by C. D. Hersh
Table of Contents
SON OF THE MOONLESS NIGHT
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
SON OF THE MOONLESS NIGHT
The Turning Stone Chronicles
C.D. HERSH
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
SON OF THE MOONLESS NIGHT
Copyright©2015
C.D. HERSH
Cover Design by Fiona Jayde
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-824-9
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated to our daughter, Jenny,
who is our yellow-rose princess.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to OVRWA who supported us as we started our writing journey.
Chapter 1
A crash in the alley stopped Katrina Romanovski mid-stride. Like the October mist swirling in off the lake, her gypsy blood stirred sending her intuition into high gear. Something unnatural was happening.
Go see what’s wrong. She heard her father’s voice as clearly as if he stood next to her.
On the heels of his words came her mother’s pragmatic warning in clipped British tones. You know what curiosity killed. Katrina pushed the ever-present warning aside. Mom never approved of Dad’s supernatural hunts and even less of his drawing her into them.
Pulling the oversized cross she always wore out from under her shirt, Kat looked around for a weapon. Please, not a vampire. I hate vampires! A piece of wood sticking out of the trashcan at the front of the alley caught her eye.
Grabbing it, she broke the end off into a sharp point. The mist-filled air filtered the light from the single bulb over one of the alley doorways. The wind swirled the loose trash around making a quiet approach difficult. Sidestepping the paper, with the stake in one hand and holding the gun she took from her purse in the other hand, she crept into the alley.
A roar echoed against the buildings, the sound nearly sending her running. That roar wasn’t a vampire. It sounded more like an animal. Kat inched closer. In the yellow pool of light from the back door of the building, a black bear, over seven feet tall, reared on its back legs and swung its paw at the man standing at the edge of the light. He crashed to the ground, shirt torn open from the slashing claws. Blood covered the fabric, and he clasped his left hand over his shoulder to stem the flow. The bear bent toward him, teeth bared in a smile. A wicked smile.
Kat aimed her gun, but before she could pull the trigger, a shot rang out. The flash of gunpowder lit the face of the injured man. The blast reverberated against the buildings. With an enraged bellow, the bear staggered backward against the wall. Shaking his head, the animal dropped to all four paws. Weaving like a drunk, he lumbered toward his attacker. The man took aim again, shooting the animal between the eyes. Animal and human collapsed on the dirty, littered pavement.
As she started to move forward, Kat’s gypsy senses crawled over her skin like angry red ants. As she slipped back into the shadows, the bear shed fur. Changing size. Then, finally, turning into a man.
Shape shifters. Her stake wasn’t any good against them, and her bullets weren’t silver. This one appeared dead anyway. Had the wounded man seen the shift? Tossing the stake aside, she paused by the shifter and quickly moved to the wounded man. Out cold. Still human.
When she touched him, his eyelids fluttered open. “Did I get it?”
“What?”
“The bear.”
“Yeah. You got it.” She slid her arm under his shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here-just in case it still has some life left in it.” No way would she tell him what she had seen. Moving between him and the shape shifter, she blocked his view and helped him to his feet. “Can you walk?”
“I think so. My car’s just at the end of the alley. If you’ll get me to it, I can manage from there.”
“No way. You’re bleeding too much. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital. A hospital means cops and reports.” The words shot out of him. “I have a friend who’s a doctor. He’ll take care of me.”
Great. A criminal. Just what I need. On the other hand, she didn’t want to explain a dead shifter. Urging her charge forward, she replied, “Okay, but I’ll drive you there. Don’t want you passing out and killing someone.” She stopped herself before she added the word else. No need to let him know a dead man, not a bear, lay in the alley.
“Which one is your car?” she asked as they neared the alley opening.
As he handed her the keys a nearby car’s lights flashed. “That one. What about yours?”
“In my apartment’s garage. I was out for a quick walk and some dinner.”
“Sorry I interrupted.”
“That’s okay. I’ll order pizza when I get home.” She opened the passenger door and helped him in. “I’m afraid you’re going to bleed all over your car.”
“Better mine than yours,” he said with a wan smile. “There’s a newspaper in the back seat. Give it to me, and I’ll use it to pack the wounds.”
