Rise of the Poison Moon
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1 - Andi
CHAPTER 2 - Susan
CHAPTER 3 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 4 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 5 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 6 - Susan
CHAPTER 7 - Susan
CHAPTER 8 - Andi
CHAPTER 9 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 10 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 11 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 12 - Andi
CHAPTER 13 - Susan
CHAPTER 14 - Susan
CHAPTER 15 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 16 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 17 - Susan
CHAPTER 18 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 19 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 20 - Andi
CHAPTER 21 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 22 - Andi
CHAPTER 23 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 24 - Andi
CHAPTER 25 - Andi
CHAPTER 26 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 27 - Susan
CHAPTER 28 - Susan
CHAPTER 29 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 30 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 31 - Andi
CHAPTER 32 - Andi
CHAPTER 33 - Andi
CHAPTER 34 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 35 - Andi
CHAPTER 36 - Andi
CHAPTER 37 - Susan
CHAPTER 38 - Susan
CHAPTER 39 - Susan
CHAPTER 40 - Susan
CHAPTER 41 - Susan
CHAPTER 42 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 43 - Susan
CHAPTER 44 - Susan
CHAPTER 45 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 46 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 47 - Susan
CHAPTER 48 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 49 - Jennifer
CHAPTER 50 - Susan
CHAPTER 51 - Jennifer
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
Praise for the novels of MaryJanice Davidson
“A hilarious romp full of goofy twists and turns, great fun for fans of humorous vampire romance.”
—Locus
“Delightful, wicked fun!”—Christine Feehan,
#1 New York Times bestselling author of Water Bound
“Move over, Buffy. Betsy’s in town and she rocks! . . . I don’t care what mood you are in; if you open this book, you are practically guaranteed to laugh . . . top-notch humor and a fascinating perspective of the vampire world.”
—ParaNormalRomance.org
“One of the funniest, most satisfying series to come along lately. If you’re [a fan] of Sookie Stackhouse and Anita Blake, don’t miss Betsy Taylor. She rocks.”
—The Best Reviews
“Undead and Unwed is an irreverently hilarious, superbly entertaining novel of love, lust, and designer shoes. Betsy Taylor is an unrepentant fiend—about shoes. She is shallow, vain, and immensely entertaining. Her journey from life to death, or the undead, is so amusing I found myself laughing out loud while reading. Between her human friends, vampire allies, and her undead enemies, her first week as the newly undead is never boring . . . a reading experience that will leave you laughing and ‘dying’ for more from the talented pen of MaryJanice Davidson.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A hilarious book.”
—ParaNormalRomance.org
“Creative, sophisticated, sexy, and wonderfully witty.”
—Catherine Spangler, national bestselling author of Touched by Light
Titles by MaryJanice Davidson and Anthony Alongi
Jennifer Scales and the Ancient Furnace
Jennifer Scales and the Messenger of Light
The Silver Moon Elm: A Jennifer Scales Novel
Seraph of Sorrow: A Jennifer Scales Novel
Rise of the Poison Moon: A Jennifer Scales Novel
Titles by MaryJanice Davidson
Undead and Unwed
Undead and Unemployed
Undead and Unappreciated
Undead and Unreturnable
Undead and Unpopular
Undead and Uneasy
Undead and Unworthy
Undead and Unwelcome
Undead and Unfinished
Derik’s Bane
Sleeping with the Fishes
Swimming Without a Net
Fish out of Water
Anthologies
Cravings
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Rebecca York, Eileen Wilks)
Bite
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Angela Knight, Vickie Taylor)
Kick Ass
(with Maggie Shayne, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford)
Men at Work
(with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)
Dead and Loving It
Surf’s Up
(with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)
Mysteria
(with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)
Over the Moon
(with Angela Knight, Virginia Kantra, Sunny)
Demon’s Delight
(with Emma Holly, Vickie Taylor, Catherine Spangler)
Dead Over Heels
Mysteria Lane
(with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
RISE OF THE POISON MOON
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the authors
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / August 2010
Copyright © 2010 by MaryJanice Davidson Alongi and Anthony Alongi.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18883-5
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For Christina, who has not had a book
from us all to herself in fifteen years.
