Lunar Marked (Sky Brooks Series Book 4) Read online

  Steven chuckled. “Not at all. They named themselves after a race in the World of Warcraft. The biggest threat they present is a cyberattack. They might hack into our computers and screw things up just to make a point. There are about twenty of them, very low-key. We’ve hired them a couple of times, and Sebastian keeps a watch on them. If they ever joined a real pack they would definitely take on submissive roles. Most of them were turned and they aren’t as well adjusted as they should be and could benefit from more assistance, but they will not accept our help and declined joining us. I think they are afraid of us.”

  “Did Sebastian and Ethan go and show their scary ‘I destroy everything in my path’ face?”

  “Yeah, all of us went to meet them, but they only seemed interested in Winter. They couldn’t stop staring until she did that weird eye thing. Things went downhill from there.” He shrugged it off. Vertical slits in pupils may not seem weird on a snake but seeing them on a human was off-putting. I hated when Winter did it to me. “The other group—Ares, yes, they named themselves after the Greek god of war—is just a minor pain in the ass. With a membership of just a little over one hundred they aren’t as big of a threat as their leader, Anderson, would like them to be. But in the past two months they’ve seemed to be increasing their numbers at alarming rates.”

  “Is he making more? That can be dangerous.” Temperament plays a big part in dealing with changed were-animals. Making a were-animal with the intent that they will be an ally is a foolish strategy. If they survive, they might hate you for what you’ve done to them. The only changed were-animal that I knew of was Steven. He was badly injured after killing a vampire. Joan, the Southern Pack Alpha, found him and had him changed by were-coyote in her pack in an effort to save his life. He was grateful to her and to the pack because they not only saved his life but also became his family.

  “We’ll have to look into it,” he said, dismissing any more talk of it. He started scrolling through movies on Rotten Tomatoes reading the synopses to check out the star ratings. He finally settled on a movie with a two-star rating.

  “We have to watch this one, it’s terrible.” He laughed as he pulled up the movie. We watched bad movies and not the ones that were subjectively awful—no, we went straight for the movies that most critics gave two stars or less. The type of movies that moviegoers and critics were so disgusted with that they couldn’t even bear to write a complete critique. Movies so bad that people often walked out in the middle, but we never gave up. We generally talked through them, laughing at the plot, dialogue, and whatever else we could find to make fun of. He rested his dill pickle and hot sauce mess on the coffee table and settled back to watch the movie.

  As we sat on the couch sharing a ritual as we had done many times over the past year, I pretended that his things hadn’t disappeared from around the house. I ignored that his blankets were no longer thrown around the house, nor his jackets, which had never managed to make it into the closet. Most of all, I pushed away the thoughts of the packed boxes on his bed.

  I had to, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have made it through the movie.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sleep was something that hadn’t come easy in months, and this night wasn’t any different. Steven and I continued to watch our movie, while I pretended that things were the same and he wasn’t moving out. An hour had passed since the movie ended and we had said our good nights and retreated to our rooms. I was still trying to pretend things were normal, and the next morning I wouldn’t have that feeling of emptiness that came over me each time I thought about him leaving. He would be out by the end of the month.

  When I sat up in the bed, the odd-colored Aufero, its magic off, draconian, destroyed by whatever the hell was in Ethan, came to mind again. The moment I opened that door, everything bothering me starting flooding in and I tried to prioritize, but it all seemed important—fixing the Aufero, figuring out the Clostra, determining if Kelly had fled or was actually missing, understanding how we had changed things by removing my curse, and finding Samuel. I closed my eyes, waiting for my brain to just shut it all out for a minute. I just needed a moment to think about anything else but everything that was going on. But when I did, it wasn’t darkness that I saw but an image of the boxes stacked on Steven’s bed. And more images of him adding to those boxes as he prepared to move out.

  I blinked back the tears that started to form, and I wiped away the bugger that dared to escape as soon as I felt it.