Opening the rear door, she retrieved the paper and handed it to him. For someone who had just been mauled by a bear he wa
s way too calm. Was killing second nature to him?
He stripped out a few sheets, tore the slashed shirt open, grimacing as he held the paper against the bleeding lacerations.
“We really need to get you to the hospital.”
“No. Promise you won’t take me there.” He looked at her, his blue eyes pleading in his whitening face.
Everything in her screamed, hospital! Yet she found herself answering, “I won’t.” She closed the passenger door and went around to the driver’s side. “Where to?” she asked as she settled on the seat.
When he didn’t answer, she leaned over and shook his shoulder. No response. Out cold.
Great. I’ve got an unconscious, injured man whom I promised to keep out of the hospital. She hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. I could take him anyway. Just dump him at ER and run.
If this fellow had connections to shifters, didn’t she have an obligation to find out what he knew?
Yes! Her father’s voice rang in her head. Mother replied, No!
Rolling her head to release the tension building in her neck, Kat sighed deeply. Even though she’d left the paranormal hunter life behind, she couldn’t get rid of everything her parents taught her. Apparently, she couldn’t get rid of the life either.
She started the car and pulled out of the parking slot. She’d keep his secret safe until she found out what he knew. Was he a paranormal hunter, a possible ally? An innocent she had to protect? Or an enemy? If she let him out of her sight, she couldn’t find out. Good thing she had a basement apartment. Getting him down the steps would be easier than hauling him up a flight.
“Who are you?” Kat asked as she settled her unwanted, still unconscious, guest on her sofa. She checked his pulse. Elevated, but steady. The newspaper he’d shoved against the gashes had stemmed the bleeding. She lifted the packing, stopping when the bottom edge stuck to the wound.
Gingerly, she searched his pockets for a wallet and found a money clip holding a few bucks. No credentials. No photos. Nothing to give a clue to his identity. Driving a car without a license. No permit for the gun, either. Who walked around like that, anyway?
Criminals. That’s who.
On the other hand, she didn’t have a permit for her gun or her wooden stakes or her silver bullets or any of the hunting paraphernalia she owned. She slipped the money clip back into his pocket. No use jumping to conclusions before she spoke with him. Maybe he had his driver’s license in his car.
As she stood beside the sofa staring at the unconscious man, she whispered, “Don’t you die on me, whoever you are.” His eyelids fluttered as she spoke, and Kat dropped to her knees alongside the sofa. “Hey,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
With what appeared to be a great effort, he opened his eyes. “Where am I?”
“My apartment. You passed out before you told me where to take you.”
“No hospital?”
Kat shook her head. “I promised, so here you are.” He tried to rise on his elbow, but she gently held him down. “Don’t move. The bleeding has stopped, but until it’s dressed properly, I’m afraid you might break open the wounds. We should call your doctor friend.”
“I don’t have his number memorized.”
“Is it in your cell?”
He shook his head.
“Tell me his address, and I’ll go get him.”
The head shaking grew stronger. “He doesn’t like unexpected visitors.”
Criminal, for sure. Mafia or just a petty crook? Didn’t matter. A crook was a crook. The authorities really needed to know about the dead man in the alley.
“It’s safer if you don’t contact him . . . or anyone else.”
“Because you’re . . .?” She drew the last word out, hoping he’d fill in the blank.
“Trouble?” he suggested. “You don’t look like the sort of girl who wants trouble.”
A short laugh escaped from her. “I don’t want trouble, but unfortunately, it seems to find me wherever I go.”
“I’m really tired,” he said, sinking onto the couch pillow.
Kat smoothed his black, curly hair from his forehead. The skin was warm, but not hot. She let her hand linger under the pretense of checking for a fever. When her fingers itched to stroke his chin, she curled them into her palm, resisting the urge. His handsome face and mesmerizing blue eyes were cracking her resolve to stay away from bad boys.
“Since you won’t let me get your doctor friend, I need some bandages for your wound.” Her stomach growled loudly. “And some dinner. Do you like pizza?”
“Yeah. Do you think it’s okay for me to eat?”
