Werewolf Moon (The Pack Trilogy Book 1)

by Chanel Smith

  And now Raya suddenly leaned over the railing. Petra tensed, fearing for one mad moment that he meant to jump.

  “My child that I put through school, through college so he could get what none of us did; a degree. And when I think of him walking across the stage with that stupid hat and shaking the hand…” the Don’s voice quavered to a stop. He looked around as if puzzled, and Petra noticed something red on his face. What on earth?

  Then the red became a spurt of liquid directly into the Don’s Fettuccini Alfredo dish, brilliant red against the traditional cream sauce. And the screams began as the Don pitched face-forward into his pasta.

  Raya whipped around and was face to face with Petra. For a moment neither said a word, and then she reached out to touch his face.

  “Raya? Why did you run from me back at the house? Anyone else, anyone. But me? Raya, you left me.”

  She knew she sounded like a small child and couldn’t help it. She wanted nothing more but to be in his arms, even after what she’d just witnessed. There was no doubt in her mind what had happened to that evil old fuck, and she was so proud of her man...but he didn’t seem to care what she thought anymore. Although she didn’t understand how it had happened so fast, Raya didn’t seem to care about her any more. Her, specifically. The pain slashed through her like a white-hot knife, and she moaned for a nano second before getting herself under control. Then she took a look at Raya, really looked at him.

  He was whiter than a ghost and shaking from head to foot, and Petra didn’t think he’d heard one word she’d said.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, voice full of misery. “Everything I’ve put in our pack codec—the official Were codec meant to serve as law for all Weres. I went against that today when I ensured that man, bastard that he was, stopped breathing. Yes, Petra, that was my doing. So was the Don just then. That’s my gift, don’t you see? Others go invisible or fly. Not Raya! Raya doesn’t better lives, he takes them.”

  Blinded by tears, he reached out and tried to push Petra to the side.

  “Let me go, Petra. I’m not worth it.”

  “You’re right about that, you fuck. But you ain’t going nowhere, unless it’s straight to hell,” a heavy voice spat out as an Italian guy in his twenties stepped around the corner where he’d obviously been listening.

  Petra didn’t hear a word: her eyes were pinned on the gun in his outstretched hand, pointed directly at Raya’s head. Her heart plummeted with the worst fear she’d ever known, but her body went absolutely still: the stillness of a warrior about to strike.

  “And I’m just the guy gonna send you there,” the man said as he triumphantly pulled the trigger.

  Faster than Raya could believe possible, Petra leaped forward and up, directly in front of his face as the sound of the shot exploded in the tiny space. She landed on her feet, and for a heartbeat Raya thought it was somehow alright as she smiled at him.

  “I love you, my Alpha,” she said just before she crumpled at his feet, the tiny hole between her eyes not even bleeding.

  “PETRA!” Raya shrieked at the top of his lungs as the Italian stood facing him, mouth hanging partially open.

  Then Raya shifted, raced down those winding stairs and was gone.

  The End

  To be continued in:

