Table of Contents
Excerpt
Waxing Moon
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Fire filled the hallway to Carson’s room,
and I skidded to a frantic stop, unable to reach him.
Carson!
My throat felt so raw from the smoke I couldn’t even scream his name. Heat pounded down the hallway, along with thick black smoke, and flames blocked his door.
The window! Maybe I could get to him from his window, from outside.
I whirled, stumbled, and ran back down the hallway. The fire seemed to chase me until my numb feet tripped on the edge of the area rug and I fell hard, sending a stab of pain into my arm where some glass stuck.
Landing, I remembered I should stay on the floor. The air was slightly clearer down there, and I crawled the last feet to the front door, lined by small paned windows shattered by heat. Glass pieces bit into my knees as I reached the door, the doorknob hot in my hand as I turned it.
I launched myself onto the front stoop, then forced myself off the ground to run around the side of the house. Flames snaked upward toward the roof; the siding below was a mass of char. How did the fire erupt so quickly?
I ran to Carson’s window, now a gaping wound in the siding framed by jagged pieces of glass. The eaves above sang with rising flame and sheets of smoke poured off the lower walls. My bare feet sank into mud, deep mud, and I paused for a second, confused because the water didn’t make sense.
I shook my head to clear it. Carson. I had to get to Carson.
Waxing Moon
by
Sarah E. Stevens
Calling the Moon, Book Two
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Waxing Moon
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Sarah E. Stevens
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Black Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1586-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1587-4
Calling the Moon, Book Two
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Mom and Dad, with all my love.
Thank you for all the hours you read to me
and all the years you believed in me.
Chapter One
I jolted awake because of the barking—deep barks that sounded right next to me even though I slept alone in my bedroom. I sat up before I opened my eyes and even then, my brain lagged behind. For the first few seconds, I stared at the flames before understanding my house was on fire.
My house was on fire.
Carson!
The curtains at my window burned, flames shooting up toward the ceiling. I stared at them and almost forgot to move. Then panic poured through me and I jumped up. I felt disoriented: the blackness, the flames, the smoke beginning to fill the room, the roar. My heart raced in terror.
My baby was in this fire.
With a high-pitched crash, my bedroom windows exploded from the heat, and a shower of hot glass flew into the room. I reflexively turned away, arms raised to cover my face. Some of the glass hit me, hot stings against my arms and side, but I barely felt the pain. Below the thunder of the fire, I heard the smoke alarm sound a futile warning.
I didn’t think to drop to my knees, to detour into the bathroom for a wet cloth, to crawl to Carson’s bedroom. Instead, I ran through the house, breathed in the choking smoke, felt my hands and feet start to numb from panic.
Fire filled the hallway to Carson’s room, and I skidded to a frantic stop, unable to reach him.
Carson!
My throat felt so raw from the smoke I couldn’t even scream his name. Heat pounded down the hallway, along with thick black smoke, and flames blocked his door.
The window! Maybe I could get to him from his window, from outside.
I whirled, stumbled, and ran back down the hallway. The fire seemed to chase me until my numb feet tripped on the edge of the area rug and I fell hard, sending a stab of pain into my arm where some glass stuck.
Landing, I remembered I should stay on the floor. The air was slightly clearer down there, and I crawled the last feet to the front door, lined by small paned windows shattered by heat. Glass pieces bit into my knees as I reached the door, the doorknob hot in my hand as I turned it.
I launched myself onto the front stoop, then forced myself off the ground to run around the side of the house. Flames snaked upward toward the roof; the siding below was a mass of char. How did the fire erupt so quickly?
I ran to Carson’s window, now a gaping wound in the siding framed by jagged pieces of glass. The eaves above sang with rising flame and sheets of smoke poured off the lower walls. My bare feet sank into mud, deep mud, and I paused for a second, confused because the water didn’t make sense.
I shook my head to clear it. Carson. I had to get to Carson.
I tried to knock out the rest of the glass on the window frame, before I pulled myself up and over the window. My eyes searched for my baby in the darkness—thank all the gods! Somehow, there was no fire in his room. I landed heavily on the carpet. The floor was wet and cold shocked my skin. I didn’t have sprinklers—what the hell? I sloshed through inches of water and finally reached Carson’s crib.
He cried, which meant he was alive, and my heart leapt. Tears streamed down his face and his mouth opened in a howl. I grabbed him, held him fiercely and maybe a little too tight, but he grabbed me right back with arms and legs, burrowed into my body, rubbed his face into my shoulder. He was soaking wet from tears.
Or—
Something cracked overhead and I leapt back toward the window, swung my legs up and over the sill, and dropped down into the mud. I landed heavily on one side with Carson cradled against me and pain stabbed through my hip. Holding Carson to me with one arm, I crawled as far as I could—which wasn’t far—then collapsed onto the ground.
