

  The demon remained quiet. “Give me the sacrifice then tell your men to leave. We should talk. In private.”

  “I doubt a demon would have anything to say I want to hear.”

  “Do as I say, and you will find out.”

  Wyman’s insides were on fire. Send the girl across now before you do something you’ll regret. It took too long to find this one. He wouldn’t waste her, or his men's efforts in tracking her. Wyman and tolerance parted company centuries ago, if they’d ever been acquainted, and during the night of Samhain he was at his worst. Wyman had been King long enough to know the poison on a demon’s tongue, but his words lured. There was nothing either had to talk about. Or perhaps—

  Wyman yanked the girl to his chest, ignoring the feeble pummeling of her fists, ignoring her sobs of fear and anguish, and forced her to march with him toward the divide. The demon came closer as well and the two squared off, eyeing each oth
er through the fabric of time. Every year a different demon appeared to take the sacrifice, looking no different than the one before.

  Wyman gathered the small creature in his arms, as if he was about to walk through a wall of flames as her savior. Tonight he was her destroyer.

  Wyman lied, and both sides knew it. The Fae were as bound to Lucifer as the demons, only they’d been lucky enough to find themselves trapped topside when heaven closed the gates of hell. However, separated for so long, the devil’s hold weakened, the binds becoming untenable, stretching like elastic and threatening to break. Once gone, the Fae would be free to rule the world of humanity. Fuck that. They were going to rule the underworld too.

  He lifted the girl high above his head while she grabbed at his leathers. When ripped from those, she clawed at his arms. To him, she was a kitten and her claws touched feather light. Without effort he threw her into the void and her screams followed, dying away as she disappeared. He longed to hurl himself through as well, throttle the son-of-a-bitch on the other end, but to maintain the balance neither side could pass through the veil, only a mortal of innocence could cross the curtain at this time.

  “Father, I think we should leave now. The demon has nothing to say worth hearing.”

  Perhaps Slade was right, but Wyman’s intrigue held tight. “Return to the club.”

  “No. Not without you.”

  Wyman spun to look at his son. Slade’s eyes were lost in the dark, but Wyman knew the fierce determination accompanying his tone. Slade was a big Fae, an inch or two taller than he. His mother had been a powerful woman, and a beauty.

  “The rest can go. You can stay if you want to freeze your ass hanging by your bike.”

  Slade turned to his four guardsmen. “Go. We’ll catch you up.”

  The guards hovered, unsure about his command as none moved. It would make no sense for them to abandon those they’d sworn to protect.

  “Go.” Slade’s men were not just guards. They were like his brothers. Wyman had seen to it the four chosen to protect would bond thicker than blood binds. It was the only way to ensure he would have complete trust in each, since the Faes’ tendency was trickery, even amongst their own kind. For Slade to command with a heavy tone meant he was feeling on edge. Samhain made tempers run raw.

  When Slade’s men turned and walked away, he followed, but not before giving Wyman a long look, it’s meaning, however, was lost in the dark.

  Wyman turned back to the demon.

  “My patience is worn, so make it short.”

  “I understand your hostility, Fae King. Believe me I do. Forced to pay yearly homage to someone whom you feel is less than your equal. I’d be pretty pissed too.”

  “No riddles, Demon. Say what you must.”

  “There is a way for you to pass between the worlds.”

  Of all the lies he expected, this was not it. “I didn’t waste my precious drinking time to hear you spilling shit.”

  “If you don’t want to listen, sure, by all means return to your near mortal existence.”

  “What do you get out of helping a Fae?”

  “When you’ve claim the underworld, I get the privileges I deserve, and I get to sit at your right hand.”

  “That place is reserved for my son.”

  “Then your left. I don’t give a shit which side. It’s a metaphor for being in your favor.”

  “I’m not convinced your empty of bullshit.”

  “Next Samhain you perform the sacrifice as you do every other year, only this time you choose a very special girl. One not simply given as homage to the unjust King of the underworld, but one who will act as a gate for you to pass through. What have you got to lose?”

  “And what about you? If it’s a gate, won’t hell empty?”

  “The woman is mortal, so she will be able to cross the divide, but the link will only be from the top world down. You know as well as I, all who are not mortal will never be free of their entombment. The closure of hell’s gates was eternal. I know of no power capable of changing that. But I’ve been searching a long time for another answer, and finally I’ve found one. However, it can only happen with this girl.”

  “What makes her special?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s not that I don’t want to. I don’t know myself. I’m a patient demon, and I’ve learned to listen well to all the souls who have passed into the devil’s keeping. I’ve gathered information for centuries and everything points to this girl. I don’t know what makes her special, perhaps born under the right sign, or at the right planetary alignment. All I know is she exists and she has the gift. Look, what have you got to lose? You pick the girl, you sacrifice her next year and see what happens. If I’m right, then the underworld is yours.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Akasha.”