“You have a shoulder wound, not a stomach wound. Since I don’t plan on doing surgery, I don’t think a small piece of pizza would hurt. Maybe we should call—”
“No,” he said firmly. “Do what you can for me. I won’t risk something happening to you on my account.”
He so didn’t know what he’d already done to her. The old pull of huntress crept back, and along with it the attraction for men in trouble. An attraction she’d spent most of her life fighting.
“Do you need to take my car?” he asked.
“The pharmacy’s within walking distance, just around the corner. They have a small food section. I’ll bring back a frozen pizza. You stay put.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going anywhere.”
As soon as his rescuer had left, Owen struggled to his feet and stripped off his blood-soaked shirt, careful not to disturb the newspaper clinging to the wound. The copper scent of blood wafted upward, and the room spun.
Wadding the shirt into a ball, he went into the apartment kitchen and found a plastic bag. After tearing the shirt into strips, he wound one around his shoulder holding the paper packing in place and stuffed the remaining strips into the bag. Then he rummaged in the bedroom closet for a jacket that didn’t look girly.
The room smelled like his rescuer, musky vanilla with a hint of something buttery. Not overpowering, but comforting and mysterious at the same time. He found a Cleveland Browns hoodie and flipped it over his wounded shoulder, then zipped it on. The mysterious scent enveloped him, making him ache. If he had time, he’d consider getting to know this woman. But he didn’t have time for dallying or involvement. Unzipping the sweatshirt, he inhaled the coppery smell of his wound to clear his senses.
As he passed through the living room on his way to the door, he noticed blood on the afghan, so he took it. Best to not leave anything linkable to him. He latched the handle and made his escape.
The rogue shifter kingpin, Falhman, scowled when Owen told him he’d been mauled by a bear. “You mean a shifter, don’t you, Owen? Who?”
“Can’t say. I didn’t see who he shifted back to. I was in a hurry to get out of the alley before the shots drew an audience.”
“Black bear or grizzly?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Eli McCraigen is a grizzly.”
“I killed him, whoever he was.” At least that’s what his rescuer told him.
“Not if it was McCraigen.” Falhman sewed another stitch in the slash on Owen’s shoulder. “Why are you fighting with the other side, anyway? You’re not ready.”
“I don’t have to shift to kill Turning Stone members. My ring powers just help me find them. I’m tired of waiting to take action against Roc’s murderers.”
The war between the shifter factions was the reason Roc was killed last year in the fight. The reason the wrong man died. Retribution was part of why he had chosen to become a shifter. Why he was determined to kill all shifters, including the man he believed directly responsible for Roc’s death, Rhys Temple.
Falhman stopped sewing and held Owen’s gaze with a menacing glare. “Are you suggesting I’m not doing
anything about my son’s death?”
“Why aren’t we going after the man who killed him?”
“What man? There’s no body to examine to determine who is guilty. The other side carried his body off, which is most unusual.”
“Probably to hide who killed him. Shouldn’t that be enough to make you go after them?”
Roc’s persuasion to love all things evil shifter had worn off Owen when Roc died almost a year ago. Owen still remembered the man’s friendship and respect. Those emotions were driving his need for revenge.
“I do not act until I have gathered the facts and analyzed the ramifications of the action I’m going to take,” Falhman said evenly.
“He was my friend, I can’t do nothing.”
“He was my son!”
Although spoken softly, Owen heard the intended bellow in Falhman’s tone.
“You will not go after another Turning Stone shifter until I command you to do so. There are forces and plans in the working you cannot possibly comprehend. I don’t want you screwing things up because you can’t control your well-intended, yet misguided, revenge. I will deal with my son’s killers in my time and in my way. Do you understand?”
Falhman waited for a response. When none came, he jabbed Owen’s wound with the needle and dragged the suture through the flesh with more force than necessary. “Obey me, Owen, or you will regret it.”
Gritting his teeth to keep from flinching under Falhman’s physical assault, Owen replied, “I understand.” But not even the threat of bodily harm would keep him from enacting revenge on those who killed his friend. Then he would go after the rest of the shifter world, good and bad. From his perspective, they all wanted to control the world in one way or another. The only good shifter, in his opinion, was a dead shifter.
