Soft As Moonlight

by J. A. Saare

  Soft As Moonlight

  Copyright © October 2009, J. A. Saare

  Cover art by Amira Press © October 2009

  Amira Press

  Baltimore, MD 21216

  www.amirapress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-935348-69-6

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Amira Press.

  Dedication

  For my friends and family. If it weren’t for you, my stories would have remained long forgotten on the dusty office bookshelf.

  Prologue

  New Orleans, 1981

  Push harder. Don’t think. Run faster.

  Cool sheets of peeling hail and heavy rain stung sharply, burrowing into the pale softness of deceptively fragile cheeks. Arden Moran barreled through the odd bucket or chair left decorating the barren rooftops, increasing the speed—heedless, hell-bent, and determined. Each painful and fragmented slice from jagged ice against her face healed in the moment it appeared; the thin wounds driving her onward and keeping her grounded both cruel and bittersweet. Ragged exhalations accompanied her breakneck pace, muted only by the quiet staccato of her restlessly bounding feet.

  The warning from her sources had come too late. The skirmish between the Thymeria human faction and the vampyren would take just minutes. Crucial minutes it would take her to travel from Greyson’s Pub to the water front.

  Focus. Not much time.

  The thin slate of shimmering sleet beneath her worn shit-kickers created a devilishly smooth sheen that would see a lesser creature felled and left for dead twenty stories below—but not her. Immortally good balance kept her from skittering when the faded rubber soles lost traction or a wet patch threatened to set her off course. She was constantly in motion, arms extended in harmony with lithe legs that carried her effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop.

  She saw the space she sought directly ahead, recognized the older abandoned buildings framed by the flickering silver flashes of water. Then, the heavy scent of salt and ocean was overridden by the metallic bitterness of blood.

  No, damn it!

  Never breaking stride, she unsheathed the daggers holstered at her hips and propelled herself from the rooftop with a seamless kick and, twisting her torso midair, aimed for the center of the strewn bodies below. The ground rushed up to greet her, the grainy, rain-drenched asphalt absorbing the landing in welcome. She slid free of her trench coat in the same motion she lifted her arms and rose, standing above the leather pooled at her feet and gazing silently at the cause of the devastation.

  Four newly turned vampyren were trapped in the throes of bloodlust, feasting on their bounty. The wet gurgles and disgusting slurps of bloodletting echoed in a disturbingly lyrical melody with the soft lapping of the water against the wooden landing.

  Her stomach churned in revulsion as her own morbid and repulsive appetite surfaced.

  Closing her eyes, she forced herself to remember why she had come, to suffocate the hunger and to replace it with something more substantial. The fire in her abdomen eased, and the coarse dryness in her throat abated.

  When she opened her eyes, she chose her first target, winding through the bodies with ravaged throats and sightless eyes. Although her feet made no sound, it wouldn’t have mattered. Depraved growls came from the throats and mouths of those experiencing the newfound hunger of the damned. They were blind to all but the blood-clogged buffet of corpses around them.

  She snagged a handful of hair as she dragged her silver blade into the giving flesh of the nearest vampyren’s throat, rendering it headless. Her ears went deaf, and her eyes went blind. It was no longer man, but demon—a being that lived to taint, pillage, and destroy. She held onto both pieces until the body went as limp and lifeless as the others around it. It crumbled to the ground in a slurpy scuff of bloody flesh meeting cool cement.

  The three remaining Fallen didn’t look away from the bodies they cradled and necks they crowded. Their faces were obscured by snarled hair that masked their gorging. Each one met the same fate at the end of her blade, sent to the ever after in the same efficient manner. Only when the last body was cradled by the harsh cushion of the blood-spattered ground did she allow resentment and outrage to surface.

  The master vampyren in charge was long gone, leaving behind those he viewed as disposable. Just like the dead human soldiers dispatched by the Thymeria.

  She trembled in fury.

  The Thymeria.

  For all they touted themselves to be, the vampire race was as ruthless as the vampyren, if not as bloodthirsty.

  She worked through the bodies with her eyes, unwilling to use her nose. The lingering scent of blood was heavy in her nostrils, bringing on the goddamned hunger, and the frozen rain washing away the fragrance was waning. There had been no time to sate the need beforehand, and drinking of the recently departed would leave her no better than those she disposed of.

  Only vampyren fed from the dead.

  The vibrant red hair she dreaded discovering blanketed the darkened blacktop near the water, the body attached to the corkscrew curls hidden just out of view. She slowed her movement, delaying the inevitable by seconds. Her worst nightmare waited just around the side of a building, something she could foresee but never could have prevented.

  Harsh words from the past returned to haunt her and echoed loudly in her mind with each weighted step.

  The Thymeria will be the end of you, Portia. One night, you’ll lay broken and shattered at my feet. They will gladly sacrifice your life for their self-righteous devices. You’ll never join them in immortality, but you’ll most certainly meet your death because of them.

