Blood Moon Rising Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Lola Taylor

  Go through that door, the doppelgänger said. And prepare yourself.

  Prepare myself for what? She swiped her badge and opened the door.

  A blast of cool air that reeked of grease and blood slammed into her, nearly making her gag. The stink seemed to stick to her throat, making it harder to breathe. Oh God! You should’ve said not to breathe!

  Focus, the doppelgänger said, though the strain in its voice suggested it was having just as hard a time with the odor as Alara was.

  As Alara tried to force back the rising bile, she stared out over the main production room, a maze of bloodied conveyor belts, glistening, silvery blades, and red-stained water leaking into large drains.

  One thing became crystal clear.

  This isn’t a chicken processing plant, Alara said.

  Actually, it is, said the doppelgänger, but it’s a cover for an illegal magic operation.

  Getting her A game on, Alara steeled her brain and sniffed. Another wave of toxic grease and rank blood assaulted her nose, but she sifted through those smells. There was an undercurrent of something else, something that burned, like chlorine. I’ve never smelled anything like it, she said, growling in frustration. I can’t tell what it is.

  If you could, then you wouldn’t be the proper lady I thought you to be.

  Huh? Did the doppelgänger just tease her?

  It’s mostly potions, the doppelgänger went on, answering the question that had been on the tip of Alara’s tongue. Love spells, poisons, enchantments… You name it, they make it.

  And sell it all on the Black Market. It kind of went without saying, but Alara felt the need to say it aloud anyway.

  Workers milled about the floor, all weighed down by the same bulky ensemble Alara wore. It looked as if there were two halves of the factory. On the left side was the chicken-processing operation, while the production line on the right handled the magic. As Alara watched the glistening bottles of potions whiz by, they started to flicker, looking like chicken.

  It’s an illusion only paranormals can see through, the doppelgänger said. Which is why, as you’ll notice, all the workers are human.

  Alara refocused on the workers. The doppelgänger was right; not a single paranormal in here. I’ll bet the staff is paranormal.

  You’ll bet correctly. You see those stairs on your left? Take them down to the ground floor.

  You couldn’t miss the stairs; they were bright red and metal. A good thing, actually, Alara thought as she climbed down them. A new worker—or an intruder, such as herself—might not know where the exits were, and these stuck out like a neon-green house in an upper-class suburban neighborhood.

  The floor—like, literally, the entire floor—was covered in pink-tinted water. Alara wished she had worn crappier shoes. These boots weren’t cheap, and she really didn’t want to take bleach to them to get the bloodstains and odors out. As she walked, the bloodied water splashed, leaving little pink bubbles to pop in her wake.

  She resisted the urge to wince or go running back to the ladder. These shoes would officially be considered ruined. Even if she bleached them, the stink of blood, decay, and rot would never go away. At least, not for her overly sensitized werewolf nose.

  Relax, the doppelgänger snapped. Or you’ll draw attention to us.

  It’s a little hard to take it easy when you’re walking around in a festering sea of blood, she snapped back. Her mood was quickly dissolving.

  Alara’s eyes wandered over to the production line. Workers were stationed every few feet, each silently and robotically performing their duties. One, whose gloves were slick with blood, swore as he dropped a chicken—a real one, not a fake—onto the floor, where it landed with a loud splash. Certain he was going to throw it away, Alara was appalled when he instead scooped it up and placed it back on the conveyor belt. No one around him batted a lash.

  Her eyes snapped forward, and she quickened her pace. I’m going to be sick.

  You’re surprised? This sort of thing goes on all the time, especially in an Underworld-only factory, where food sanitation laws aren’t monitored as strictly as they should be.

  The image of the chicken sitting on her plate, coated in God knew how much bacteria just waiting to wreak havoc on her insides, made her nearly throw up. She needed another topic, anything else. Where are we going?

  You see that door over there, on the opposite side of the room?

