Blood Moon

by Rose Marie Wolf

  “Jim Beam,” he answered without hesitation. “Straight. On the rocks.”

  “You got it.” She gave a big grin. “Chris, give the man his drink,” she said, looking at him.

  Chris brought out the bottle and filled a tumbler halfway with ice, and poured the amber liquid over it. Jason took it and took a long drink from it. The woman watched him, then turned her eyes to Aurora. Their eyes met for a split second before she inclined her head away from the bar. It was a clear indication for them to slip away.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Aurora said. She took her brother by the arm and pulled him away from the door. They walked toward the pool tables, glancing back at Jason and the woman. He had finished his whiskey and the bartender was pouring another one. Maureen returned to her cigarette but watched them from the corner of her eye.

  “The name’s Cheyenne. Looks like you and your kids have gotten into a bit of trouble,” Aurora heard the woman say. She tried to appear interested in something on the pool table.

  “They’re not my kids,” he said with a slight scoff. “My name’s Jason. I picked them up…so to speak.”

  “Ah.” Aurora saw her nod her head a bit. Jason was halfway through his second glass. His soaked pants dripped water all over the floor around the stool he now sat on. She became suddenly aware of the water trail they had made across the floor. The bartender didn’t look too happy. He pulled a mop from the closet near the bar.

  “Take it easy with that, pal,” Cheyenne said, lowering her voice. “You’ll get drunk.”

  “I don’t care. I want to get drunk,” Jason said. He let out a horrible laugh. “Maybe it will help me forget.”

  “You don’t want to do that,” Cheyenne told him. Her voice was a whisper now and Aurora really had to strain to hear her. She glanced at Rebel. He was playing with a cue stick, idly rubbing the tip of it. He listened, too, his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration.

  “Why not? You don’t know what the fuck I want.”

  “I can see determination in you, Jason,” she said. “I don’t know why, but it has to be something big. You don’t just show up in a bar in the middle of the afternoon looking like hell. What happened to you?”

  “Long story.”

  “I have the time.”

  Jason sighed. “Forget it.”

  Cheyenne was silent. The bartender walked past them, mopping the water up from the floor. She waited until he was far enough out of the way before she continued in a very low whisper.

  “I know what you are.”

  Jason jumped. His eyes shot to her accusingly. Aurora felt her heart leap in her chest. She stared, no longer disguising her eavesdropping.

  Cheyenne lifted a hand to stop him before he said anything. “Now before you overreact, no, I’m not a hunter.” She mouthed the last word, more than spoke it aloud. Jason looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “I’m a werewolf—just like you are, just like those kids are. I can’t smell you like I can them, so I’m judging you’re like me—”

  “Reserve your judgment,” Jason said. “You don’t know anything.”

  She went silent, staring down at her hat. Chris made another pass. Once he was out of earshot, she went on.

  “I guess I’m what you call a changed-blood…”

  “Well, you’re judgment was wrong. I’m not a changed-blood.” He sounded a bit insulted. He was looking at her closely. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “You don’t,” she said. She let out a sigh. “I can help you though. Trust me. It’s not safe to talk here. I can take you to a place—”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Cheyenne grinned a bit and shook her head. “Just like a man. Proud and stubborn. Fine. If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for those kids. They need a place to sleep. They look exhausted.” With that, she looked at them.

  Aurora quickly averted her gaze and feigned interest in the eight ball in front of her. Jason was silent. The ice cubes rattled in his glass. Finally, he let out a very heavy sigh.

  “Fine, but no funny business, Cheyenne.” He lifted his shirt just slightly so she could see the two pistols there. “I mean it.”

  “Not a problem. My truck’s out front.” She stood and took out a wallet from her back pocket. She pulled out a handful of bills and put them on the counter. “Thanks, Chris. Have a good night.”

  The bartender didn’t echo her sentiment, but gave a stiff-necked nod to her.