  “The spirit Goddess.”

  “The fifth element binding all things.”

  “A witch?”

  “No. But special all the same. You use her and hell will open its gates for you. Make sure you secure her soon. She must be pure.”

  1

  The thrum of the Fat Boy reverberated off the cars, as the Harley cruised the suburban street. Locke trail braked then rolled through the corner into the cup de sac, glancing in his side mirror to catch the black van following a couple of meters behind. Six houses down he mounted the curb, pulling up high on the lawn. He waited with her purring between his legs while the van pulled up alongside the curb behind, then he lowered the stand and killed the engine.

  Silence settled.

  He swung his leg over and removed his helmet, hooking it over the handle. The door slammed on the van and the driver came around, crunching stones under his black leather boots as he strode toward Locke. Not a soundless arrival. What did it matter? This was a simple retrieval.

  Locke waited until Holt was level, then, without a word, turned and led the way up the driveway. The lights were on in the front room, the TV going, definitely home, but would she cooperate? One of the vertical blinds was lifted enough to allow a slither for her eyes. She was peeking. Does she like what she sees? The gap disappeared after a few seconds, then noise of feet pounding away.

  The plastic casing for the doorbell hung diagonal by one screw. When Locke pressed it no sound followed. He banged on the door. Nothing. Okay, so she wanted to play. Just the way he liked it. This was going to be good. Locke turned to Holt and gave a nod in silent communication. Holt crossed the veranda, hiked himself over the wooden railing and disappeared around the back.

  Locke peered in through the window, getting a disjointed vision through the small gaps in the vertical blinds. The TV talked to an empty room, as far as he could tell. She’d gone into hiding. Not surprising with the racket they’d made on arrival. But she was more canny then most. Usually they came out of their houses to complain about the noise, or the destruction of their lawns, when what they should be doing is barricading the front door and legging it out the back. The move wouldn’t save their pretty little ass, but it was the right step toward survival, and Locke loved a smart woman. One who knew how to fight for her life. They were the best to fuck. This one was doing it right. Holt would catch her if she decided to skip out the back.

  Locke curled his fist and smashed it through her lounge room window. A hard balled fist, a fast, sharp punch and a section of the window shattered without causing him an injury. He stuck his hand inside, unlatched the window—gotta love those old-fashioned sash windows with the simple swing lock—then pushed the window high enough to accommodate his large frame.

  Locke took a moment to catch what was on the TV, nothing worth his notice and scanned the lounge room for no good reason, other then to be thorough. Not a lot to use as cover, and he’d heard pounding feet before entering. She would be under the bed, in the closet or in Holt’s arms by now. He detected no sense of her being near, apart from the waft of strawberry shampoo and lavender soap, feminine spices. She’d showered not long ago, judging by the str
ength of the odor. The curves and crevices of her body would be good places to smell, places where fragrances tended to coalesce, the nape of her neck, the bend in her elbow, between her breasts, the sweet treasure between her legs.

  He strode across the room into the kitchen, not expecting to find her there, but other good smells were calling to him. A used, empty, plastic tub sat on the work surface next to the stove, boiling away on top, a pot of something, releasing delicious aromas. Perhaps she’d been out partying late, taken on a few too many and now planned on bringing herself back to earth. Sorry gorgeous, plans interrupted.

  He stirred the contents with the wooden spoon balancing on the handle of the pot, noting the chunks of meat and potato. Steam escaped during the stir. Hot enough, so he scooped some up and sipped it off the end of the spoon. Not bad. Good cook.

  A window smashed at the back of the house. More glass broke, and yet more noise, banging, and shuffling, then a heavy thud of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

  Locke took another sip.

  “Fuck, man, whatcha doing?”

  Holt filled the doorframe, throwing a scowl Locke’s way, arms held out to the side to emphasis his impatience.

  “This is good.”

  Holt came across and snatched the wooden spoon out of Locke’s hand, dipped it into the pot and tasted it himself. His eyebrows rose in agreement. “Not bad.”

  Locke snatched the spoon back. “Get your own fucking spoon.”

  With the noise of scurrying feet across the floorboards, both big men looked at each other over the curry pot. Holt flashed a grin. “Show time.”

  The woman was attempting to open the back door, but in her panic she fumbled the key and dropped it. She dove to pick it up before trying to ram it into the lock. Locke slowed his approach, allowing her time to insert the key. He moved aside for Holt to come through into the small washroom, and they both waited while she attempted her escape. She glanced over her shoulder, not the wisest thing to do—the sight of them would not cheer her. Locke crossed his arms and waited, as her desperate cries became frantic. After seconds, but no doubt for her eternity, she succeeded. The door swung wide, and she burst out gazeling it across the lawn like her legs could fly, until she fell and bit the dirt, face first, followed by a roll, because of her momentum.