  Alara looked. A wooden door with a golden plaque she couldn’t read stood beside a window with opened blinds—an office, probably for upper management or the production manager.

  Yes, she said.

  Go to it.

  … Just waltz right in?

  You question me a lot, werewolf.

  Because you won’t tell me any of your motives or what the hell is going on!

  Ssshhh… I’ll reward your patience and trust. I swear.

  Alara had serious doubts about that. Her jaw ticked as she walked, which turned into more of a stomp because her anger was riding so high.

  Turning the corner, Alara drew up abruptly.

  A guard was approaching. Clad all in black as the guy outside had been, and possibly sporting even larger muscles and a meaner leer, he prowled across the floor. His slitted eyes carefully observed the workers, watching for any sign of trouble. A handgun sat freely exposed in the holster strapped to his waist. The tingling sensation that heralded another paranormal danced along Alara’s tendons. Also like the guard outside, this man was a werewolf.

  And he was heading right toward her.

  Alara’s step faltered.

  Keep going, the doppelgänger urged.

  But he’s a were. He’ll be able to sense me. And stop her or, more likely, shoot her.

  I’ll hide your signature.

  Like you did for that girl in our dungeon? Alara said accusingly.

  Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps she was simply human.

  More secrets. She nibbled her lip. I’m going to call you Secret, Alara announced. Because I need something to call you. Her mother, in one of her few motherly moments, had told Alara that if you can name a demon of yours, you can overcome it. She’d been referring to Alara’s weight and her food addiction—anything covered in chocolate, dipped in caramel, or fried in butter, essentially—but Alara figured it would work just as well for the doppelgänger.

  A raspy, amused laugh. An appropriate name indeed. Very well. I shall henceforth be known as Secret.

  Alara darkly smiled. Name the demon. Then you can destroy it, her mother had said. Sage, deadly words she would keep buried deep within her until the time was right to strike.

  The guard approached, less than a foot away now, and Alara’s shoulders tensed up near her ears. Keeping her eyes down, she ducked beside him as he passed, not even casting her a cursory glance.

  She exhaled a long breath. That was close—

  “Hey.”

  The bark made her jump. Slowly turning around, she saw that the guard had stopped and was staring at her. His gaze swept her over from head to toe, as if trying to place her.

  “You have on the wrong footwear,” he said, frowning at her soaked boots. “And you’re not wearing any footies.”

  Footies? She looked at the worker closest to her. Sure enough, he wore red latex footies over his shoes.

  Damn. How had she missed that?

  “Sorry,” she blurted. “I’m new.”

  “Thought you didn’t look familiar.” Another deep frown, this time laced with suspicion. “Let me see your ID.”

  Oh God. “I…”

  Take out the badge! Secret hissed.

  With her brain too scrambled by exhaustion and fear to argue, Alara fumbled for the badge stashed in her pocket and thrust it toward the man. He snatched it up, glaring at the piece of plastic as if trying to see through it. “Maria Martinez,” he growled.

  “Huh?” Secret gave her the internal equivalent of elbowing her in the ribs. “Oh, yes!”

  Still frowning, he searched her f
ace, as if he was attempting to match up the picture on the badge, which was of a woman Alara had never seen before, with the woman standing in front of him.

  At last, he handed back the badge. “You’re supposed to keep your badge visible at all times,” he said sternly. “And grab some footies before you ruin your shoes.”

  The touch of concern was unexpected from a man like him. She’d half expected him to rip her a new one, drill sergeant style, for her carelessness. “Um, I will. Thank you, sir.”

  His mouth twitched in a smile, and he returned to patrolling the floor.

  OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod kept replaying in her head as her knees shook. Whether it was from fear or from the magic Secret had obviously woven to distort the badge, she couldn’t be sure.

  Nicely done, Secret said, all business.

  You’re going to be the death of me, Alara squeaked, her voice high pitched from terror.

  As I said, I won’t allow any harm to come to you. Go to the office, quickly, before he comes back or someone else discovers us.