  I jerked at the sound of glass breaking. Steel bending and collapsing under great pressure whined in the darkness. I looked out the window to see small sparks, orange and red embers, coming from my backyard. I grabbed the fire extinguisher and ran toward the back door, the smell of necrotic tissue wafting in, strong and pungent. It was the odor I smelled when the Hidacus at Quell’s home were burned. It tainted the air, making my nose burn. A halo of fire reached the sky, but as the damaged occurred, it slowly dimmed, to just a flicker. Destroying only the greenhouse and nothing else. Its single target and sole focus of destruction was just one thing—the greenhouse.

  Like a phoenix Michaela emerged from the smoke, her loose-fitting t-shirt hanging off her waiflike frame and jeans clinging to her slim hips. Her long, dark hair was swept back, and a cynical smile twisted her lips, marring her pleasant features. She looked none the worse for the destruction she’d caused. I was trying so hard to rein in the anger and subdue it the best I could, but it was persistent, chaotic, and becoming hard to control.

  Anger moved through me like a current and the desire to control it dwindled as Michaela stood among the refuse. A curve in her lips resembled a smirk more than a smile as she ran a tongue over her fangs. She had taken care not to destroy the neighborhood, not even the rest of the land, just the greenhouse. Just the thing I had worked on for weeks to make perfect for Quell.

  And once she had taken a place in front of me my rage became unfettered, striking with ferocity. Gripping the extinguisher tighter, I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled a slow breath, but it didn’t help. The scent of burned wood, necrosis, smoke, metal, and scorched fruit stained the air and heightened my anger. It taunted me. A spiral of red ribbons whirled in my head obscuring any rational thoughts. The heat coming off my cheeks was enough to start another fire. My eyes narrowed, honing in on her. More anger, so intense it throbbed like an injury. A smirk of cruelty and unwarranted sense of entitlement laid effortlessly over her features. Seconds later, her opal eyes met mine, narrow lips perking into a smile as she stood inches from me.

  “If you ever try to make Quell choose between us, you’ll be the next thing destroyed,” she said, her words as sharp as her fangs.

  The tendril controlling my anger snapped. Fury raged and needed to be released. I smashed the extinguisher into her sending her back several feet where she didn’t stay long. As soon as she hit the ground she was on her feet again. I descended upon her and punched her square in the face knocking her down with a thud. Slamming the palm of my hand into her nose, I felt the bones crush under it and tears fill her eyes before her fist struck me hard against my temple. The burst of dizziness was a reminder of vampire strength. Another punch cracked against my jaw, and blood shot into my mouth as I rolled my tongue over my teeth expecting to find some missing. When I crashed to the ground, I swiped her leg, bringing her down next to me.

  Years of training with Winter and Krav Maga, and it all went out of my mind. This was a street fight. I wrapped my hand around her ridiculously long midnight-colored hair and dragged her across the ground, trailing her through the broken glass until I came to what I needed.

  Grabbing my arms, she tossed me over her body. I collapsed next her. Her movements were like flashes of light as she came to her feet and kicked me in the ribs. They groaned at the impact and broke with the second sharp blow she delivered to them. Gritting my teeth, I rolled to my side in time to catch another thrashing kick in my back. But anger pushed me to unknown limits. I wanted to hurt her. No, I wanted
to kill her.

  The next time she drove her foot toward me, I grabbed it, snatching it and yanking her to the ground. I struck hard, blood spurted. I drilled punch after punch until blood dampened and tinted my skin. I snatched up a long, thick glass shard and was about to imbed it in her chest when I heard Steven call my name. The cloud of anger was too much and I couldn’t respond to him. I couldn’t control the rage. He called my name again, but the only thing I could focus on was my desire to kill her. And I wouldn’t stop until she was just dust in my backyard.

  His hard coarse voice cut through the air, but I couldn’t stop. The glass was clenched so tightly in my hands blood from the cuts ran down my arm as I prepared to drive the shard into her heart. A firm grasp encircled my wrist before I was yanked back. I snatched my arm from Steven, pushed him back, and started toward her again. He pulled me back harder and stood between us. Gold flooded his emerald eyes as they narrowed to meet mine. His lips pulled back in a snarl. “Back,” he growled.

