Viper Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Teaser chapter

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  I stuck my eye to the peephole, but all I could see was a warped, unrecognizable face.

  “Who is it?” I shouted.

  “Detective Flynn. Duivel Police. Open up.”

  Police? Did I do something really awful last night?

  “Show me your badge.”

  He held what looked like a badge up to the hole. He’d made enough noise that all my neighbors were probably peeking out their doors to see if the cops hauled me away in handcuffs—again. Living vicariously through my troubles brightened their ordinary lives.

  I opened the door a few inches. Whoa! This was a nice one. He appeared around thirty, maybe a little older. His jet-black hair gently curled around his ears and he needed a shave, but he still looked yummy. He wore a rumpled jacket, a T-shirt and blue jeans that fit a fine, strong body. Detective Flynn. Too bad he was a cop. I kept one hand on the door, but I doubted I could close it fast enough if he wanted to force his way through. “What do you want?”

  “I want to come in.”

  “And I should let you because . . . ?”

  “Because I’m a nice person.”

  Funny, he didn’t look nice. Sexy as hell—but not nice.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2011

  Copyright © Margie Lee Roland, 2011

  Map copyright © Merald Clarke, 2010

  All rights reserved

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51689-8

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  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into 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 above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.

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  For my husband, who is the center of my life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I need to be alone when I write. No music, no coffee shops—only blessed silence will allow my creativity to come out of hiding so I can maneuver it onto a page.

  Getting those pages published, however, was not a solitary endeavor. This book would not be possible without professional and personal aid from many individuals. A few, but certainly not all, are listed below. There is no particular order of listing. Each was the “most important” at certain times.

  My editor, Jhanteigh Kupihea, who so professionally and graciously guided me through the editing and publishing process.

  Kerry Donovan, who believed in Viper Moon.

  My agent, Caren Johnson Estesen, who had faith that my stories were good and never gave up on me.

  My fellow writers and critique partners—present and past—whose critical feedback and encouragement was, and will continue to be, invaluable.

  Duivel, MO.

  chapter 1

  The Barrows

  July 21—Full Moon

  Mama wanted me to be a veterinarian. She’d probably have settled for a nurse, teacher, or grocery store clerk. She never came right out and said, “Cassandra, you disappointed me” or “Cassandra, you have so much potential,” but I knew I’d let her down.

  The idea of me running down a slimy storm sewer in the desolate, abandoned ruins of the Barrows section of Duivel, Missouri, probably never crossed her mind. The unconscious five-year-old boy strapped to my back and the angry monster with fangs and claws snapping at my heels were just part of my job. Maybe Mama was right—I’d made the wrong career choice.

  I’m in good shape, but I’d run, crawled, and slogged through the sewer for over an hour. My chest heaved in the moldy, moisture-laden air by the time I finally reached my escape hatch. The glow from phosphorescent lichen gave me enough light to see the manhole shaft leading out of this little section of hell. Claws clattered right behind me and the tunnel echoed with slobbering grunts. This particular monster was an apelike brute with porcupine quills running down its spine and glowing green eyes.

  Up into the manhole cylinder, two rungs, three . . . Roars bounced off the tight walls . . . Almost there—a claw snagged my slime-covered boot.

  I jerked away and heaved myself out onto the deserted street.

  Not good.

  Clouds covered the full moon’s silver face, so my vile pursuer might actually take a chance and follow me. The Earth Mother has no power here in the Barrows, save her daughter’s light in the midnight sky. Maiden, mother, and crone, signifying the progression of life from cradle to grave, that ancient pagan female entity had called me to her service years ago. Now, in her name, I ran for my life. In her name, I carr
ied this innocent child away from evil.

  I’d managed to get off two shots and my bronze bullets hurt the ugly sucker, but a kill required a hit in a critical area like an eye. I could stop and aim or run like hell. I ran.

  Its claws gouged out the asphalt as it dragged itself after me.

  Under usual circumstances, I wouldn’t have gone below the street. I’m good at kick the door down, grab the kid, and run. This time a bit of stealth was required since the door guards carried significant firepower. I was definitely outgunned.

  Most things living in the storm sewers were prey. The small creatures ran from me. This time I’d crossed paths with a larger predator determined to make me a midnight snack.

  I’d parked my car on the next block, so I sprinted toward a dark, shadowed alley that cut between the three-story brick buildings. Derelict vehicles and broken furniture made my path an obstacle course as I threaded my way through the debris toward the pitiful yellow light of a rare streetlamp at the alley’s far end.

  A coughlike snarl came from behind. The creature would leap over things I had to go around. I wouldn’t make it, and if I did, those claws would tear the metal off my little car like I would peel an orange. I’d have to turn and fight soon. I hoped I could take the thing down before it overwhelmed me.

  Halfway down the alley, a door suddenly opened in the building to my left. A Bastinado in full gang regalia, including weapons, stepped out. Though technically human, Bastinados are filthy, sadistic bastards whose myriad hobbies include rape, robbery, and murder.

  I had nothing to lose as terror nipped at my heels and gave me momentum. I rammed the Bastinado with my shoulder, knocked him down, and rushed inside. Drug paraphernalia and naked gang members lay scattered around the room. I’d crashed their party and brought a monster as my date. The Bastinado at the door certainly hadn’t stopped it.

