Four Moons: The Complete Collection: (Books 1 - 4)

by Amos, Richard

  We sat down together at her rustic wooden table as the kettle boiled.

  “Nice to see you got him,” Mama Rita said, rolling back her sleeves.

  “Ain’t you too hot for that?” I gestured to her jumper.

  “Bit chilly today.” She scratched at her goddess birthmark below her left eye. All elves had them—a moon and star inside a sun—marking a random spot on their faces.

  “You are joking,” I countered.

  “No, sweets. Anyway, tell me how you took him down.”

  I told her how I ended Frank.

  “That’s my boy.” She leaned forward and patted my head.

  “Why don’t you start calling me Fido?” I stroked the place she’d touched. “Fuck me. Feel like a right canine.”

  The elf woman laughed, her whole body shaking. She had one of those big laughs that shook the room and ended with me cracking up.

  When she was back to normal, she said, “One less scumbag on the streets.”

  “Billions more to go,” I countered. “Anyway, there’re probably people who think that about me.”

  “They can kiss my wobbly arse.” She got up and went to make the tea. “How’s Gabriel?”

  “Alright. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Did he follow you?”

  “No, there’s been a werewolf murder down on the Thames. G thinks there might be some ritual shit involved.”

  “Scary.”

  “Yeah, but nothing the wolves can’t handle. It was on the news.”

  She nodded, stirring the milk into our drinks.

  Being an elf, Mama Rita had a natural resistance to werewolves. Their history was pretty strained, with the elves once set to have the same dominance the wolves have over the world now. But the furry side won out, crushing the elves into subservience in a brutal war way back. They’d lost hard, but no elf bowed to a wolf. They weren’t strong enough to overthrow the furry regime, and things could get difficult at times, but there’d been some peace for loads of years now, the elves and wolves staying out of each other’s way for the sake of society.

  I was the exception to the rule, though. I knew a few elf peeps along with Mama Rita, had helped some out over the years with sticking my swords into appropriate wankers. Also, for some reason, Mama Rita seemed to like G. He was polite and stuff, I guess, not a complete dick like ninety-nine percent of the wolfy community.

  “I was followed here, though,” I added.

  “Oh? Gang-related mess?”

  “Yeah. Gonna be fun, eh?”

  “I almost want them to try and get in here. If they do, the whole going after your friends thing.”

  “If they do, fuck them up good.”

  “Always.”

  She brought the drinks over to the table. “I think I might have a job for you.”

  “Yeah? Cool. Who’s the mark?”

  “Banshee.”

  “Ah, fuck.”

  “Seriously good money, though.”

  I hated banshees. Once upon a time, the creatures went about wailing and letting peeps know someone was about to be brown bread. Nowadays, they’d tossed all that out the window, the entire species having become a hot mess of fame, fortune, and too much crystal meth. I didn’t know a banshee who wasn’t a little bit famous. There was even a reality TV show, Krystal Days, about a particular banshee family that’d been on for like twenty seasons and still going strong. It was the worst kind of turd, but people loved the Krystal family, particularly Karmel, who was the biggest star of the show with the hottest husband. I mean, he was as dumb as they were, but I’d still have a go.

  “You got a name for this banshee?”

  “Daria,” Mama Rita said.

  “Not—”

  “The one and only.

  Sister of Karmel Krystal, prominent cast member of Krystal Days.

  “Fuck. Why? What she do?”

  “You know Yolanda Michaels?”

  “Yeah. She does that makeup vlog. Boyfriend went missing.”

  Mama Rita nodded. “Well, turns out Daria fucked her boyfriend too hard. Killed him. Got covered up.”

  “What the hell? How do you know this? Everyone thought he dumped her and ran off.” They were notorious in the gutter press, always snapped in slanging matches outside some nightclub.

  “I have my sources. Just waiting on some verification.”

  I sipped my tea. “What kind of verification?”

  “Photos of the body.”

  “For real?”

  She traced a finger along the rim of her cup. “Yep. My source is working for Yolanda, found the body buried in some woodland outside the city—down south.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yolanda doesn’t want Daria dead, though.”

  “Oh?”

  Sometimes a client wanted the energy from my swords.

  “Death is too good for that bitch, apparently. So, no killing. Suck her dry.”

  “If I take the job,” I countered.

  “If? Since when do you ever say if?”

  “Banshees.”

  “Ah, get over it. You’ve got bills to pay.”

  “But…banshees.”

  She rolled her silver eyes. “She’ll be in contact later, so I can send you the pictures of the body then. Your next move is up to you, of course.”

  “What’s she gonna do with Daria’s mojo?”

  Mama Rita gulped back her tea. “Well, she’s been quite vocal about her plans. She wants to use Daria’s power against her, torture her with it. She’s got some witch friend who can do some serious harm by manipulating that energy.” She shrugged. “Plus, she’s looking forward to pulling out some fingernails and stuff—the usual torture crap.” She shook her head. “Daria murdered that man, dumped him in some shithole woods. Poor bastard. Yolanda wants payback, and you provide that service. You have to do it.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Just send me the details.”

  Money always talked in the end.