  “Come on, kids. You can stop pretending to listen now. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  Aurora felt her face burn with shame. Rebel’s was already red. He exchanged looks with his sister, then started for the door. Cheyenne led the way out front, replacing her hat before she stepped into the pouring rain.

  Jason brought up the rear. Aurora paused at the door to look back at him. He downed the rest of his drink, slammed the tumbler on the counter. It shattered on impact, shards sticking out of his skin. She winced at the sight of the blood.

  But Jason merely shook his hand, flinging blood onto the counter, and stood. He walked by Aurora. The last thing she saw before closing the door was the bartender’s red face turn purple in rage.

  She joined the others in the cramped cab of a red Dodge Ram and was soon content to warm herself on the truck’s heater.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Davis didn’t remember ever sitting down on the decrepit couch, much less falling asleep. A sudden noise awoke him and he jerked involuntarily. There was a painful crick in the back of his neck and he winced as he sat forward. He had just begun to rub it when the sound came again.

  He turned his head so fast that the pain in his neck blinded him. He cursed under his breath and peered through watery eyes at the door. He could see a figure standing in front of the glass. The sky behind him was dark grey. Rain was falling steadily. The figure knocked again, then yelled.

  “Hey, Glen!”

  Davis stood and called toward the bedroom’s closed door. “Glen! Your friend is here.”

  “Give me a minute,” he heard Glen shout back answer. “Let him in.”

  “Sure.”

  Davis, still rubbing the back of his neck, approached the door. The man out front had his head turned, staring out into the rain. Headlights flashed across the highway. When he heard the clicking of the lock being undone, he turned back.

  Davis opened the door and stared at him. His mouth dropped open. Standing in front of him was a boy of about twenty, staring at him with the same look of shock. His dark brown eyes stared at him, disbelieving. His wet auburn hair was tied back in a short tail. Earrings glinted in the light as he turned his head.

  The shock was soon replaced with an incalculable anger.

  Now Davis knew why the name “Aaron Slater” had seemed so familiar. Slater had been the last name of the woman he killed.

  “You!” Slater cried. With a strong shove, he pushed Davis back. Davis stumbled, but did not fall. “You killed my mother!”

  Before Davis could explain, Slater had lunged at him. He felt a fist hit the side of his face and was suddenly dizzy. He did fall this time, upsetting a folding chair behind him. He tried to scramble over it, but Slater was on top of him throwing punch after punch. It was all Davis could do to block the blows.

  “Slater!” Glen shouted from somewhere across the room. Davis couldn’t see him. He had covered his face with his arms. Slater did not stop with the punches. Davis yelled for him to stop, to let him explain, but it was of no use.

  Suddenly, Davis felt Slater's weight removed from him, and heard Glen exclaim, “What the hell is the meaning of this? What the fuck are you doing?”

  Davis risked a glance and was never more grateful to have Glen on his side than he was at that moment. Slater’s eyes, once a very dark brown, now blazed yellow. The rage in them was like none he had ever seen in anyone, even Jason. Glen held him back with both arms. It took all his strength as Slater fought to free himself.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Gle
n demanded. He gave a rough shove and sent Slater sliding across the floor. Slater fell, but did not remain there for long.

  “What is he doing here?” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Davis. Davis climbed to his feet. His lips had been cut on his teeth and he tasted blood. He spit it out. “He’s a goddamned hunter.”

  “Take it easy, Slater. He’s on our side,” Glen tried to explain. He stood between the two. Slater was ready to fight. Davis stared at him from behind Glen.

  “He killed my mother, Glen. Don’t try to protect him!”

  There was a moment of ringing silence. Glen glanced back at Davis briefly, and Davis looked away. He hated to admit it, but it was true. This was the very same boy who had stumbled into the kitchen that day to witness his mother’s murder.

  “It’s true, Glen. I did kill his mother.” Davis found his voice.

  “He admits it,” Slater said, with a scared sort of triumph in his voice. “It was him.”

  “But I didn’t mean to. It was an accident!”

  “I saw you holding the fucking gun. It was still smoking! Accident, my ass.”