  If I could have controlled it, I would have. But I couldn’t. I tried to shove my way past him but he pushed me back with his shoulder, baring his teeth and growling an inhuman sound. I retreated back a couple of steps, and he looked over his shoulder. Michaela wilted into the ground after making several feeble and unsuccessful attempts to stand.

  The more she struggled, the more I wanted to finish the job. Kill. Her. I’d never been so in touch with the predator that shared my body. It should have repulsed me and given me a moment of pause, but it didn’t. I welcomed it, embracing the violence and anger with unbridled passion.

  Perhaps Steven sensed my intentions because he placed a firm grip on my shoulder as he held me back.

  “Calm down,” he whispered. I took several shallow breaths but it didn’t help. The anger was there—unfettered, vengeful, and ravenous. I looked at the burned ground, the scattered ruins of the greenhouse, and was revisited by the images of her destroying it. When she bared her fangs anger reasserted itself and I lunged at her. Steven took hold of me again. He held me—maybe it was supposed to be a hug, soothing and comforting—but his arms girdled around me, binding my arms to my sides and tightening each time I attempted to pull away. In this position he walked me back several more feet and spoke in a calming voice, making every effort to diffuse my anger.

  The level of rage was new to me. I didn’t think it was possible to hurt someone more than I wanted to hurt Michaela. She came to her feet straightening her clothing and stared hard across the distance that Steven had put between us. I may have wanted her dead, but there was a promise of revenge on her face. She wanted me dead just as much. She backed away and then disappeared into the darkness. I wasn’t sure if she traveled or moved so fast that I wasn’t able to process the movement.

  Steven remained silent, and I didn’t have anything I wanted to say. Instead I started to walk. I needed to expend the energy, go for a jog or a brisk walk. That was the lie I told myself as I secretly hoped I would run into Michaela again.

  After a couple of minutes, the thirst for Michaela’s blood and her demise was slowly leveling out. I took the scenic route, cutting through the back, hoping to avoid any looks from my neighbors. I could only imagine what I looked like. The adrenaline that had pulsed through me was tamping down. The pain was gone and I could feel every ache. I went quickly past my neighbor David’s home, and his deep, ebullient voice cut into the silence that I so desperately needed in order to get to a place where I could find calm before the very image of Michaela sent me spiraling into another fit of anger.

  “Hey kitten.”

  I cringed. I couldn’t decide what was more jarring, the pain or his little nickname for me. He knew I was a wolf, but he kept calling me kitten, among other things. The cutesy little nicknames never stopped and could be anything from butterscotch to cookie, and somehow muffin had somehow found its way into rotation. But I liked him too much to let something like that change my mind about him. The frailty of humanity always seemed to wisp off him like a vapor. He was wholly human, without a shred of doubt, and there was something comforting about it. The fact that he still liked me and enjoyed being around me made me feel like I was still deeply rooted to the life I had before the pack entered it.

  I started to turn and wave but the ache was a reminder of what I probably looked like. I didn’t want him to see me like this.

  “I can’t talk right now,” I said, keeping my back to him and picking up my pace. His heavy steps quickened behind me.

  He purred the name kitten again. Ugh.

  His steps came faster and I knew he was at a slow jog trying to catch up to me. When the sounds of the steps were just a few inches behind me, I stopped and turned. Wide-eyed, he gawked before blinking several times. He swallowed and took a moment to get his composure. My appearance must have been a sight, because David worked in public relations and often bragged that he had seen it all. This probably just gave that bar an uptick.

  He took in the bruises, concentrating on some places more than others. Gently touching my shoulder, he said, “I’ve seen your face look prettier. Why don’t you come in the house and clean up before you scare the neighbor children.” It was after midnight—if they were still up, maybe they needed to be scared.