How did THAT happen?
Huh. Sorry, kid. Here you go. Love you.
In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior.
—SIR FRANCIS BACON
PROLOGUE
The Elder’s Diary
August 5, 8 P.M.
No. I’m not doing this.
August 6, 8 P.M.
Seriously. Not gonna.
August 7, 8 P.M.
Mom, Dad: you can shove this blank book and a pen in my face every evening for the next fifty years, and I’ll never write more than twenty words. Okay, thirty.
Also, we’re out of milk. Also also, I hate how powdered milk tastes. I know we’ve got to make sacrifices. But I dislike milk in powder form. Just sayin’.
August 8, 8:30 P.M.
Phllllbt.
August 9, 1 P.M.
Honey—this isn’t entirely about you. As your father has told you, it’s important to tell your story. People are counting on you. Not just now, but in the future. They need to see what you’ve seen, learn the lessons you’ve learned. It may not seem fair, but you owe them that.
August 9, 8 P.M.
MOM!!! YOU READ MY DIARY! AND YOU’RE WRITING IN IT! WHAT KIND OF MOTHER DOES THAT?!? DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW COMPLETELY TWISTED THAT IS, OR ARE YOU TOO BUSY BEING A PSYCHO TO GET IT?
August 10, noon
Hey, ace. Don’t be mad at your mother. She knows this is important to me—to all of us, really—and she volunteered to sneak a peek at what you’ve done so far. Can’t say either of us are totally impressed; but we’re still hoping you’ll come around. You know, almost better than any of us, how deep the abyss is that we’re all staring down. (This isn’t Seventeen magazine, ace, and your privacy isn’t more important than our survival.) I don’t believe this town can last through another winter. What may be left of us is on these pages. So what say you crank it up a notch and write a note or two for posterity?
August 10, 12:30 P.M.
Ugh, I knew I should have moved this thing to another hiding place after Mom invaded my privacy. (’Scuze me, the privacy that isn’t as important as our survival, vomit vomit vomit.) No point now—both parental slugs have left their eternal slime in this journal, and now there’s nothing to be done.
I’d burn this thing tonight if I didn’t think we’d need to save every bit of paper to make it through another winter.
August 11, noon
Jennifer, I guess you’re going to be totally annoyed that I’m writing in here; but your parents begged me so I’m writing this while Gautierre and I came to visit you today. You just stepped out of your room to take a pee break. Did you know you take forever? (How long can it take, Jenn? I mean, geez.) Gautierre thought it was weird, but I said it was a girl thing, so he dropped the whole thing. They have a point. Your folks, I mean. You gotta do this. Gautierre agrees. Okay, you flushed so I gotta go; good-bye!
August 11, 12:03 P.M.
Having thrown Susan, the artist formerly known as my best friend, and her boyfriend out of my room for conspiracy to commit phenomenal embarrassment, I would like to state for the record that I, the Ancient Furnace, do NOT pee or flush. I am more powerful than that. I can simply will my urine away.
Away, urine! See? (I’m no longer pretending this is any sort of a private document.)
Okay, everyone, I’ll make you a deal. If you can all go twenty-four hours without molesting my journal, I will start serious entries tomorrow. Deal?
August 12, 12:04 P.M.
All right. Thanks, everyone, for refraining from sharing further tales of my bathroom habits. Guess I should keep my end of the deal.
My name is Jennifer Caroline Scales. I live in a town called Winoka with three major problems.
First, those of us who turn into dragons don’t call it Winoka. We call it Pinegrove, because that was the name it had before a woman named Glorianna Seabright led an army of beaststalkers here, wiped out the inhabitants, and renamed it. That was about forty years ago.
Second, last November Mayor Seabright died, and on that night a barrier rose that blocks off this town from everything else around it. It’s enormous and translucent and blue and round, like my ass when I’m in dragon form.
The only thing that makes it through is weather—snow, rain, sun, wind, okay you probably know what weather is! For a while, electricity made it through fine, too—but then a bad January storm knocked out more of the grid than we could repair with what we had. The town began rationing fuel. Since then, it’s gotten harder.
Third, everyone outside this barrier appears content to wait for us to die. More on that tomorrow.