  “Arden.”

  The voice registered as another agonizing memory. Only this time, her friend was speaking. Portia’s voice was always soft, even in anger. It was her way, her nature. She was the gentle one, the nurturer.

  “Arden.”

  The wet burble of blood escaping Portia’s lips as she struggled to speak severed the grip of the past, sapped the strength in Arden’s knees, and brought her quickly to the side of the girl she’d known since she was thirteen—the friend she’d sworn to protect. She quickly assessed the damage as she bowed over the large hole in Portia’s chest. The ragged wound delved through the muscle, bone, and tissue directly over her heart. It was a killing blow intended to stem the flow of life at the source.

  “Y-you c-came,” Portia wheezed and opened her eyes. The hazel irises were dull, the light within fading.

  Not long now.

  She lifted one of Portia’s ashen hands, brought it to her lips, and kissed the back softly before she whispered, “I told you I would.”

  “Yes.” Portia closed her eyes and exhaled shallowly. “You did.”

  Even if it’s too late.

  Arden didn’t have to speak the words aloud. It was a discussion left hanging like an impenetrable barrier between them, a division that had eventually torn the long-standing friendship apart. But remaining among those that exploited human life so easily wasn’t something she could stomach, not when she’d learned the truth about who and what she was.

  Orphaned at ten when her absentee mother passed, and recruited by the Thymeria at twelve, she wasn’t like the other children coveted and molded to kill vampyren the world over. She was something different—something unique. And when she turned eighteen, the vampires at war with the Fallen of their kind discovered they had far more than a capable pupil at their disposal.

  They had a weapon far more deadly.

  For the first time, she regretted the decision to detach from the Thymeria. Staying would have spared the life of the humans she sought to protect. Mortals
like the carefree and loving young woman clinging to the last threads of her life with numbed fingers.

  “It’s all right.” Portia’s eyes slitted and her weak fingers squeezed. “What’s done is done.”

  “No, it’s not.” She shook her head and sighed, meeting her friend’s exhausted eyes and communicating her intent. “Not yet.”

  She released the hand in her grip and moved easy fingers across Portia’s bloodied face. It was easier to access the pain and anguish of memory by touching the flesh over the source, and she needed each and every one to ensure she got everything she needed from Portia in the exchange.

  “D-don’t.” Portia’s voice was weak, vowels slurred. “Too d-dangerous.”

  “Shh, it’s all right,” she whispered tenderly and brushed a stray chunk of red hair away from her friend’s clammy forehead while forcing her face to remain unreadable as she felt death approaching fast and relentless. “I need to know.”

  The memories snaked into her skull, flashing images of the past along with searing bursts of emotion. Happier times were remembered first, then heartbreaks and loss. Finally, the visions she sought arrived, a merging of chaos and terror. Each image was stored along with the sentiment that stained it, winding along the memory and dousing it in grief or joy.

  Including the face of the master vampyren that dealt the vicious blow that would end Portia’s all-too-short life.

  The memories faded along with the soul of the body she held, and Arden gazed down at her Portia’s peaceful face, closing her dulled eyes with a light roll of her fingers. There was nothing left to do but to see to the bodies of the dead and bestow the vow Portia didn’t live long enough to hear.

  “A life for a life,” she promised softly and traced the tips of her fingers along the wet stands of hair at her chilled temple. “I so avow myself.”

  After removing Portia’s remains to a safe distance for a proper burial, Arden returned to the ally to remove the traces of battle, destruction, and the senseless loss of life.

  The less the human police found, the better.

  Piling the bodies into a morbid kindling tepee was easy, as was dousing them in gasoline. But striking the match against the orange-hued flint along the cardboard box twisted like a knife in the gut.

  It was a stark reminder of what life among the Thymeria entailed.

  The flame licked at her fingers, the heated wisps of fire deceivingly beautiful. She tossed the small flare into the uneven mass and watched in a hazy detachment as the macabre pile of limbs and torsos roared to life.

  This was what awaited mortals that flirted with the promise of eternal life.

  Immortality—an oxymoron if ever there was. An extension on life didn’t ensure longevity. In the end, when the entire world crumbled, there was only one absolute certainty.

  Mortal or immortal—bodies burn just the same.

  Chapter One

  New Orleans, Present Day

  Wolfe Trevlian scanned over the preternatural patrons standing at the bar or seated at tables, eyes and senses vigilant, alert, and aware.

  Greyson’s Pub was a great place to conduct business as an immortal. The location in the grittier part of the city ensured humans remained well away. But the “Slaughter House” moniker wasn’t bestowed because Greyson carved prime T-bone in the basement, and he wasn’t in the mood to partake in a pissing contest.

