Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  Mark of the Moon

  By Beth Dranoff

  In this first book in a wildly addictive new series a battle begins and one kick-ass female bartender turned demon fighter is ready for war

  I’m Dana Markovitz. And my world is shifting.

  My experience with the paranormal community was a good one, pouring shots in the creature-friendly pit stop where I tend bar. Until last night.

  Worst. Date. Ever.

  A hookup with a vampire ended in a scratch from a jealous were-cat. Surprise! I caught a cat-shifting virus. I should be immune. Or so I’ve always been led to believe.

  For some reason the infection has riled a demon underworld that apparently knows more about my secret past than I do. They aren’t thrilled with me. In fact, they want me dead.

  At least I have one normal male on my side. Relatively normal. I think he’s on my side.

  Tell you one thing. There’s no way I’m being put down like a feral stray. I may not know who to trust, but I’ll be damned if I’m not fighting back. Hell, my claws are already starting to show.

  This book is approximately 90,000 words

  Edited by Stephanie Doig

  Dear Reader,

  I’m practically cackling and rubbing my hands with glee at the amazing books we have in store for you this month. You’re going to fall in love with the newest additions to the Carina Press author lineup while enjoying the very best of our returning authors. Forgive me for saying it but...whee! Read on for the goodness...

  This month Lucy Parker brings us her much anticipated sequel to contemporary romance Act Like It. Pretty Face returns readers to the highly acclaimed world of the London stage with laugh-out-loud wit and plenty of drama. Iconic director Luc Savage is in for a surprise with his new show—not to mention a May-December romance with its feisty star!

  New-to-Carina-Press author Rhenna Morgan kicks off her new super-sexy contemporary romance series with Rough & Tumble. With his badass don’t-take-no-for-an-answer approach to life, Jace Kennedy is everything Vivienne Moore swore she never wanted in a man—especially after the rough lifestyle she grew up in. But Jace sees the hidden wild side in Vivienne, and he won’t give up until he shows her the safest place is in the arms of a dangerous man. By the way, Jace might be a badass, but he’s no alphahole. This is a guy every inch in love with his lady and willing to treat her like gold.

  We return to Lauren Dane’s Cascadia Wolves series with Wolf Unbound. We meet Tegan—a Pack Enforcer who, after the death of her mate, thought she’d be alone forever. Until she meets Ben, handsome, dominant...and human.

  Amber Bardan returns with a stunning new stand-alone sultry contemporary romance in King’s Captive. In Julius’s world, on his island, he is King. Money and power mean he rules all around him—including her.

  In fan-favorite A.M. Arthur’s newest male/male romance, As I Am, scarred shut-in Taz finally braves the outside world for intensely shy Will, but secrets from both of their pasts could destroy their fragile new love.

  Fans of Scott Hildreth’s The Gun Runner be prepared! Michael Tripp is back and as bad as ever in The Game Changer. Tripp and Terra are moving toward their happily-ever-after, but first they have to overcome the secrets they’re still keeping from each other—and her mafia family’s inexorable determination to pull Tripp into la famiglia.

  We’re introducing three debut authors this month. First, join Agents Irish & Whiskey in Single Malt, Layla Reyne’s debut male/male romantic suspense. Widowed FBI agent and Irish ex-pat Aidan Talley falls hard for his handsome younger partner, Jameson “Whiskey” Walker, as they investigate cybercrimes and the murder of Aidan’s late husband.

  In Mark of the Moon, a hookup with a vampire goes wrong when Dana Markovitz is scratched by a jealous were-cat. You won’t want to miss this sexy new urban fantasy series from debut author Beth Dranoff.

  From debut author Sarah Hawthorne comes Enforcer’s Price, book one in the Demon Horde series. In this romantic motorcycle club romance, Colt is just starting to trust again, but Krista is hiding something big. Can he still love her when she reveals sex and money go hand in hand for her?

  Don’t miss this amazing lineup of new and returning authors, and look for their next books in the upcoming months!

  Next month: Don’t miss Shannon Stacey’s return to the world of everyone’s favorite blue-collar family, the Kowalskis, with a heart-warming and funny all-new romance that also reunites you with all your favorite Kowalskis.

  As always, until next month, my fellow book lovers, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  Dedication

  For Zak.

  Author’s Note

  While this story is set in Toronto, Canada, it is a work of fiction. Some of the specific locations exist in real life and some don’t; the characters themselves exist only in my mind. And now on these pages. If they remind you of someone you know, or you think I know, that’s great—it means I did my job! But I promise you I made it all up.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Coming soon from Beth Dranoff

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The skin at my wrists chafed, steel buffered by satin and faux fur—although clearly not buffered enough. My back was crisscrossed by strips of black leather buckled into place around two-by-two-inch breast patches.