  “I did not want to kill her!”

  “Stop it, both of you.” Glen ordered. His voice echoed off the walls. “If I had known Brenda Slater was the woman you had killed, I never would’ve invited Slater here.” He rounded on Slater. “The least you can do is listen to an explanation—”

  “What explanation?” Slater interrupted. “He killed her. That’s all I need to know.”

  Glen growled. “I called you here to help us, Aaron, and I will not have either of you fighting. There will be time enough for that later. Right now, you two need to put your differences aside and work together.”

  “Fat fucking chance,” Slater shouted. He stared lividly at Davis.

  “Listen,” Glen shouted back. “If you don’t agree to work with us, you can get your ass out of here. We can do just fine on our own.”

  Davis stared at Glen. He had to be bluffing.

  “I’ll help you, Glen, but not him…never him. I’ll kill him the first chance I get.”

  “But not on my watch,” Glen answered. “Davis,” he turned to him, “leave us alone for a few minutes. I need to have a heart-to-heart talk with him.” There was no mirth or playfulness.

  “Yeah,” Davis agreed. He caught a glance at the boy. He was seething, his arms across the chest of his rock n’ roll T-shirt. He stared at Davis until he disappeared into the bedroom.

  Once alone in the bedroom with the door closed, Davis sank onto the cot. All the anxiety of the past few days came back to him again. He closed his hands over his ears to drown out the shouting voices.

  To come face-to-face with the child of the woman he killed—it was horrible. And Slater had every right to want to kill him. He felt worse than he ever had in his life, because not only did he have to carry the guilt of her death with him everywhere, but now he had the boy’s blazing and hurt eyes to contend with.

  He shut his eyes and tried to forget everything.

  * * *

  Claire stared at the mess of papers that covered Simon’s desk. All PRDI related, their black folders strewn about. Photographs covered the walls, some with bright red X’s crossed through them. She narrowed her eyes slightly and turned away. She didn’t have to be a genius to know what those X’s meant.

  She heaved a sigh and paced the floor. She wouldn’t let the fear consume her this time. Simon couldn’t know what she'd been telling Rose. Or could he? She swallowed her anxiety and closed her eyes. She would lie. If he knew the truth, he would kill her. She knew he was capable of it.

  If only Rose would agree to her help. They could both get out of here and away from him. But Rose was stubborn. She wouldn’t agree to it and Claire didn’t really blame her. If she had been kidnapped, she wouldn’t trust anyone either.

  Claire didn’t think on it much. Simon’s massive form was a dark silhouette outside the door. She took in a deep breath and composed herself.

  Simon stepped in, his mouth a thin line. There was blood on his hand and it was smeared near the crotch of his jeans. He took one look at Claire and pointed toward the empty chair near his desk.

  “Sit,” he demanded.

  Claire sat slowly, watching him carefully. He walked past her, glared, then turned to his desk. With a sweep of his hand, he sent most of the papers and folders scattering to the floor. A glass ashtray clattered and smashed loudly. Claire jumped.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” he began. He sat in his chair and turned it so he faced her. His bloody hand gripped the corner of the desk. His eyes were thin, angry slits. “What the fuck were you doing in there with her?”

  Claire took a deep breath before speaking in a low, soft voice. “I was concerned—”

  “Concerned?” Simon lifted a thick dark eyebrow at her. His tone was bitter. “Concerned about what?”

  “About…the woman. The drug you gave her. You were giving her an awful lot, and I was afraid that it would—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Claire,” Simon said, exasperatedly. “I’m tired of you lying to me. What were you telling her?”

  “I wasn’t telling her anything.” A sweat begun on her brow and she was thankful that her bangs covered it. Her heart pounded.

  Simon sniffed the air and then exhaled deeply. He smirked a bit and lowered his eyebrow. “I know you, Claire.” There was a pause as he considered something for a moment. Claire waited anxiously.