  His bad mood continued to sour as the minutes ticked by, each slower than the last. The only door into the bar remained firmly closed—the bright red leather with black stitching shining like bloody vinyl from the overhanging lamps—meaning his liaison continued to dally.

  Goddamn you, Adam, he thought enviously, downing the last remnants of Hennessy. I hope you’re enjoying the mated life, you lucky fucking bastard.

  Coming back to this place wasn’t easy. He’d left New Orleans two decades prior with the full intention of remaining as far away as possible. Bad memories lingered in the Big Easy. Memories best left alone.

  Like those of Deidre Varmour.

  The scheming fucking bitch.

  Someone with a deep, questioning voice silenced his inner dialogue. “Wolfe, is that you? What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Wolfe sank back in the booth and gazed up, smirking despite himself. He motioned to the empty space on either side of his large body and grinned when Greyson took a seat. Wolfe bowed his head slightly in a display of respect and answered, “I’m just taking care of some pack business since that Alpha of yours decided to settle down and retire.”

  Greyson returned his smile and flagged down a waitress. He ordered another round of Hennessy and a shot of Jack before relaxing into the old, cushioned leather. The elder Lycae didn’t look a day over thirty, even at a century old. The grey at his temples, peppering short, dark hair seemed out of place, his tanned face with silver eyes all but wrinkle free.

  “Everyone has extra business since Adam stepped down,” Greyson said, steely eyes flashing metallic when he added, “Not that I can blame him for making the decision.”

  “You’ve met Kassia?”

  “Aye.” He nodded and smiled.

  Wolfe wasn’t surprised by the reaction to Adam’s female. He’d been much the same when Adam had introduced her to the Quenell pack in New York following their mating. Kassia Lambert was the embodiment of what Lycae longed for in a mate—smart, devoted, and impossibly beautiful. And she obviously loved and worshiped her other half, in both body and soul.

  If only all males were so worthy.

  “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Greyson kept the tone light, his voice casual.

  Wolfe accepted the Hennessy from the waitress when she returned to the table and took a generous swallow before answering. “I’m smoothing things over with the vampyren king.”

  “That’s the way of it, then?” Greyson’s voice changed, becoming angry. “Still harboring a grudge?”

  Wolfe nodded, but didn’t speak. When Adam Trevlian, his cousin and the former Alpha of the Bacchus pack of Louisiana, killed Lucius Mercoix’s second in command for attacking Kassia, he hadn’t bothered masking what he’d done. The message had been clear—come for my mate and meet your maker. Unfortunately, the aftermath meant a certain amount of discretion and ass kissing was necessary. Lycae avoided vampires of all kinds like the plague, and going to war with them wasn’t feasible or worth the time invested.

  They had more important things to worry about.

  Luke Trevlian, Adam’s younger brother and the succeeding Alpha, had to gain the respect of the neighboring packs and the wolves beneath him. Dealing with petty issues was intended for Lycae who respectfully declined the duty of leadership passed down through the bloodlines.

  Lycae like him.

  Wolfe anticipated the next question and answered before Greyson spoke. “I’m here because I knew Taylor Martinson centuries ago. Before he started drinking blood and avoiding the sun. Luke thought a familiar face would be best and asked me to fly down to meet with him.”

  Greyson’s disgust was apparent. “The human contact?”

  That gained a chuckle from Wolfe. “I wouldn’t classify him as human. He’s lived too long for that.”

  Movement from the front door caught Wolfe’s eye, the scarlet leather going dark as the obsidian night brushed the material and masked it in shadow. A dark shape covered in black leather stepped into the establishment, going still just inside the entranceway.

  Wolfe flared his nostrils and scented the air. The fragrance of vampire, Lycae, and Chimera mingled with the stink of amber from a recent summoning by a witch or wizard. He separated each individual smell, having stored them the moment he took a seat some minutes before, and found what he sought—something new and unique.

  Fresh milk soap, honeysuckle, linen and . . .

  He breathed in once more, deeper and longer, unable to distinguish if the sweetness of leech was coming from the bar or the newest patron to Greyson’s.

  “You just stay clear of
that one,” Greyson grumbled, and Wolfe glanced away from the door to meet his disapproving glare. “She’s not for you or anyone else in this place. You leave her be. Hear?”

  Wolfe returned the glare with one of his own. “You sound like an overprotective father.”

  “I’m not asking, Wolfe.” Greyson snagged his shot of Jack and tossed it back. Then, he cleared his throat and said, “Stay away from her.”

  A deep-seated frown formed when Wolfe returned his focus to the door and the shape was gone. He surveyed the crowd, following the enticing aroma of milk and honeysuckle, until he found what he was looking for nestled in the opposite corner at a table near the door. It was impossible to see any part of her. The black leather hat on her head masked her face and matched the long leather coat and gloves covering her body and obscuring her hands.