  Werewolf Nights

  A Pack Trilogy Book 2

  Available now!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Amazon AU

  ~~~~~

  Also available:

  Ghost Crypt

  The Ghost Files Book #5

  by Chanel Smith

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  “How would you feel about putting off returning home?” Ellen asked when I came back from the restroom and settled into the uncomfortable sling that substituted for a chair in Heathrow Airport.

  Airports and airplanes were not my favorite places to be, but the prospect of those two entities being a part of getting me back to Southern California and our home had made them somewhat tolerable. Her question caught me by surprise, because I assumed that she was as eager to get home as I was; if not more so.

  Initially, we were supposed to be on a direct flight from Brussels to LA, but had been rerouted to London to make an emergency landing. Transatlantic flights wouldn’t press forward if the handle on the toilet reacted a little bit slow, or so I’d been told. Evidently, whatever had caused the emergency landing wasn’t serious enough to send us hurtling to the ground or into the English Channel, but who was going to bitch about being back on the ground to fix a faulty part on an airplane?

  “What do you mean by putting it off?”

  “I got a call while you were in the loo.” She was always so adept at adapting to her surroundings.

  “What sort of call?”

  “Another case.”

  “Where? In Europe, China, Africa?” It seemed now that we had become an international organization, any place in the world was wide open.

  “Actually, right here, in London.”

  I’d always had a secret desire to explore London. I would have suggested just that before returning home, if I hadn’t felt that Ellen was in a rush to get back after what we had just endured. “I’m game, but are you sure that you’re up for it?”

  “The extra time just being tourists was enough to refresh me,” she replied. “How about you? Are you too eager to get home with your beers or do you want to take a crack at this one?”

  “Hmmm… London has some good beer too. Maybe I could add to my collection.”

  “If they aren’t all broken already.”

  Another thought suddenly came to me. Not only did England have some good beers, but I had heard plenty about the smoothness of some of the single malt Scotch from various parts of the United Kingdom. “I can add a bottle or two of Scotch to my collection as well. Besides, I’ve always wanted to check out jolly ol’ England.”

  “They promised to pick up our expenses and reimburse Marcus for the unused portion of our flight home. They also offered us a sizable sum. I’m not sure what it converts to in dollars, but it sounds pretty good in pounds.”

  “The last time I checked, the British Pound valued about 40% more than the US dollar. That means almost a buck and a half so let’s do it. Who is the client?”

  “TFL,” she replied.

  “Who is TFL?”

  “I’m not sure at this point. I told them I would call them back and let them know if we accepted their offer. We’ll get more details after that.”

  “Call them back. Call them back,” I replied. I had another sudden thought as she pressed the button on her cell. “See if you can negotiate a couple of bottles of single malt Scotch in the deal.”

  She frowned at me and I knew it was once again time to close my trap. “I’ll just go find out what we need to do to get our luggage.”

  She smiled and winked at me at the same moment that she greeted whoever answered the call. That was her special signal that told me that I was back on track. I strolled toward the small counter that blocked the gate to the plane that was supposed to be arriving to take us on to LA.

  “Pardon me.” The thought suddenly passed through my mind to ask if she had any Grey Poupon. I’m not sure what it is about the British accent, but it makes us Americans do stupid things. I restrained myself. “We are planning to stay over in London for a few days. What ought I do about our luggage?” What ought I do? Where did that come from?

  “Are you absolutely certain about your plans, sir?” the attendant replied. I swooned a little at the sound of her accent, as well as her penetrating green eyes. I wasn’t the type to be led astray from Ellen – she took good care of me – and so I pressed forward, ignoring the blush that was rising up.

  “Quite certain,” I replied.

  “Very well, then.” She began to explain to me what needed to be done to secure my luggage and reschedule the flight. The flight numbers, departure times and destinations all rattled around in my he
ad, but as she spoke, she was writing it all down. Thank God that the English were often very thorough. I would never have been able to remember a single part of what she told me.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, turning in time to be joined by Ellen, who had finished her call with the mystery person from TFL.

  “Are we all set, then?”

  There was a little bit of that British accent and the phrasing of the question wasn’t exactly like the Ellen that I had known for years. I didn’t feel so bad, since Ellen was doing it too. I knew that the fact that Americans tend to end sentences with a preposition drove the English mad, but why exactly, did we feel the need to take on all of the idiomatic stereotypes as well? Rather than commenting, I simply pushed the paper with the notes on it toward Ellen.

  Getting our luggage wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as the woman at the counter had described. When is anything in an airport easy? As long as a person does not alter course from the rigid line, things work out just fine, but swerve off course and total chaos becomes the norm. To complicate matters, we weren’t certain what hotel we were staying in. Ellen made another call.

  “I was told to just give all of our flight information to Rochester and Rochester would take care of everything,” she said, disconnecting from her call.

  “Rochester? Seriously?” I chuckled. “Is he the butler or something?” The moment I heard the name, my mind started racing toward where and why I had heard it. I could hear the whiny tone that was used to pronounce it. I knew it was from a serial television program that I’d seen as a kid, but what the hell was it? I also knew I would be haunted by more than just whatever ghost we were being sent to track down. “Rochester,” I repeated it aloud using the tone that I’d remembered.

  Ellen gave me that, ‘come on, let’s get serious’ look. “Anyway, our driver will be here in a few moments to pick us up and take us to our hotel, so we need to find our way to ground transportation.”

  “Great.” I started looking up at signs and following arrows. “So, what is this case about?”

  “Apparently there are ghosts in the Tube.”

  “What tube?”

  “You know, The Tube. The Underground. London’s subway system.”

  “Oh, okay, the Tube.” Something in the back of my mind knew that the Londoners called their subway system the Tube and that I’d heard the term used before; it had just slipped my mind. There was a lot of that going on lately. I wondered if it was a negative side effect connected with being possessed by ghosts, demons and other evil forces over and over again. Rochester. Who the hell was Rochester?

