Blood Moon Rising Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Lola Taylor

  Killing Mistress Black.

  Saving the Underworld and, hell, probably the whole world in the process.

  Damn.

  When his brain couldn’t think anymore—because let’s admit it, saving the world is damn exhausting—he at last succumbed to sleep.

  And immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw who waited for him inside the cage of his nightmares.

  She was both beautiful and terrifying, and made him feel small and frail despite how petite she was. Her elegant body lounged on the chaise, those long, pale legs partly covered in draped scarlet silk. The inky dress flowed over her body, hugging every curve and leaving little to the imagination.

  To think he’d once found her beauty irresistible made him want to vomit.

  The room was Persian elegance: Ornate lamps of turquoise- and amber-colored glass held twinkling tea lights. Intricately woven tapestries and rugs. Velvet, tasseled pillows of rich jewel tones piled near the chaise.

  Mistress Black always had possessed a flair for the exotic.

  She looked up at him beneath thick, dark lashes. Those ruby lips of hers parted into a warm smile. Her dark hair hung partly over her shoulder, drawing attention to the plump breasts she had no problem displaying. Her eyes raked him down and up, and he suddenly felt naked despite his pants and shirt.

  Mistress Black pursed her lips. With a snap of her fingers, his clothes vanished, and balmy air rushed in to kiss his bared skin.

  He resisted the urge to turn around or cover himself from her slimy gaze. He would spite her violation of his privacy with defiance. His chin held high, he set his jaw and stared back at her without blinking as she took him in.

  “That’s better.” Her gaze lingered on his broad, chiseled chest before it lifted to his face. “I’ve missed the view.”

  “Well, now you’ve seen it. Give me back my clothes.”

  “So demanding, not to mention rude. I thought I taught you better manners than that, my pet.”

  “I’m not your fucking pet.”

  She laughed. “Of course you are. You always will be, Elijah, for you bear my mark.”

  As soon as she spoke about it, the seal flared brilliant red. He hissed and gritted his teeth against the pain. It felt as if someone had taken a brand to his back and pressed it against his skin.

  When his knees didn’t buckle, Mistress Black’s smile vanished, replaced by an icy glare. Her eyes flashed crimson, two pinpricks of fire among a too-perfect face.

  The pain intensified. A thousand fiery hooks dug into his flesh, setting his bloodstream to boiling. He roared; his back arched as his knees started to buckle. Righting himself, he forced his legs to hold. His chest heaved with the effort of withstanding the pain, and he glared right back at the bitch of a witch before him.

  He chuckled. “That all you got? You’re losing your touch.”

  Bracing himself for her to lash out, he blinked in surprise when the pain disappeared, as did the fury and fire in her eyes. She gazed at him placidly, the remnants of a saturnine smile on her lips. In a blink, his clothes were back.

  He staggered backward at the ozone-like stench of magic, terror catapulting his heart into his throat.

  “Still afraid of magic, are we? That must be a problem in the bedroom.” She rose and walked over to the short, elegant table a few feet away. Kneeling on one of the plush pillows, she poured a drink from a crystal tankard that had materialized out of thin air.

  He grew tenser as he stared at the tankard.

  It’s not real.

  His palms felt clammy.

  “Sit.” A soft command from a master to her pet.

  When he didn’t move, she arched a brow. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You didn’t say please.”

  A slow smile spread on those full lips. “Please,” she purred, stretching the word out.

  Her sinful voice oozed over his skin like oil, making him shudder. He could try to wake himself up, get the fuck out of here before—

  “Actually, you can’t,” she said.

  He startled. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m inside your head, remember?” She tapped her temple with a scarlet nail for emphasis. “I can hear your thoughts. In this dream world, I am your ruler. You won’t be leaving until I say you can go. I suggest you sit down so we may discuss some business.”

  Not seeing that he had much of a choice, he forced himself to walk over to the table and sit. The pillow was comfortable—damn comfortable, if he was honest—but he sat as if he had a stick shoved up his ass.