  Mama Rita looked pleased with that. It was always nice to see her cheeky grin. “Fab. Right, drink up. We need to sort out those swords of yours.”

  * * *

  Down in the basement was much cooler, a dimly lit place straight out of a horror movie. The only problem facing a serial killer choosing to hide in this basement was that there wasn’t anywhere to hide.

  Nothing. Not a single box or anything in the way of storage. You’d never know this had once been a beer cellar for a bustling pub.

  In the middle of the floor was the only object. It was a black anvil, about the size of a small coffee table. I always thought it looked knackered beyond belief, but it wasn’t really.

  I stood at the pointy end of the anvil, with Mama Rita on the other.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  I drew my blood-red katanas. They crackled in my hands, red sparks spitting at my fingers.

  “So much power,” the elf said.

  “Yeah. Annoying as hell.”

  It was like holding two massive dildos set to the highest vibrating level.

  “Let’s begin.” Mama Rita started to chant in elven language I couldn’t understand, going faster and faster by the second.

  Cleaning my swords without her help was a nightmare. There was a ritual I could perform, with the help of a shed load of potions and herbs, but it took ten hours and stank the flat out. The two times I’d done it had left me with the worst forty-eight-hour migraines I’d ever experienced.

  Thank the universe for Mama Rita!

  They’d been a gift from my dad when I was thirteen, in preparation for the big wolf change that never happened. I was supposed to be the son and warrior of such a great leader, and the katanas were a symbol of that, forged in Japan by some legendary swordsmith called Ryoka Takeda, who lived completely off the grid. His location was top secret.

  Nice of Papa to let me keep them, I guess.

  When their ability to not just slice came to light, no one could explain it, only that it had something to do
with my half-blood nature, a curse, a taint. Yeah, okay. Helpful. Still, that was the one piece of praise my father did give me—the power of the swords being a formidable advantage for me that I wasn’t a complete failure. Not up there with being a full-blown werewolf warrior, but it was one good thing about me in his eyes.

  One day, I’d find the real truth, which I knew went back to my mum. For now, though, I kept my utilities on and my kitchen cupboard stocked by making the most of my twin devils.

  Mama Rita’s elven chanting went wild like she was speaking in tongues.

  I knew my cue when she said that word that sounded like sugar and placed the swords on the anvil. It flushed with sparkling white like starlight had erupted inside the cold, black metal. It swirled and lashed out at my katanas, wrapping around their deadly tips, pulling on the stolen energy inside.

  Steadying myself and holding tight to the hilts, a magnetic tugging got to work. It pulled as I pulled in the opposite direction. The katanas were never happy to let go of their feed and put up as much resistance as they could. But I was their master!

  Red magic was sucked down into the anvil, the thickest scarlet slushy in the world, smothering the starlight. The regular steel of my blades was coming back.

  Mama Rita was yelling at the top of her voice, practically singing. Sounded a bit like ‘Humpy Dumpty’ to me.

  The last of the red left the swords, all of it in the anvil. A flash of red and the black was back, the anvil as inanimate as it was most of the time when it wasn’t destroying energy. That’s what it did, an elf invention, removing all sorts of bad mojo from the world.

  “Alright?” I asked the elf.

  She was sweating, her hair drenched, her glasses fogged up. “I need more tea.”

  I returned my swords to my back. “Afraid I can’t stay.” I pulled out an envelope from my pocket with cash inside. “Cheers as always.” This was another thing I always insisted paying my way for.

  Mama Rita took the payment, panting. “No problem. I’ll speak to you about the job later.”

  “Cool. Go chill. I’ll show myself out.”

  At that moment, my babies came back to me with nothing.

  The man with the paper was nowhere to be seen and had no buddies hanging around either.

  Typical.

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Millionaire lived over in Primrose Hill, which wasn’t too far from Kentish Town. Switching up my order of getting stuff done, I hopped back on the skytube and made my way over to Chalk Farm, where I could take a stroll up to the big white house of the rich geezer.

  There was still no sign of the man with the newspaper at any point along the way.

  The millionaire’s house was set back from the road, detached but alongside other big houses with lovely gardens and trees. His had an apple tree in the middle of the lawn, as well as pretty flower beds and immaculately cut grass.

  On the driveway, was a classic, racing green Jaguar XJS, begging for me to drive it. Man, I’d love to give that shit a spin. Generally, I was a bike guy, but I could make an exception for a beautiful car now and again.

  All of the curtains were drawn across the windows.

  I rang the bell of the white door, skin prickling at how removed this place felt from the rest of the world even though the road was only a few feet behind me. The door opened a crack, a skinny woman slipping out through the gap. She had a jiffy bag in her hands.

  “Hello, Mr. Murakami. I trust the problem has been taken care of.”

  “Who are you?”

  She tapped the jiffy bag, which had a note attached to it. “A representative of Mr. Young. He is an incredibly busy man.”

  “He ain’t the only one.”

  “Sure thing.” She grinned, revealing perfectly straight and white teeth.

  Was she his wife? I didn’t know much about him, other than he wanted Frank Paulson dead for the crimes against his daughter. We’d had one face-to-face meeting in a tiny pub in the back of beyond, and that was that. This woman, tanned and auburn-haired, dressed in an expensive pantsuit, hadn’t been mentioned.