  I’d call it a bra, but if we’re being honest it’s more of a barely-there colored napkin than anything in the utilitarian undergarment family.

  Then again, seeing as I was chained from the ceiling in a matching leather thong and five-inch platform Baby Jane shoes so red they matched the Cherie Cherry color of my lips right down to the shine, perhaps utilitarianism could be seen to have more than one interpretation at this point.

  How did I get here? Let’s call him Jon. For the purposes of this particular game, we’ll even call him Master. I had allowed him to cover my eyes, blackness fastened with a
quick-release knot. I could feel his breath along the length of my neck; his tongue tracing a line along my skin to the lobe of my ear. With just a tip of incisor, applying pressure there, just so.

  The guy was definitely full-body tingle-worthy. Six foot two inches tall, wavy honey-gold shoulder-length hair, green eyes, black brows. Muscles honed into stomach flatness; arms, butt and thighs rounded nicely in a non-steroid kind of way; full, blood-red lips. The sound of his voice had me craving him, needing to reach out and touch, be touched.

  Irresistible. Kissable. A delicious Mr. Right Now.

  I could feel Mr. Right Now behind me, blowing raised heat along my left ear and down my neck with a throaty chuckle. His fingertips tracing the beauty mark tattoos scattered across my back. An icy breeze drifting in through a February frost-edged window raised goose bumps in surprising places as he lifted my dark curly hair up just a bit to nuzzle, then bite, that spot where neck meets shoulder. Again I felt the imprint of his teeth on my skin, this time pressing against muscle. Bruising. Marking me as his.

  Jon was sporting his own leather gear, something involving laces and iron rings and not much else. I could feel the chilled O of the ring holding all those laces together as Jon pressed against me from behind. The contrast of hot and cold made me shiver, a delicious tingle from my toes up to where he was nestled, hard as a rock. And then higher still, until my scalp prickled with an energy that needed release.

  There was pounding.

  For a moment I thought it was my heart through the thickness of my throat. Then I realized it might be the sound of knuckles on wood, someone wanting to be here rather than there.

  “Are you going to get that?” I tried for neutral and almost nailed it.

  Jon stood in front of me, so close that the hairs on his chest and legs tickled. Then the blindfold was off.

  We kissed like nobody was waiting to break through the door on the other side of this moment.

  I almost didn’t hear the knocks anymore as Jon touched me right there, his finger coming away wet, then wetter still as he dipped the glistening digit into his own mouth, watching my face, finishing the gesture with a soft pop.

  “Open the fucking door!” The voice growled—there was definite male with a hint of something else. “I can smell you two! Freaks. Open the fucking door now or I’m breaking it!”

  “Give us a minute!” I figured if the guy could smell us, he could also hear me. “Shit,” I muttered. “At least help me out of these.” I shook at the chains.

  Jon stepped forward and laid a feather-light hand on my wrist as the door flew off its hinges and a shifter, halfway through his change, charged through to leap past me and onto Jon. With angry whiskers twitching and claws outstretched, the feline grazed my calf with a razor-sharp nail as he knocked Jon over.

  “You shit,” the man growled as he straddled Jon. “I wasn’t enough for you? You had to take yourself on a mortal? Girl?”

  Jon shrugged, and his smile held a faint apology even as he reached up to scratch behind the other man’s fuzz-covered ears.

  “Hello, standing right here?” I didn’t really want to intrude, but my leg was starting to throb. I should probably get some antiseptic on that, once I got free from my bindings. Then the pain kicked in.

  “Dana?” Jon’s voice was suddenly in my ear. “Are you okay?”

  No.

  Not okay at all.

  My last thought before the world turned black.

  * * *

  Falling.

  Searing pain.

  Blinding headache; blades of fire in my gut.

  I can’t move, but I can feel.

  All I can do is feel. My entire body is sensation.

  Skin prickling, hair standing on end; surrounded by shadows. How many are there? One? Two? Ten? I have no idea. Could be one hundred, one thousand, more—all they are to me is shades of light and dark.

  There, a flare of light. There, another one.

  I reach out to touch the brightness and come away with clumps of soft fur in my hand. Blackness washes over me again, velvet on satin, a feeling so pure it hurts.

  And then there’s nothing.

  Chapter Two

  I woke up slowly and realized I was alive.

  I was sore. My muscles screamed from overuse, although I couldn’t remember doing much more than hallucinating. Memories of pain, flashes of recollection.

  Memories making me want to sit up, fast. Except I couldn’t. I couldn’t move my arms or legs.

  I squeezed my eyelids shut before opening them again to flex outwards. Left, right, up then down. Visual stretches. Sure.