  My question was answered, at least in part, a few minutes later when we encountered a man – who actually reminded me of the professor from The Paper Chase – who was holding up a sign with our names written on it near the exit to Ground Transportation. What was the actor’s name? He did the Smith Barney commercials too. Why was my brilliant mind being wasted on such trivial stuff? I started to share my thoughts with Ellen, but decided against it as the man spoke and a strong urge to laugh hit me. He sounded just like the Paper Chase guy.

  Passing me another of her looks, Ellen introduced us, clearly the adult in the situation. “I’m Ellen and this is my husband, Monty.”

  “I am pleased to meet you both.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” I responded. When had I ever used that phrase before?

  “Very well, then,” he replied. “Shall we be on our way?”

  I couldn’t help feeling that I was being scrutinized and coming up short as Rochester looked down his long, narrow nose at me. He’d probably already surmised that I was not the serious member of our team. If he was anything like old “what’s his name” on The Paper Chase, he probably didn’t approve of my sense of humor.

  Ellen always knew when crazy stuff was going on in my mind and she nudged me with her elbow when we got in the car. “What is your problem?” she whispered.

  “Smith Barney, they make money the old-fashioned way. They earn it.” I pulled the voice off perfectly, just before Rochester was seated in the driver’s seat of the Rolls-Royce that was taking us to our hotel. He looked up in the mirror at us for an instant. Had he heard my impersonation? I began to think that with him, it probably wouldn’t matter one way or the other; he wasn’t going to approve of me regardless of what I did or said. I wish that I could remember that guy’s name.

  “So, what exactly is going on in the Tube?” I asked, regaining my composure and attempting to get a hold on the professional that I really was. I wasn’t exactly sure what had made me so silly; too many ghostly blows to the head, perhaps?

  “There is a certain portion of the line that is experiencing paranormal activity.”

  “Paranormal activity? Like what, dear?” There it was again… Grey Poupon, anyone?

  “Doors on the train opening and closing in the middle of a transport, ghost sightings, inexplicable screams; you know, the usual.” She was as cool and matter of fact about it as always. I realized that some of that attitude had started to rub off on me as well over the last several months.

  “And TFL is?”

  “Transport for London. They oversee the transportation sector of the city.”

  “How did they get your name and number?” It was true that we didn’t exactly take out ads in internationally read newspapers or magazines. We barely even passed out business cards.

  “It was through some contractor connection that Marcus has here in London.”

  “So, are we going to have time to grab some fish and chips from a pub and drink a pint before we start work?” I was looking forward to experiencing at least a little bit of the local culture, even if we were going to be spending most of our time working.

  “I don’t see why not. We have a few hours to settle in before our meeting with Mr. Black.”

  “Rochester,” I called out. Yes, I used the whiny tone. “Would you be able to direct us to a top-notch local pub where we might enjoy some fish and chips?”

  The driver looked up in the mirror, pained that he would actually be required to speak to me. “Actually, sir, there is a floating pub on the Thames right close to your hotel; lovely view of Big Ben and Westminster Palace.”

  I was hooked immediately, though I was certain that the added comment about the view was directed toward Ellen rather than myself. I couldn’t shake the feeling that in the mind of Rochester, I was nothing more than an unpleasant piece of baggage that had to be endured in order to do business with Ellen.

  It wasn’t long before we pulled up in front of the Park Plaza Riverbank. I could see what appeared to be Big Ben and Westminster Palace across the river. I was going to be staying very near the queen’s house. Though I needed little help getting in the mood, it was an added touch which only served to increase my excitement.

  “Kind of nice to be rid of the Smith Barney, law professor guy,” I commented once we were alone in our room.

  “What are you talking about and why are you acting so weird?”

  “Rochester. He’s just like that law professor on The Paper Chase.”

  “Do you mean John Houseman?”

  “Yeah! That’s the guy.” She had at least made the same connection, though it did little to make me stop acting goofy. We took a moment to settle into our room, but I was too excited to sit still. Ellen finally gave in to my childish energy and we started out the door.

  Chapter Two

  Harold Black was not nearly as stuffy as Rochester, but there was no doubt that he was pretty much all business. Having enjoyed a pint on the floating pub along with the best fish and chips I’d ever tasted, not that I was necessarily a connoisseur, I had been able to get most of my silliness under control. A portion of that could be linked to the fact that Ellen was becoming a little irritated with me. Since she wasn’t given to being irritated often, I knew that I was behaving badly. I reordered my brain toward being professional, though the Rochester thing was still lingering in the background.

  “How can
we be of service, Mr. Black?” I asked, taking the lead in order to let Ellen know that I was serious.

  “I’m not quite sure exactly,” he replied, wrinkling his brow. “We seem to have some inexplicable goings on between the Vauxhall and Stockwell stations.”

  “What sort of goings on?” Ellen asked.

  Mr. Black hesitated. Talking about ghosts as though they were a real possibility clearly wasn’t something that he did on a regular basis. In fact, he probably wasn’t any more of a believer than I had been before Ellen opened up my eyes in some very profound and very real ways. I, like Mr. Black, still preferred to try to come up with any other way of explaining the unexplained rather than immediately jumping into the paranormal world. I decided to help him out.

  “Mr. Black, strange and inexplicable things aren’t always related to ghosts or paranormal activity. Just tell us what has been reported and we’ll make the determination as to the cause. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.” He visibly relaxed.

  Ellen smiled at me, which let me know that I was once again gaining her approval. Because ghosts and paranormal activity were commonplace to her, she often forgot that there were plenty of people who felt extremely uncomfortable with talking about that sort of thing. Putting them at ease about it was often my department.

  “Initially, we thought that there was some sort of mechanical failure taking place with the trains. The doors will open inexplicably, and of course, that in turn, automatically applies the brakes and stops the train. The train operators have to close the doors again before the train can move forward. We checked out the mechanical systems, finding nothing amiss. So, we started looking into it a little bit further and discovered that this particular anomaly was only taking place on the line between the Vauxhall and Stockwell stations.”