I looked back at my house. Fire blazed on the roof. Carson still cried; I cried. We both gasped for air. We were black with soot, with ash, with mud. We were soaked. I was sud
denly freezing. Nothing made sense.
Then a growl came out of the darkness and chills raced up my spine. I sat up and turned to see what my body already knew. A huge, black wolf. A Werewolf—it had to be. Only Weres were that big. But who was he? Why was he here? The wolf stood mere feet from me with hackles raised and mouth half-open. Red light from the fire reflected off his teeth. He crouched, muscles taut, ready to spring.
“No!” I shouted and clutched Carson to me, a surge of anger giving me strength.
Why would a Were attack us?
The wolf’s ears lay flat against his head. His black lips curled around fangs and his eyes looked full of hellfire. He took slow steps in my direction and I braced myself. I needed to be patient; I’d get only one chance.
I waited until he was close, until I felt the energy of him pressing on me, making the hair on my arms prickle. Then I kicked him, channeling all my strength into the blow. I must have surprised him because my foot made contact with his chest and knocked him backward—not far, but enough for me to put my back to a tree, to brace myself for further fighting.
He growled so deep I felt it in my chest, even over the fire. I looked around for anything to use as a weapon, but there were only pine needles, pinecones, scrubby grasses, clumps of dirt. I readied my body, even though I knew I wouldn’t catch him off-guard again, even as I prepared for those teeth to rip into my leg, my arm. Into Carson. I screamed at the wolf, not with words, but in fury.
My scream seemed to hang in the air. No. A siren.
The wolf hesitated. He fixed those glowing eyes on me for a long moment, then tore away into the darkness.
A fire engine pulled up, then another, sirens wailing but now barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears. Shouts. People running. Hoses with streaming jets of water. Water. The water. The wolf. The fire. My mind tried to make a connection, but couldn’t. I collapsed against the base of the tree as every bit of adrenaline fled and left me weak, shaking, nauseated.
Firefighters yelled something and I noticed my neighbors stood outside. They wore pajamas, which struck me as incredibly odd, even though it wasn’t, of course, because this was the middle of the night. Carla from across the street sobbed, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Oh.
“I’m here,” I tried to yell. The words didn’t quite come out. “I’m here!”
I didn’t think I could move again, but I had to. I hugged Carson to me and crawled a few feet, dragging one leg behind me because of the pain that jabbed through me when I tried to move it.
A firefighter ran to me, yelled, and knelt down next to me. He tried to take Carson from me and I fought him, trying to scream. He said something and I shook my head in confusion, then passed out.
****
Nurses brought Carson to lie beside me on the hospital bed with his own oxygen mask, a smaller copy of mine. I curled around him the best I could and pressed as much of my body to him as possible. He pushed against me in return. We focused on breathing together. I still couldn’t process what happened.
Mothering a Werewolf challenged me, but right now I felt incredibly grateful my baby was a Were—and an extremely powerful one at that. Carson’s strength would help him heal quickly from the smoke inhalation. Even now, I heard the easing in his lungs, while my own breath still bubbled tight in my chest. I was just a human with one recessive Werewolf gene—what Weres called a “dark moon wolf”—and no preternatural healing abilities.
A doctor came in and introduced herself, though the name flew out of my head as soon as she said it. She listened to my lungs, while a second doctor came in and put his stethoscope to Carson’s chest. My doctor’s face was deeply creased, like she perpetually frowned: not the best look for an emergency room doctor.
“We’re going to give you a breathing treatment to ease your lungs.” She gestured toward my oxygen mask. “We need to stabilize your oxygen levels first, then get some chest x-rays to make sure we’re only dealing with smoke inhalation.” The doctor scribbled on a chart and glanced over at Carson. “He will get much of the same treatment, although his lungs seem better than I expected.”
“Wow, do you see my hands shaking?” I said, watching them with some interest.
The next moment, I said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
A nurse ran up with a basin, another nurse deftly picked up Carson, and I sat there for a minute. The acrid smell of the smoke on my clothes finally triggered it; my stomach heaved and lost its contents in the plastic basin. I retched spasmodically, my body trying to rid itself of the ash, the smell, all of it. It was a part of me—the smoke clung in my throat, my nose. When I stopped heaving, I saw my vomit was black.
“Gross.” I said weakly, then coughed. “I’m freezing.”
“Your clothes are wet,” said the nurse, “Here.” She helped me out of my blue-checked nightgown and into a hospital robe, then laid some heated blankets on me. “You must have been sprayed by the fire hoses. Or did you have sprinklers?” She shot me a questioning look.
“No, I—” I shook my head and frowned. “Can I make a phone call?”
Sheila answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. It took her a moment to realize it was me, then a longer moment to understand what I said.