CHAPTER 1
Andi
Winoka—or Pinegrove, as Andeana Corona Marsabio knew some called it—sat in a river valley. The Mississippi cut a wide boundary to the north and east, and the only crossing for miles was Winoka Bridge. Its aging gray steel arch connected the eastern higher ground to the western lowlands, where the town’s city hall and oldest neighborhoods lay.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she took it all in from her perch atop the riverside cliffs. The shimmering blue dome that covered it all only made it look more magical. There had been nothing like this in the dark places where Andi had once lived. Here, she found beauty. Here, she found light.
Here, she found Skip Wilson.
“It’ll look even better after they’re all dead,” she heard him say.
She turned to where he was sitting, a few feet behind her and to the left. The rising sun made her squint. She wondered if he placed himself like that on purpose. He was drawing now, letting a sketch pencil fly across a large pad. Maybe he was drawing her. Sometimes he liked to do that, when he wasn’t drawing creatures.
“They don’t need to die,” she reminded him.
“I disagree.” The pencil didn’t stop.
Is this turning me on? she wondered. Or scaring me? Or boring? Boring would be bad. Her arms crossed, and she massaged the insides of her forearms with her thumbs. “They have as much right as you and me to live.”
“I disagree.”
“It’s inhumane.”
“I dis—”
“Yeah, well, you disagreeing doesn’t mean piss to me.” Andi turned back to the trapped city. (Asked and answered: this was not turning her on.) Rainbows bled through the eastern half of the dome; a wisp of mist from a recent shower had slipped through the barrier that let almost nothing else through. “I should let them out.”
Finally, she heard the skritch-skritch-skritch of his pencil pause. “We’ve gone over this. We don’t know enough about the sorcery to bring it down even if we wanted to. Which we don’t.”
She liked him, yes indeed, but he could be somewhat—what was the phrase? High-handed. Yes. Certainly he seemed to have no trouble speaking to her . . . not to mention for her. “It doesn’t seem difficult. Why not try?”
“Wrong question. Why try at all?”
“High-handed,” she muttered.
He didn’t notice . . . or didn’t care. “We can pass through that barrier. You did twice on the night it went up, didn’t you?”
She swallowed. “That’s a cheap—”
“Once to leap in and kill your mother, the rotten mayor of that stinking town, and once to make your getaway.”
She couldn’t believe—she couldn’t believe he was using her shame and fear to make his point. “I was under the influence of my father’s sorcery! I had no choice!”
“Hey, I’m not complaining.” Skip smiled and seemed puzzled by her outburst. “Mayor Seabright was a murderous bitch. If your dad were still alive, I’d shake his hand.”
“If my father were sti
ll alive, he’d have killed you by now.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, from what I’ve heard of him, he was a real piece of work. Who calls themselves The Crown, anyway? Sounds like he might have had some fantasies about sixteenth-century Portugal.”
It was a remark designed to piss her off, and they both knew it. Her tan features crinkled, and her blood roiled. “He wasn’t European.”
“No, that was your mother’s side, wasn’t it? The beaststalker side.” He snapped his fingers, as if remembering for the first time. “Your father’s side was from south of here. Not Texas-south. Way south. Rain forest-south.”
She uncrossed her arms, grabbed two fistfuls of grass, and held on.
“I don’t remember much about all those countries down there. My mother and I visited a few years ago, but I was really young. Mostly, I recall lots of vines, strange animals, and simple people who smelled bad.”
This is sick, she told herself as she tore herself from the ground and launched herself at him. He’s sick. I’m sick.
By the time she reached him, he had flung the pencil and pad away and was ready to catch her. They rolled over a few times, her fists pummeling away at him. She started with two, but soon she was pretty sure she had sprouted more. He didn’t even try to stop the blows—he didn’t have enough arms to do so. She supposed he could turn into something with eight legs, but that wasn’t the point.
He laughed at her, an unkind sound meant to provoke more violence. He got it.
A few minutes later, they were sitting across from each other, sullenly examining their wounds. Andi was reasonably certain (more so than usual, even) that this was not in any way a healthy relationship. It was even more aggravating because she wasn’t quite sure who needed fixing. Him? Her? Both?