  Ready to move, prepared to defend himself if need be. In another lifetime, he might have appreciated Mistress Black’s penchant for the unpredictable. It had made her exciting, fun.

  What a goddamned idiot he had been.

  Live and learn…or die, in this case. Maybe. Probably.

  Inevitably.

  She hummed to herself as she poured a second glass, some sorrowful tune he didn’t recognize. The lyrics most likely contained something about killing puppies or screwing people over. Those sorts of things gave her the warm fuzzies.

  “Let me see,” she murmured, setting the glass in front of him and tapping a nail against her pouty bottom lip. “You prefer your wine dry.”

  Before he could answer, she waved a hand over his glass. “Shiraz.” She lifted her glass and smelled it. Her eyes fluttered closed in pleasure. “It’s supposed to have Persian roots, or so I’m told. I know you’ll appreciate the flavor.”

  He didn’t want any of her damn wine.

  When he didn’t move to drink, her knuckles turned white around the glass, which had cracked beneath her grip.

  Fine, fine. To spare the glass’s life… Lifting the glass, he sniffed. The rich aroma of smoke, spices, and fruit drifted to his nose, sharp and sweet at once. Call him intrigued. Taking a sip of the red liquid, he let the wine swirl over his tongue, washing his palate in the colorful flavors of blackberry, cloves, thyme, oak, and smoke. “It’s good,” he admitted.

  “Isn’t it, though? It goes great with gouda cheese, in my opinion.” She pushed forward a little silver platter of perfectly cut cheese squares he hadn’t noticed before.

  “You didn’t bring me here for a wine-and-cheese party.”

  “No, I suppose I didn’t. That’s one of the things I like about you. No bullshit. You like to get right to the point.”

  He raised a brow, a silent “get on with it.”

  Pursing her lips, she tempered her glare. “I was wondering when you’re coming home.”

  He laughed. “That’s easy to answer—never.”

  “But you’ll have to come home sometime. What are you going to do about the infection?”

  “Infection?”

  “Oh, well, it might not have been long enough for it to set in. You haven’t been feeling nauseous lately? Sudden wooziness, insomnia, fevers, and fits? That sort of stuff?”

  He’d felt under the weather while he and Verika were on the road, but he had dismissed it as a bug.

  “So you have felt something,” Mistress Black mused, pressing her palms flat to the table and leaning forward. “Probably thought nothing of it, too, knowing you. But let me warn you, Elijah—the longer you’re away from me, the worse your condition will get.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She held a hand over her heart. Red light flickered beneath her fingertips, outlining a brand that matched the symbol inked upon his back. “I’m talking about our Blood Bond. The tie between our souls.”

  “I have nothing in common with you.”

  “Oh, but don’t you? You and I are just alike. Two sides of the same coin, as they say.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. Her steady, black gaze bored into his eyes, as if she could see down into his core. “You’re just as broken, your heart just as black. We understand each other on a primal level. Few people on this earth ever experience that.”

  “Bullshit.” He shot to his feet, staggered away from the table as spots fir
ed before his eyes. Horror made his heart hammer. It had to be a lie—a filthy, disgusting lie. Anything that came out of that woman’s mouth generally was. She thrived on others’ misery. “There is no bond between us. It’s just a mark, nothing more. And somehow, some way, no matter what it takes, I’m going to break it.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Elijah. I never tire of hearing your passion for defying me. It’s refreshing.” She sighed and stood, a single, fluid motion. Like a snake uncoiling before preparing to strike. “Here’s the deal, pet. That bond ensures you’ll return to me. There is no way for you to break it.”

  “But you can.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps. For a price.”

  Of course. “And what would that be?”

  “I’ll break your mark if you bring me Verika.”

  The sweet, smoky aftertaste of the wine turned to ash on his tongue. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Why do you want her?”

  “Because she’s my daughter.”

  Time stopped. Like, literally, freaking stopped.