“Jules!” she said, interrupting me as I started to repeat my whole story. “Which hospital?”
I told her. On the other end of the phone, I heard Tim ask some sharp question about what happened. Unlike Sheila, he didn’t sound muzzy with sleep, but I suppose he often woke to emergency situations as an investigator for the Werewolf council. Ever since he and Sheila dated, he spent nearly all of his off-duty time in southern Oregon.
“We’ll be right there,” said my best friend.
As soon as I hung up the phone, the nurse took me for chest x-rays. When she brought me back to the examination room, my heart leapt painfully to see Carson again. I was relieved to see he had stopped crying—but perhaps his chest hurt too much, just like mine. Every breath ached. A nurse held him and swayed with him, but quickly handed him to me at my impatient gesture. His pajamas were gone, replaced by a child-sized gown that wrapped around him several times. His gaze darted around the room. He grabbed handfuls of my gown and whimpered as I tried to soothe him. He coughed wetly and nuzzled into me urgently.
I nursed him, as much for comfort—his and mine both—as for nourishment and looked around the room while my brain tried to catch up with events. The clock read 2:35, although I would have sworn we’d been in the hospital for hours and hours. Not to mention the eons we spent trapped in the burning house.
A knock sounded on the door and I startled.
“Jules? Julie? Are you okay? Is Carson okay?” Sheila rushed into the room, all frantic energy and huge blue eyes. Tim followed behind more sedately, but with an equally assessing gaze. Even woken in the middle of the night with no makeup and her hair pulled into a ponytail, Sheila still managed to look good.
I nodded at them both, tears suddenly filling my eyes.
“Hey.” Sheila settled onto the edge of my stretcher. I leaned into her and wiped my eyes. “You’re okay, sweetie. You’re going to be okay, Jules.”
I tried to smile at her and Tim. “We’re fine.” My voice broke and I couldn’t keep the flood of words in. “We could have died. We could have died! Sheila, my house burned down. And a wolf tried to kill us. He attacked me and Carson when we got out of the fire. Did they save anything? Did the firefighters save my house?”
“I don’t know, Jules. It doesn’t matter—I mean, yes, it matters, but what really matters—”
“A wolf? There was a Were at your house? Sheila didn’t say anything about a wolf. What happened?” Tim asked. His voice slipped into work mode, trying to gather information and assess the situation.
“Wait.” Sheila said. “Did you call your parents yet?”
“My parents? No. But it’s practically three a.m. I don’t want to wake them up. Besides, they’
re on their way to Europe tomorrow on that tour, and I don’t want them to worry. I can tell them when they get home in two weeks.”
Sheila and Tim exchanged a glance.
“Honey, you need to call your parents,” Sheila said.
I started to protest, but she handed me her phone.
“They’re your parents. Your house burned down and you almost died. Would you want Carson to call you?”
I sighed.
My mom answered the phone and immediately flipped out, even though I started the conversation by telling her everything was okay. She didn’t need to worry. I just wanted them to know the house burned down and I was in the ER, but I was perfectly fine and so was Carson. She put me on speaker and I heard my dad, his voice tight with anxiety. I explained we were really okay: our oxygen levels stabilized, our chest x-rays didn’t show burns in our lungs—only smoke damage—and the doctors stitched my deeper cuts. No, I wasn’t sure if the whole house was gone or if anything had been saved. No, they hadn’t said when they were going to release us, and no, I didn’t know where we were going to stay—actually, yes, we would stay with Sheila for a while. I added this last information at Sheila’s prompting. Yes, of course I had homeowner’s insurance. No, I hadn’t called them yet; I’d call them first thing in the morning. Yes, the doctors were taking good care of us.
No, they shouldn’t cancel their tour and drive up to southern Oregon tomorrow.
I spent quite a bit of time convincing them of this last point. They’d planned this trip to Italy and France for nearly a year and—well, Sheila said I was still in shock and not thinking clearly—but I didn’t want them to miss their trip. Especially since I knew they hadn’t purchased trip insurance: my dad thought it a waste of money, and he and my mom had argued about it more than once. Besides, if a Werewolf wanted to kill me, I didn’t want my parents in the line of fire. My recessive Were gene must have come from one of them, but they didn’t know anything about my recent entrée into the paranormal world. Finally, after promising them to call them again in a few hours, to email them every day they were gone, and to call the emergency tour contact if there were the slightest reason I needed them, they gave in. Actually, even after all of that, I think the deciding moment was when Sheila took the phone to reassure them she and Tim would take care of us. She could charm a baby out of his pacifier, my Sheila. She didn’t have to work for a few more weeks and convinced my parents she’d take good care of me. Sheila taught at the local university, which was still on break since the fall quarter didn’t start until the very end of September.
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