Curse of the Blood Moon
Blood Moon’s Fury
Leah Kingsley
Blood Moon's Fury
Published internationally by Foxfire Press
88 Captain Morgans Blvd. Nanaimo, BC V9R 6R1
Copyright © 2019 by Leah Kingsley
Terms and Conditions:
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or used in any way without written consent, except in the case of brief paraphrases or quotations cited in critical articles or reviews.
Fictitious Disclaimer:
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between persons, living or deceased, and the characters and situations within this book are unintentional and coincidental. This book contains references to heaven, hell, angels, and demons strictly on a fictional basis. These references are only intended to stimulate the imagination. They do not coincide with any religious beliefs.
For Karen.
Thank you for supporting me in all that I do.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Afterword
Author Note
One
DARKNESS SHROUDED HIS surroundings as Charles Banks crept into the shadowy room. He groped along the wall for the light switch but froze as someone breathed. A hand clamped around his wrist. He wrenched himself free on a jarring jolt of shock. There was an intruder in his home. He turned to run. His shoes skidded on something slippery, and he fell face-first into a pool of blood.
The light clicked on. He recoiled in horror, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. There, right in front of him on his living room floor, lay the body of his father.
The piercing shriek of his alarm yanked him from sleep. He bolted upright and flailed free of his blankets, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic struggle to escape his chest. He fumbled for his glasses and rammed them onto his face. His bedroom swam into focus with the harsh certainty of reality. Charles was seventeen, too old for nightmares, yet the memory of his father’s murder still haunted his dreams.
The killer had never been arrested. Charles had seen the murderer with his own two eyes, but the officials had refused to believe him. They had labeled him traumatized. They had called him naïve. None had accused him of lying, but all believed he was mistaken. No one wished to imagine a beloved senator capable of murdering a journalist in cold blood. It was easier to ignore the words of a child. But Charles had never forgotten that night or that man’s face. How could he while enrolled at the same school as the senator’s son?
Charles dragged himself out of bed and braced himself for another day of high school hell. He was unpopular, short, and clung precariously to the bottom of every social ladder. His school was unusual in that it had two hierarchies: standard popularity and supernatural power. Charles was supernatural but had no power.
The paranormal pecking order mirrored a high school popularity pyramid with the most influential supers at the top, like the cheerleaders and jocks, and the least influential at the bottom, like the losers and outcasts. His human classmates had no idea they went to school with supers, or that supers lived among them throughout their entire world. Charles didn’t blame them. Humans were naturally oblivious.
The supernatural world was fragmented into factions of warring species, most notably mages, demons, angels, and Darks. Angels resembled kindhearted cheerleaders. They wielded a lot of influence in the supernatural community and were flawless in every way. Demons had serious anger management issues. They acted like trashy rednecks, killing first and asking questions later.
Charles’s species, the mages, were at the bottom of the supernatural class structure and represented the average student. They used magic to shape the world around them and emphasized blending with human society. Other supers mocked their powers and ridiculed them for respecting humans.
The last main group of supers, the Darks, were the entitled rich kids, the snobbish queen bees, the crème de la crème of the supernatural world. They were ruthless and smart and delighted in destroying their enemies. Darks had a heightened understanding of emotions and psychology and wielded insane amounts of power that lesser supers could barely comprehend. They ruled the supernatural world because no one had the means to oppose them.
Darks looked down on mages like jocks looked down on nerds. This meant that Charles was bullied by everyone. His entire appearance screamed geek. He was short and skinny with a thin, pale face and closely cropped strawberry blond hair. He had eyes the color of blue forget-me-nots, a long, narrow nose, and always wore a pair of oversized glasses. A girl in his class had once insisted his eyes were gorgeous and suggested he switch to contacts, but Charles had stuck with the glasses to save money.
The Banks family had never been rich or even comfortable. They lived in a shabby neighborhood with a high crime rate, where gang violence and drug deals were everyday occurrences. Their two-bedroom home was 900 square feet, and compared to the other houses in the neighborhood, in amazing shape. They had laminate floors throughout the living room and kitchen, plush carpeting in the bedrooms, and fresh paint on the exterior.
Charles and his mother made the best of what they had because recent redistricting had placed their neighborhood on the fringe of a top-notch school district. Charles’s education was his mother’s top priority, and she struggled tirelessly to save for his college fund. She had gotten a second job at the beginning of September, writing for the Toronto Times in the early mornings before spending long hours at her day job as a rehabilitation counselor.
Charles was a straight A student and hoped to win several scholarships. His mom claimed he was a natural-born intellect. He knew better. His good grades were the byproduct of a nonexistent social life. Studying to get into a college far away was his only chance of escaping Toronto and his tormentors.