  Wife, girlfriend, or another relative? Didn’t matter. She had my money, and her perfume was offending my sense of smell.

  She handed me the package. The note on the front said:

  Regards,

  J.Y.

  Boom. That was it. End of. No more communication required. If the cash was short, then there’d be problems. I’d see when I got to counting at my kitchen table.

  “Thanks.”

  “Have a nice day.” The woman slipped back inside, not taking her eyes off me until she closed the door.

  Shit! Now I had to go home and put this somewhere safe, then go get my bike. I missed Cindy so bad!

  * * *

  “What’s up, G?” I said into my phone.

  The money was correct, all five grand of it, now locked in my safe. One last thing to do now. I was planning on taking my girl Cindy for a hardcore spin, so she knew I still loved her the most.

  “Your bike’s gone.”

  “The fuck?”

  “Gone. I’m at the spot you parked it last night.”

  “Please, say you’re messing with me.”

  “Sorry, Aki.” He still sounded cold. “I came to check on it for you before I get back on your tail.”

  Why did that send a shiver up my spine? “I don’t fucking believe this!”

  I was changing skytube lines at Kings Cross, needing the Vicky (Victoria) Line to get back down to Oxford Street. A man frowned at me, and I flipped him the bird.

  That pissed him off. “Who do you think you are?”

  His pasty face went bright pink with rage, his beer gut jutting out in an act of war.

  “Aki?”

  “Get the hell away from me.”

  “What?”

  The angry man charged at me, cursing me out, spraying spit in my face.

  “Hang on,” I told G.

  “I’ll fuck—”

  Before the bloke could take his swing, I cracked him straight in the gut. He heaved and puked, spraying vomit all over my trainers and jeans.

  Ah, shit.

  “You wanker!” I bellowed, then punched him again.

  More puke, missing me this time, then he collapsed to the ground. Of all the peeps passing by, only one woman stopped to help. She got puked on for her efforts.

  She shouted something at me as I stormed off, getting herself a dose of the middle finger too.

  Cindy! My fucking bike! Heads were gonna roll from here all the way down to the south coast of England! Burn the bastard world down, vengeance was coming!

  Oh, yeah. G.

  I put the phone back to my ear.

  “I’m back.”

  Commotion down the line.

  “G?”

  Someone yelled, and the line went dead.

  “G?”

  The train came rolling into the station.

  “G!”

  I tried calling him back. It rang…

  …and rang.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Trainers pounding the pavement, heart drumming in my ears. I was almost there, dodging the dickheads in my way.

  G.

  G was in trouble.

  He could handle shit, but I wasn’t about to leave him to it. The other night, he’d seen me handle myself with the gang wankers, and I know he’d have stepped in if he needed to. But this was about me. He’d defo been jumped by Violet’s crew, out for revenge.

  I dashed into the carpark, spotting G in wolf form, his clothes torn up and all over the floor. His fur was jet black, those golden eyes twin fires in his massive head. He was tearing out the throat from some fuckhead, bodies of other men and women all over the carpark.

  Someone was screaming, but I wasn’t stopping in my running ‘cos there was danger from above.

  Behind G, was a set of metal stairs. I leaped onto them, zipping up toward the sneaky fuck, thinking he could hide in the dark, open window. Th
e bright sun was casting shadows up there, but I’d clocked him.

  Wanker.

  I drew a small blade and flung it at the sniper. He yelled, firing off a wide shot that hit the tall building opposite.

  I dove into the window, finding him staggering backward, my knife sticking out of his left shoulder.

  He wore black from head to toe, a balaclava covering his face. The fucker swung his gun. I ducked, going for a sweeping kick. He went on his arse hard, the gun spinning out of his reach.

  I was on him in a second, yanking out my knife from his shoulder and driving it down into his heart, twisting.

  He thrashed and went still.

  The room was dark, full of boxes. Bob and Rose manifested, stalking every corner, heightening my senses. Now able to see better in the dark, the boxes were all from various tech companies that sold hardware. Probably all stolen shit.

  Though this wasn’t a building in the slums, it was only next door to the border, and the top gang members would be able to slip through the district barriers without a problem, find themselves a little spot to store their goods.

  Aha!

  A woman hiding.

  Bob and Rose growled together, hackles rising, sending sparks through my bones.

  She had a gun too.

  I couldn’t help smiling at their awesome work.

  On silent trainers, I stalked over to the far corner where this woman was hiding, drawing my katanas. Relying on Bob and Rose, I followed her smell. Cigarette smoke, sweat, a sickly-sweet perfume. Through their ears, which were mine too, I listened to her clipped breathing, her rapid heartbeat.

  There was a gap between the boxes, and she was tucked into it, gun at the ready. If I stepped into view, she’d blow my head off.

  I went the other way, getting so I was standing behind her, a wall of boxes between us. Putting my swords away for a moment, I placed my hands on the top box.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  I shoved, and the box fell, landing straight on her head—the bang and scream wicked confirmation. She shot her gun, the bullet going wide, hitting something with a loud crack.