  Alara wasted no time. She hightailed it across the production room and to the office. The name on the plaque by the door was unfamiliar—Simon Peters. Peering through the blinds to find no one inside, she tried the doorknob.

  It was locked.

  More muttered words she couldn’t pronounce, and two seconds later, the door opened.

  Alara glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. The guard was focused on another poor soul at the other end of the room, and all the workers’ eyes were trained on their jobs. Slipping inside, she closed the door and relocked it. Now what?

  Now we wait.

  Wait? For what?

  More like for whom.

  The office was decorated plainly, with a fake potted plant wrapped up in white twinkle lights, an oak desk, neatly organized office supplies in the cabinet to the left, and a single picture framing a seascape at sunrise.

  Pull your gun, Secret said. Disarm the safety.

  I know how to use a gun! Alara snapped, pulling out the weapon she’d lifted off the first guard. She wondered if he’d been discovered missing yet. If not, her luck couldn’t hold out for much longer. Surely, the guards did a security check where they touched base with one another. When he didn’t respond…

  Her heart beat that much faster, a feat Alara hadn’t thought possible. Good God, this whole nightmare was going to give her a heart attack. Suddenly, the peace and boredom of pack life back at Crescent Manor seemed blissful, like Heaven, even.

  Footsteps approached, dress shoes.

  The manager must be coming.

  Hide behind the door, Secret said.

  Alara tucked herself against the wall adjacent to the door, the gun clutched to her chest.

  Her heart beat harder, thumping against her sternum and making her whole body shake. Blood rushed through her veins, carrying her pulse to her ears, until it momentarily drowned out all other sound.

  The approaching footsteps grew louder, along with a heated argument. “I don’t care how impatient Mistress Black is,” he growled. “Tell her I’ll get her her money when I have it! We’re behind in production.”

  This plant belongs to Mistress Black? Alara asked.

  Sssh!

  Her breath seemed twice as loud in the moment before the man jammed his key in the lock and opened the door.

  Alara bit her lip and stopped breathing altogether.

  The door shut, and a tall, dark-haired man wearing a black business suit strutted in. His signature crackled with power—a Red Warlock. The phone was still held up to his ear. “Did you not hear what I just said?” Pause. “Yes, I’m aware of what happens to people who don’t pay her back.” Another pause, accompanied by a swipe of his brow. Sweat came back on his hand.

  With a growl, he hung up on whoever was still snapping at him and cursed, tossing the cell phone on his desk. Walking around to the other side of his desk, he sank down into his chair with a long sigh—and looked straight at her.

  The sensation of her arm gracefully unfolding to point the gun at the stranger’s head was surreal.

  Her body but not her doing. Which created a huge disconnect in her mind. As though if she bit her lip, blinked really hard, or pinched her arm, she would wake up back home, with Nik asleep beside her. She would watch him sleep, poke the little air bubble in his cheek caused by his snoring, and then smile and shake her head that nothing could wake him when he was out cold. She’d roll over, he’d mumble something, and those big, strong arms of his would wrap around her waist and pull her close.

  It sounded wonderful. She yearned for that simple life, not the twisting, never-ending nightmare she now lived.

  “Don’t move,” Secret said, using Alara’s mouth. Her voice was still her own. She had that, at least.

  Blue eyes flecked with embers stared back at her. The stranger’s face was handsome, for an older man. A few wrinkles striped his forehead and around the contours of his mouth and eyes, and his dark-brown hair was streaked with gray. He had a stern set to his bearded jaw and a hardness about his eyes that suggested he was not a man to toy with.

  The shock on his face mirrored her own.

  Who is he? Alara snapped at Secret. Dammit, you made me point a gun at this man’s head. If we’re resorting to murder now, you’d better start giving me some answers!

  He’s a high-ranking official of the Order, Mistress Black’s coven. He’s the one who ordered Gerard to kill your family.