He glanced at the clock on the microwave and leapt to his feet on an electric shock of panic. His bus was due at any moment. He swiped his backpack off the couch and raced out the door. His bus was pulling away from the curb. He charged down his sidewalk, waving like a maniac to get the driver’s attention. His mom always used to get him out the door. He never thought he’d miss her nagging.
The driver smiled kindly and waited at the corner. He scrambled aboard with a couple dark-haired girls and found an empty seat near the back by a sputtering heat vent. A group of boisterous jocks turned
their attention to teasing him, peppering him with insults and mocking his shabby appearance. Their words formed a monotonous backdrop of noise that he did his best to tune out. He gazed out the window and wished he were anywhere else. Charles ditched his tormentors at school by charging headlong into the crowd shoving their way through the front doors.
The bustling entrance hall was even more congested than usual with a group of guys clustered in front of the doors to the auditorium. Their collective attention was focused upon the school flag, a cerulean and gold banner depicting a roaring tiger. It hung majestically above the auditorium’s double doors albeit with a lacy black thong dangling from its top left corner. A jock jostled the flag to dislodge the underwear, while his friends bet each other on who was going to catch it.
Charles huffed out a disgusted sigh. His classmates had no respect for their school, their peers, or themselves. Yet they attended Toronto’s finest high school and walked the halls as if entitled to everything. The patronizing teachers and tastefully decorated building encouraged their upper-class mindset. From its perfectly manicured lawn to its enormous library, the institute screamed snobbish pretense. It also shrieked by-the-book conventionality. Toronto High School, a.k.a. THS, was the largest and most prestigious high school in the city. Charles gave a disdainful shake of his head. THS’s lack of originality never ceased to amaze him.
He plodded through the halls and hesitated in the doorway to homeroom. Students in his class divided themselves into acutely distinct friend groups such as cheerleaders, stoners, nerds, gangsters, and football jocks. Choosing the wrong seat meant social suicide. He usually played it safe and sat with the nerds, but another day of Mathletes and chemistry jokes would melt his mind. That left him with the gangsters, a dangerous hangout for the shortest guy in class.
This group of four had a nasty reputation. They vandalized property, dabbled in illegal drugs, violently targeted minorities, and called themselves a gang by the name of Assassin’s Honor. Each wore motorcycle attire, tall boots and black leather jackets. All four made his life a living hell.
Nathan Johnson, the gang’s leader and the most obnoxious of his crew, was loud and opinionated and spoke with a thick Tennessee drawl that made everything he said sound vaguely inappropriate. He was a burly six foot two with a square face and deep-set brown eyes the color of chestnuts. His spiky russet hair and unkempt facial stubble gave off dangerous vibes, and the jagged scar running the length of his right cheek confirmed the assumption.
Alexander Cardelle, the member of Assassin’s Honor whom Charles loathed most, had one favorite pastime, torturing Charles. Alex was six feet of muscle with a cruel mouth and stormy blue eyes. He had thick mocha brown hair, a strong jaw, and according to all the girls, the sculpted cheekbones of a Greek god.
Ashton Jones, the dumbest member of Assassin’s Honor, had white blond hair and dopey hazel eyes. Ash was five or six inches taller than Charles and skinny as a rail. His round, freckled face and gap-toothed smile gave the illusion of innocence, an odd incongruence for a gangster.
Peter Jenkins, the quietest of the group, was six foot four and built like a rock. His broad shoulders, huge forearms, and impressive eight-pack were reminiscent of the Hulk. He had curly dark brown hair and an eternally serious expression. His chiseled features and almond complexion accentuated his gentle sea green eyes.
Charles had a secret fascination with Assassin’s Honor. They were led by a human, even though one of their members was a Dark. Why would such a powerful being let a mere mortal tell him what to do? Perhaps the human was the Dark’s built-in safety, a convenient scapegoat for every crime.
The infamous four were sitting in the back-left row with two empty seats to Ash’s right. Charles took the desk by the aisle, leaving one empty chair between himself and the four horrors.
“Dork at three o’clock,” Alex alerted the others.
Charles set down his books and stared straight ahead at the blank whiteboard.
“What you studying, Banks? Your social calendar for the next month?” Nathan laughed at his own joke.
“How’s your mommy?” Alex’s cold blue eyes flashed with malice. “Bet it’s hard now she works all the time. You must never see your best friend.”
Charles kept his face expressionless but clenched his fists under the desk. It pissed him off when they brought up his mother.
Nathan snickered. “His mom probably got that second job so she could have more time away from him.”
Charles bit his tongue and studied his polished wooden desktop. Three faint scratches marred its smooth surface. He made out the letters A + J.
“What’s it like being a loser?” Ash leaned across the empty desk, invading Charles’s personal space. His shaggy hair fell into his bloodshot eyes.