  He thought of Verika, of the goodness shining through her gaze, the kindness in her gestures. There was no resemblance to the creature before him. No, the witch before him was so cold, cruel, and twisted, she might as well have been a demon. Though no physical resemblance lay there, he also knew Mistress Black was using a borrowed body.

  What did her true form look like? Would she have hair of fire, or eyes the color of spring grass?

  Mistress Black and Verika’s magical affinity was the only thing they had in common. Black Magic was a rare gift, as was White. Both were also usually hereditary.

  Though everything in him screamed that there was no way in hell this thing had spawned his sweet Verika, he couldn’t deny the potential truth laced in those three words.

  She’s my daughter.

  Verika had few good memories of her mother. Some weird details stood out—like how she’d earned her unique name—but most of her childhood was hazy. The spell that had been used to bind her powers had also impacted her memories, she’d assumed. It had come up during one of their late-night, fireside conversations.

  Still, Mistress Black had to be delusional. Or screwing with him.

  But…what if?

  The witch and the wolf stared at each other. The tension thickened until it made the air damn near unbreathable. “That’s impossible,” he finally whispered.

  “It is, actually. I just wanted to see the look on your face.”

  Fucking bitch.

  Snarling, he lunged, fangs bared, claws extended. Her pale throat looked like a great place to put them.

  Before he’d drawn close, she flicked her hand in a careless gesture. His body launched off the floor, thrown backward by an invisible force that felt like an oversized baseball bat had smacked him along his front side. He landed on the chaise, toppling it over, and sprawled out onto the carpeted floor.

  Groaning, he sat up. His ribs hurt, most likely bruised.

  Could she fuck up his real body by hurting him in a dream? Seemed like the kind of thing she’d find a way to do. He wouldn’t put it beyond the scope of her vast power.

  “When will you ever learn? I suppose that wicked scar stretching across your abdomen didn’t teach you anything.”

  Although it looked cool as shit, that scar was a reminder of the day he’d gotten it into his head to attack her while her back was turned. It had been shortly after she’d hypnotized him to make him think he was hunting down the wolf who’d turned him and his brothers, and instead found himself dripping in the blood of an innocent White Witch when Mistress Black had lifted the hypnosis. Enraged hadn’t come close to describing how he’d felt.

  He’d never despised anyone more in his life than he did her. Needing to let the anger and sorrow out somehow before it ruptured inside him, he’d gone after her.

  And had found a blade embedded in his stomach. “Let this be a warning to you—never sneak up on a witch. Especially one as dangerous as me.”

  She easily could have gutted him. Maybe that had been the point all along, to get her to kill him to end his misery and disgust at what he’d just done to that poor girl.

  But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d lanced the blade across his abs, cutting deep but not too deep. Scoring his skin with yet another mark of her dominance, much like a wolf marking her territory.

  Her property.

  Elijah started to rise with a grunt when she placed a stiletto-clad foot on his chest and pressed down. The tiny heel dug into his sternum, but he refused to wince. Staring up at her, he bore her weight with a clenched jaw.

  “Stubborn to the bitter end, Elijah?” She propped a hand up on her hip and gazed down at him, her dark eyes glittering. “You’re saying you would rather meet a miserable end than reunite me with my kin?”

  “What do you mean, ‘your kin’?”

  “Promise you won’t bite?”

  A growl was his response. Seemed good enough for her, because a moment later she lifted her foot and the stabbing pain in his chest subsided. Coughing, he rose to his feet as she sauntered away to pour herself another glass of wine, those hips making the crimson fabric of her dress swish and sway.

  Mistress Black took a gulp of her wine, not looking at him. Her eyes lingered on the wall, a faraway look on her face. “Verika may not be my daughter, but we are of the same blood. She’s descended from me.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Like calls to like,” she sang, tearing her gaze off the wall with a blink and smiling at him. “I just know.”

  More mystical bullshit, most likely. She was toying with him. Had to be.