  David started to back away, waiting for me to follow, and when I didn’t his brow raised and he gave me a stern look. I knew he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  David’s partner, Trent, didn’t make an attempt to keep his poise. “Oh my, what happened to you! Oh my god! Oh my god! Who did this to you?”

  My silence only made things worse. He had his phone in hand. “I am calling the police.”

  “Please hang up. I know who did this.”

  His horror was soon drowned by concern and speculation. I knew what he was going to ask before he said the words, “Did he do this to you? I can’t believe he did this to you!”

  I sighed, getting a glimpse of myself in the mirror near the door. My lips were swollen, and blood was smeared over my lips and cheeks, probably from attempting to wipe it away. A cut was near my eye and there was a patchwork of bruising on my cheek. It was only then that I noticed my shirt was torn. “Steven didn’t do anything to me, and you know he would never touch me.”

  Trent was convinced that Steven was my boyfriend because “You don’t let someone like that move into your house without making him yours.” But his crush on Steven didn’t overshadow his imputation toward “the boyfriend.” “The boyfriend” was always his person of interest whenever we watched a criminal investigation or mystery. “It’s always the boyfriend. Don’t be fooled. If anything ever happens to me—David did it. Avenge me, honey. Avenge me,” he would always joke in his lighthearted voice.

  Trent’s features were even more off-putting scowling as he assessed me. He wasn’t unattractive by any means but his keen features were too angled and sharp. Wide expressive eyes were just a shade or two lighter than his umber-colored hair and complemented his olive skin. Despite his features he had a moppet appearance, and the light beard didn’t improve it. His six-five frame, thin from his love of running, looked more coltish than sinewy and athletic. Many times I considered holding him down and force-feeding him cake and burgers, but he would like that, since that was how he ate most of the time.

  David’s appearance was the opposite. A little over forty, he was more than ten years older than his partner. David was classically handsome. Age had slightly diminished his strong, refined features, and the salt-and-pepper hair added to his distinguished appearance. The one thing they had in common was that for the two years I’d known them I hadn’t seen either one in a pair of jeans or t-shirt. They preferred slacks and shirts or cashmere sweaters for lounging around the house.

  “Okay, if it wasn’t Steven, then whose ass am I kicking?” He grinned.

  Smiling made my lips hurt, but I did it anyway. It was a sweet gesture, but he couldn’t kick his own ass. As a person who had an adversarial relationship with jars and anything
heavy, I doubted he would be an adequate match for Michaela.

  “No one needs to get their ass kicked, it’s over,” I said. But I wasn’t sure if it was.

  Trent nodded slowly, unconvinced, before excusing himself to the bathroom. David stayed, keeping a careful eye on me, his arms crossed over his chest. Wide flat lips were drawn together in a disapproving pucker framed by small lines. I am sure he knew that there was more to it. He knew what I was and probably realized that if there were were-animals there were other, worse things that went bump in the night.

  But before he could satisfy his curiosity, Trent returned with a warm towel. Gently he wiped my face, making an attempt to remove the blood. He wasn’t ever going to get it off at this rate. I took the towel from him, and using the mirror on the wall behind him I started to wipe my face. It wasn’t enough, so I went to the bathroom.

  After great effort, I had removed the blood and took a moment to deal with the pain of my aching ribs. Broken ribs hurt like hell but I couldn’t show pain while in front of David and Trent or they would worry, and things would escalate into something bigger. They would want the police involved.

  I sucked in a deep breath and returned to the living room. It was safe to assume that in my absence they had let their imaginations get the best of them. Deep, assessing gazes continued to examine me and the strain on their faces grew harder by the second.

  “It was just a fight,” I said.

  “Over what?” David asked.

  “A guy.” It was kind of the truth. I wished they would drop it, but I knew they wouldn’t.

  “Really!” Both responded almost simultaneously. I ignored the miscreant smiles of interest. I had successfully diminished this story into a drama-filled tale of two women fighting over a man. They wouldn’t have to get their dose of it from a reality show. “Over who? The hot one that forgot how to smile?” Trent asked.

  He was talking about Ethan, who they referred to as “sour face.”