“Why you asking me? You have a lifetime of firsthand experience.” Charles smirked. Ash had made that comeback way too easy. His stoner reputation won no popularity points. The insult hit its mark, but so did Ash’s fist. Charles rubbed his jaw. Why did annoying Ash bring him such inexplicable glee?
An attractive blonde entered the classroom. Alex tossed her a note, imitating an overdramatic football pass. She laughed as she read his message and flipped her honey blonde curls. Charles fought his gag reflex. What did girls see in shady guys?
Two
“AMY! AMY! WAKE up!”
Amy Evans startled awake as her nine-year-old sister catapulted into her room and bounced up and down on the end of her bed. Susan was already dressed for school despite the fact it was barely light outside. She wore a pink V-neck shirt with navy blue skinny jeans and had accessorized her outfit with a pair of Amy’s favorite earrings. The tiny silver bobbles tinkled cheerfully as she bounced.
“Susan.” Amy put her pillow over her head to muffle her sister’s shrieking. “What time is it?”
“Six twenty-two and wake up to you!” She giggled at her rhyme.
Amy groaned. “Sue, I sleep until six forty-five.”
“But Amy.” Susan pouted. She had the best pout in the entire world. No one could resist those dove gray eyes or that adorable little head tilt, and when she puckered up her rosebud lips, her sweet face just about melted your heart. “Are you really gonna be able to fall back asleep?”
Amy sighed. She crawled out of bed and instantly regretted leaving its cocoon of warmth. Her bare feet came into contact with the cold laminate floor as the draft from her single-pane window cut through her fraying T-shirt and sweats. She shivered and hunched her shoulders against the damp, chilly air. The heat had flaked out again. How much would it cost to fix this time? She longed to slip back beneath her covers and sleep the day away.
Amy loved her twin bed. She had rescued a pillow-top mattress from a garage sale a year ago and had spent months saving up for a lapis blue bedspread. She had topped it off with a collection of velvet and faux fur throw pillows, creating a nest-like haven of comfort.
The rest of her dingy room depressed her. Its artichoke green walls resembled the inside of a genetically modified vegetable. Susan had taken one horrified peek at the room on move-in day and run screaming down the hall to her smaller but favorably painted burgundy bedroom. The rickety nightstand by Amy’s bed bore nothing but a broken lamp, and a shaggy violet rug in the center of her floor hid a large chip in the laminate. She didn’t even have a dresser, since the clothes she owned barely filled her closet. Money had been tight since their dad had walked out on them, but they had all managed to survive. Amy was determined to survive for Susan’s sake. Her little sister deserved better than their trashy neighborhood.
Susan dumped the contents of Amy’s makeup bag onto her bed and applied sparkly bubblegum lip gloss to her eyelids. Amy had tried a similar look in her preteen, Kesha-obsessed phase. Glitter-zombie much?
“What are you doing?” She laughed.
“Using your makeup,” Susan chirped, checking the effect in the mirror. The glitter clashed horribly with her long, dark lashes.
“Tha
t goes here.” Amy pointed to her lips.
Color bloomed in Susan’s already rosy cheeks. She darted into the washroom to remove the offending pink sparkles. Amy closed her eyes, shuttering her soul to its constant pain. Susan looked exactly like her when she blushed. The little girl was Amy in miniature. Everything about her, from her petite features to her trusting smile, reminded Amy of her traumatic past.
Splinters of memories skewered her mind. A baby girl’s smile. A photo of her father. A washed-out watercolor of a casket in a grave. Each image twisted its own unique knife, tattooing a special scar upon her broken, bleeding heart.
She picked up her hairbrush and twirled it in her fingers as she studied her reflection in the mirror by her door. Amy was five foot two and fine boned with high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Her fair complexion contrasted her soft, ebony hair, and her haunted misty gray eyes gave her an air of sorrowful mystery. She used this to her advantage, cloaking her thoughts and feelings behind layers of cynicism and snark.
Amy set aside her brush and dropped her head into her hands. She had bags the size of Texas under her eyes and tangled hair flopping limply to her shoulders. She desperately needed a shower and a good night’s sleep, but neither goal was achievable before school. She rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn. Making herself halfway presentable was pointless but mandatory. She retrieved her makeup from where Susan had left it strewn on the bed and rooted through it for supplies. She applied eyeliner and mascara and assessed her pale reflection. Foundation and bronzer completed her look and marginally concealed her exhaustion. Juggling school, a part-time job, and caring for her sister left little time for such luxuries as sleep.
“Amy!” Susan called over the water running in the bathroom. “Will you help me do my makeup?”
“Keep that out of your eyes,” Amy said, shooting a look across the hall. Susan stood at the sink, exuberantly splashing water onto her face. Her pink shirt and silky onyx hair were soaked, and her eyes were still rimmed with glitter.
Blood Moon's Fury: A Young Adult Fantasy Thriller (Curse of the Blood Moon Book 1) Page 1