  Finally, he stood and began to pace the room behind his desk. The sky outside the large window was grey, swiftly becoming black. Simon paused once to look out before he turned back to Claire. He strode the floor in three quick steps and leaned down close to her face. His brown eyes shone with bits of gold specked through them.

  “Need I remind you…” his voice was dark and scary, “…of what I told you before? You stay until you die. There is no way out.”

  Claire tried to look away, but he lifted the blood-stained hand and held her firmly under the chin. She was forced to look at him. How could she forget his earlier threat?

  “You aren’t thinking of changing your mind on the matter, are you?” he asked, his voice a whisper. She gave a shake of her head, breaking free of his hand, and glared at him. He grinned.

  “Remember why you are here, Claire. You are here to help me, and that means doing whatever I say. I don’t want you anywhere near her. You don’t offer her help of any kind, even if she is drawing her last breath. You leave those dealings to me. You got it?”

  Claire stared at him angrily. She clenched her teeth together. She said nothing.

  “Do you understand me?” Simon demanded. His voice rose.

  “I got it,” she said. Simon stepped back from her, looking smug. She forced herself to stand fully. Her legs shook.

  “I got it, Simon. I know.” There was a quaver in her voice. Her lip trembled. Simon’s smirk fell away and anger took over his features.

  “What did you say?”

  Simon rounded on her quicker than she could react. He grabbed her upper arms and his grip hurt. She did her best not to cry out in pain and fright.

  “What do you know?” he demanded. His voice was a little too loud.

  For a moment, Claire thought she was stricken mute. She tried to speak, but the words would not come out of her mouth. His eyes had become golden and feral.

  “Tell me.” He shook her, and her teeth rattled. She had not meant to reveal anything.

  “I don’t know anything!” she lied, shouting it in his face. She fought to pull her arms free, but he only tightened his grip. He stared at her, disbelieving. Then, quite suddenly, he shoved her away. Claire let out a cry as the force of his push forced her back. She fell into the chair she had been sitting in moments ago and almost fell back. She grabbed the corner of his desk to stop herself.

  “Get out of here, now,” he told her. He turned his back to her.

  “Fuck you, Simon,” she said, rubbing her arm as she stood on her sh
aking legs again. She wanted to say more, but couldn’t get the words to come out. She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Alana stood just outside the door, an arrogant smile on her face. Claire glared at her for a moment, wanting to slap the smirk from her face. Instead, she climbed down the stairs and disappeared into her room. The slamming door echoed in the growing silence

  Alana watched Claire huff into her room, and she let out a small chuckle. She had heard almost everything of the conversation. The words that had been whispered were lost, but not the yelling. Simon was pissed at Claire, and that made Alana feel good. Claire was too much of a goody-goody for her liking.

  She gave a shake of her head, still smirking as she turned toward the door. Simon was alone now, and if she was going to get a chance to be with him, now would be it. Sure, he would be pissed, but she could handle it. She was a big girl.

  For all her confidence though, she felt a twinge of worry. She shook it away.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she whispered to herself. “He’s just a man and you can deal with those, girl. Piece of cake.” She followed her words of encouragement with a deep sigh and pulled open the door.

  “Leave me alone,” Simon yelled. She ignored it and closed the door behind her. She stood there, her back pressed against the knob as she stared at him. His back was to her, his hands splayed on the desk. He had his head bent down and his shoulders lifted with each of his breaths.

  “Don’t listen to that priss. She doesn’t know anything.” She breached the silence carefully. Simon didn’t respond. Alana wet her lips and took a step forward. Her boots were loud on the concrete.

  “You’re tense, Simon. Why not take a break?”

  Still, he gave no answer. She was just behind him. His muscles rippled under his shirt. She reached out her hand and ran it along the middle of his back. “How about a back rub?” No one could refuse a backrub, especially when it came from her.

  She snaked her hands slowly along his back, feeling the hardness of his muscles and skin. Her breath came out a bit quicker and she became aware of it. He had never let her get this close to him. Her hands moved to his shoulders. She would make him forget all about that werewolf bitch, all about Claire.