  The floor dropped out from under her. The quake of shock that rocked her body might have sent her to her knees had Secret not kept her standing.

  “Oh God,” she rasped aloud, barely able to siphon enough air into her lungs to speak. It felt as if her lungs had stopped working, along with her brain.

  Simon’s dark brows stooped in confusion.

  Alara waited for the anger to hit, to drive her to pull the trigger.

  Pop! The sound of the bullet tearing his brain to shreds.

  Bam! The sound of his lifeless body hitting the floor.

  Those were the sounds of revenge.

  She pictured killing him over and over in her head, tried imagining the satisfaction of avenging her family’s deaths.

  …It wouldn’t come. The relief from anger, the ache of despair.

  And that was when she knew that no matter how many people she killed, no matter the reason, it would never bring her family back. They were gone, forever. And no amount of bloodshed would ever resurrect them.

  Tears flooded her eyes, making her face hot.

  Alara’s brain locked up as she stared back at Simon. How was she supposed to feel, staring at the face of her family’s executioner? Scared? Shocked? Betrayed? Enraged?

  After a few more seconds of shell-shocked silence, the surprise on his face faded, and he composed himself. He cocked that handsome head to the side, studying her face, as if trying to place her. Realization lit up his eyes. “Alara Crescent,” he said, his deep voice raspy. The strong stink of cigarettes clinging to his pores told her why. “Or is it Johnson now? Congratulations, by the way.” He started to rise.

  “The safety’s off, just so you know,” Secret said. Again, her voice, but ten times more threatening. “Sit down.”

  He obeyed, carefully sinking back into the chair. Those blue eyes never blinked as he watched her, a small smirk propped up on his mouth. “How did you find me?” Those long, elegant hands folded themselves in his lap, as if this were a casual meet and greet and she didn’t have a gun pointed at his head. “Well? How did you sniff me out?” The smirk broke into a grin.

  Sniff him out, indeed.

  Alara’s annoyance grew. Cocky bastard. He meant for his ease to scare her. Tough shit, as Nik would say. This warlock was messing with the wrong wolf, not intimidating her in the least. Thanks to her time at Court, she knew his type well—the men and women whose heads were so swollen from power, wealth, and an inflated sense of self-importance that they thought they owned the world and
everyone in it.

  “I have my ways.” Secret had spoken for her again.

  Alara was happy to let it. She couldn’t think right now. Her head and heart were only so big, and there were far too many powerful emotions tumbling around inside of her.

  Highways of silence stretched between them. “I am sorry for the barbaric way your family was killed,” he said at last, sounding anything but. “They weren’t supposed to die that way.”

  “But they were supposed to die. I was supposed to die.” Secret didn’t fight for control; it let her speak.

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation.

  Her mouth formed a hard line, and her eyes turned to ice. “Save your fake apologies for someone who gives a damn.” Secret jumped in. “Now, give me the blade.”

  Simon stiffened, shifting his body to hide something tucked inside his jacket. Alara caught a glimmer of a ruby in the hilt of what appeared to be a dagger.

  Alara stared. Something dark and unbidden scraped across the surface of her memory.

  There it was, the dagger her father had used to kill her mother. The same dagger Gerard had driven into her baby sister’s heart.

  She growled, possessed with the sudden urge to rip this man’s throat out with her fangs.

  We’re wasting time, Secret snapped. “The blade, now,” it said through Alara’s mouth.

  Though he was still turned away from her in a useless attempt at hiding the dagger, he didn’t bother denying he had it. Good. At least he wasn’t going to treat her like an idiot.

  “What do you need it for?” he asked instead, still not moving.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  He squinted. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw them…” He shook his head. “Never mind.” That tall, graceful body stood. “Alara—”

  “Don’t come any closer.” Alara wanted to back away, not because she was afraid of him but because merely being in the same room with the man responsible for ruining her life was overwhelming. The thought of him coming closer to her was unbearable.