  But what if she wasn’t? What if his precious Verika truly was related to the most terrible witch the Underworld had ever seen?

  He’d allow himself to contemplate that later. Right now, he needed all his senses sharp, in case this monster tried anything.

  Like killing him in his sleep, literally. Though that seemed a bit far-fetched. If she were going to kill him, he’d already be dead. Killing was something she wasted no time with. Once she’d made up her mind to do away with someone, she got right to it, by any means necessary.

  Not to mention there was the Blood Mark. She couldn’t very well kill him without removing it first, or she’d risk harming herself in the process.

  He suddenly appreciated the mark more. Pain in his ass though it was, it could very well be the only thing keeping him alive right now. A bargaining chip, to be used at a later time perhaps, when he’d pored over every possible way to best exploit it.

  More on that later.

  Focus.

  “What do you want with Verika?” he asked.

  Mistress Black swished the wine in her glass for a beat, took a delicate sip, and then set it down. “To help her. To guide and shepherd her. Her power is vast. Too great for one person to figure out on her own. When I first came into my powers…what I endured…” She shuddered. “I won’t subject another Black Witch to that.”

  “So you expect me to believe you’re doing this out of kindness?”

  “You know me better than that.” A cunning smile. “There are other chips at play.”

  “Such as?”

  “A good player knows never to reveal her hand.”

  “As it were…” he murmured. “And if I refuse to give her up?”

  “It won’t matter. She’ll find me, one way or another. Oh, wipe that doubtful look off your face. You really think a wolf—an outlaw, might I add—with nothing to his name except a list of people who want to put a knife in his back can make someone like her happy? One of the most powerful witches the world has ever seen?”

  He shifted his weight. Yeah, he knew he had little to offer Verika, but he’d never had it spelled out so bluntly.

  “Her powers will grow,” Mistress Black said in a quiet voice that seemed to boom with power, despite its volume. She took a step closer, and then another and another as she spoke. Those wicked eyes of hers he
ld his, a dark promise of things to come. “She’ll have so much power, she’ll struggle to know what to do with all of it. She won’t know how to contain and master it. No one will understand her. The world will loathe her, as it has been known to do since the dawn of time to those blessed with the Dark Gift. She’ll need me because no one else in the world will get her like I do. And when she’s ready, I’ll be waiting.” She stood before him now, head tilted back to stare up into his eyes. A triumphant smile had already wriggled its way onto her lips.

  Cocky bitch. She thought she’d already won.

  “I’ll never let you take her,” Elijah promised.

  Mistress Black leaned forward, her lips an inch away from his. “You won’t have a choice.”

  With the warmth of her breath caressing his skin, she suddenly wheeled about and walked away. “I’ll give you some time to think on it. If you ever need to find me, just touch your Blood Mark, close your eyes, and think of me. I’ll hear you and answer.” She picked up her glass of wine and curled up on the chaise. “But don’t take too long to decide, my dear. I hear the effects of the Blood Mark are most unpleasant, once the sickness is in full swing. Adieu.”

  With a snap of her fingers, the floor opened up beneath Elijah, and he tumbled into darkness.

  Downward he went, turning head over heel into endless night while Mistress Black’s chuckle echoed all around in the frigid air.

  The stink of magic clung to his nostrils, coating his throat and choking him. He clutched at his neck, drowning on the scent of magic. Every horrible thing he’d been forced to do, or that had been done to him, crashed through his mind’s eye.

  Hell. This had to be hell.

  Serpentine bodies moved through the darkness, slithering and hissing as they watched him fall with eyes of burning hellfire. Purple lightning crackled along their bodies.

  Magic. They were made of Black Magic, just like those serpents Verika had summoned back at her parents’ place.

  Fear spiking, he Shifted his hands into paws, his sharp claws poised to shred flesh.

  One of the snakes lunged for him, much faster than it should have given its enormous body. Its jaws opened wide. Elijah looked straight down into its throat and lashed out. His claws found purchase, shredding through scales, muscles, tendons.