  My breath ran ragged, fear hitching a ride as I looked around, unable to move more than my eyes, toes and fingers. I realized I was strapped to the kind of hospital-style bed normally found in a mental institution. The padded restraints were old-style nut-brown leather lined with faded grey-tinged flannel that you knew used to be white. I didn’t want to think about what might have gotten them old and dirty. Stainless-steel buckles were firmly fastened. The work was professional; definitely not intended for recreational use.

  Black walls and white leather furniture came into stark view as I scanned beyond my prone position. A small cut crystal vase on the cherry wood nightstand was filled with dead pink roses, shriveled into perfect immobility either by neglect or purposeful patience. Beyond that was a thick pile carpet, black with streaks and swirls of blood red and pumpkin orange.

  Drawing awareness back into myself, I realized that my left foot was warmer than the rest of me. Curious, I peered along my black tank top—encased torso, down across the expanse of starched hospital sheet, following the outline of my legs to where my captivity attached itself to steel bars at the end of the bed.

  There.

  A long-haired cat, all brown and black stripes like a small raccoon, was curled up against my ankle watching me with glowing green eyes that didn’t blink. As I stared, it crooked a paw to its mouth and licked at the pink skin of its pads, then rubbed the moisture up against its face. I was ignored during the ablutions.

  * * *

  One day, a while back, this wild-looking woman with a head of matted white dreadlocks came up to me on Bloor Street. She put out her hand, wizened lips puckered in a skin-peeling O, and looked not at me with crazy-ass brown eyes fading to grey. No, she looked above my head and around me.

  “Here, kitty kitty kitty,” she said, and cackled, her toothless grin giving way to a single remaining incisor that winked at me like a lone ice floe in a murky swamp of putrescence.

  I saw her three times in seven days. Always on Bloor, that east-west corridor bisecting central Toronto into north and south. Once it was outside the Bloor Cinema. Another time it was as I passed by the Borden Avenue laneway, piled high with trashcans of fresh refuse from nearby restaurants.

  Each time, the same response.

  Here, kitty kitty kitty. Parched lips cackling sound in my general direction.

  Each time, I ignored her.

  The third time she was sitting outside the Tranzac Club, a few doors south of Bloor on Brunswick Avenue, waiting for me. No idea how that was possible—my being there had been a last-minute thing.

  As before, I pretended she didn’t exist, the way us big city inhabitants learn to do.

  This time, she was having none of it. Reaching out to touch my arm as I passed and leaving flesh imprints of white behind. She was stronger than she looked.

  Squinting at me, her eyes were suddenly lucid as she angled her body towards me. A conspiratorial gesture. Smelling of urine and mothballs and diesel fuel and other things I chose not to lay name to.

  “You don’t know who you are?”

  I shook my head; denial, avoidance even. Who could blame me, standing on the sidewalk, talking to a woman with eyes
so wild and breath so rank? I couldn’t look directly at her; I focused instead on her fluorescent green and blue frog puppet winter boots—was that a toe sticking out?—refusing to acknowledge my part in this street-side exchange.

  She narrowed her bleary stare and waved the flats of her grooved palms towards me. Wax on, wax off came unbidden to mind.

  “I can see clearer now.” Her voice was a power drill boring through the softened butter of my awareness before the connection was abruptly broken.

  “Money for a crazy old lady,” she wheedled, lucidity gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Kind kitty got some milk money for an old lady?”

  I dug into my pocket and found some change, dropping coins into her grime-encrusted hands before turning back to continue down the street. Her laughter followed.

  * * *

  “Hey, kitty kitty kitty.” My voice was a hoarse croak, remembered echoes of the crazy street lady. But was it from lack of use—or from screaming?

  No answers, only questions as I tracked the only other living thing in this room. I noticed the streak of orange on the cat’s forehead, a thumbprint of baked squash with brown sugar, its eyes now like green olives with a pimento in the middle. The cat’s lips were twisted as though it had taken a bite of that pimento and found it wanting.

  “My name,” it said in a blend of purr and snarl, “is Jun.”

  Pardon?

  I looked closer: whiskers, pink tongue, wide eyes, attitude oozing from every fur-clogged pore. Definitely a cat, but was it real? Inhaling deeply, I made a conscious decision to breathe; on the exhale, I released my incredulity. The key to every good buzz is to go with it—at least that’s the theory.

  “Jun,” I echoed, my voice now surprisingly unwavering. “Like the month?”

  Its stare was disdain wrapped in fur.

  “No.” It shook its head and flicked a bead of moisture off its whiskers. “Like truth.”

  “Truth,” I echoed again. My mind was stupid with the effort of keeping up with our conversation. I was feeling very Alice down the rabbit hole, and wondered again if this was a hallucination. “Truth? What is truth?”