  The creature roared louder than the boom box thumping the walls with teeth-rattling bass. The Bastinados grabbed their weapons. They barely glanced at me as I crossed the room at a dead run. Two guards stood at the front door, but they had their eyes on the monster, too. I shoved my way past the guards. Screams and gunshots filled the night. Throw the door bolt and I emerged onto the sidewalk.

  I raced down the street. I hadn’t gone far when the ground suddenly heaved and shuddered under my feet. The whole block thundered with a massive explosion. A vast wind howled, furious and red, and surged down the street in battering waves.

  Tornados of brilliant orange fire blasted out the windows of the building I’d escaped, and washed over the street like an outrageous, misguided sunrise. A hot hand of air picked me up and slammed me to the broken concrete. I twisted and landed face-first to protect the boy strapped to my back, then rolled to my side with my body between him and the inferno. I covered my face with my arms. More explosions followed and the doomed building’s front facade crumbled into the street while burning debris rained from the sky.

  What in the Earth Mother’s name had been in there?

  When the fury abated a bit, I forced myself to my feet and headed for the car. Was the pavement moving or was it me staggering?

  The sound of the explosion still hammered my eardrums. I opened the back door, peeled away the straps and protective covering holding the boy secure against my body. I laid him across the backseat. He didn’t seem injured, and he still slept from the sedative I’d given him to keep him calm.

  It wasn’t until I climbed in the driver’s seat and fumbled for my key that I noticed the blood—my blood—too much blood. Slick wet crimson streaked down the side of my face and soaked half my shirt. Shards of glass protruded like rough diamonds from my forearm’s blistered skin. It didn’t hurt—yet. Pain would come soon enough.

  I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

  Another deeper blast rumbled under the street, shaking the car.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, police, fire trucks, ambulances, rushing to the scene. They rarely entered the Barrows, but the magnitude of the blast I’d lived through couldn’t be ignored.

  I turned the key again. And again.

  Last month I’d had to make a choice. Fix the car’s starter or buy special hand-loaded bronze bullets. I’d chosen bullets.

  The fourth time I twisted the key, the engine jerked to life. It sputtered twice, then smoothed. I popped it into gear and rolled forward, away from the fiery beast still raging behind.

  Symptoms of shock crept in and pain found me. It rose by increments, increasing in intensity with every passing moment. My heart raced at a frantic pace and my arms shook so I could barely hold the wheel. Sweat formed an icy second skin as my body temperature took a nosedive. Sweet Mother, it hurt. The street blurred and shifted in my vision. Worse, though, was the feeling of pursuit. My little car chased through the deserted streets by some invisible, unimaginable horror. With considerable will, I kept my foot from mashing down the gas pedal.

  Clouds drifted away from the cold, exquisite full moon. “Follow,” a soft voice whispered and urged me on. The white orb in the sky suddenly filled the windshield, rising to a brilliant mass of pure, clear light. I drove toward the radiance, navigating well-known streets as if dreaming of driving. North, keep moving north. A stop sign? Okay. Don’t run that red light. If a cop stopped me, they’d call an ambulance, take me to the hospital, and I’d die. I was already beyond the skill of modern medicine’s healing.

  The child in the backseat moaned, as if in a nightmare. I had to stay conscious long enough to get him to safety. I wouldn’t go down for nothing.

  The guiding brilliance faded as I reached my destination. Control of the automobile eluded me, however, and the mailbox loomed. Before I could hit the brakes, I’d rolled over the box and the small sign that marked the home and business of Madam Abigail. The sign offered psychic readings, but gave not a hint of the true power and grace of the woman who dwelled and worked there.

  I plowed through the flowered yard. Abby was going to be seriously pissed at me. Two feet from the front porch, the car jerked to a halt. Abby would find me. Abby would care for me as she always had. Luminous moonlight filled the night again, then faded, leaving only sweetsmelling flowers that lured me into painless darkness.

  chapter 2

  August 5—8:30 a.m.

  The pounding wouldn’t go away and I figured someone was beating on the apartment door and not my head. It couldn’t be the landlord because I was only a week late with the rent. The soulless bastard knew me by now and usually didn’t start harassing me until the third week. The utility company didn’t pound; they flipped a switch downtown, like the cell phone people had three days earlier.

  The air conditioner in the window hummed constantly, fighting to keep up with record heat washing in abundant thermal waves against the glass, even at the disagreeable hour of eight in the morning.

  “Come on, I know you’re there!” a male voice shouted through the door.

  Now what?

  I climbed out of bed, staggered to the door, then stopped. My long mustard yellow T-shirt had DOES THIS SHIRT MAKE MY TITS LOOK TOO BIG? printed across the front. Of course, it would take a lot more than a T-shirt to make my tits look too big. It smelled like a two-hour workout, but it covered my panties. I didn’t plan to let the door basher in anyway.

  He pounded harder and I winced. Each thud bounced around my skull and set my constricted blood vessels screaming.

  Hell of a party last night. I’d gone out to celebrate my recovery from the injuries sustained at the last full moon. When did I get home? How did I get home? Something about my car . . . Damn.

  I stuck my eye to the peephole, but all I could see was a warped, unrecognizable face.

  “Who is it?” I shouted.

  “Detective Flynn. Duivel Police. Open up.”

  Police? Did I do something really awful last night?

  “Show me your badge.”

  He held what looked like a badge up to the hole. He’d made enough noise that all
my neighbors were probably peeking out their doors to see if the cops were hauling me away in handcuffs—again. Living vicariously through my troubles brightened their ordinary lives.

  I opened the door a few inches. Whoa! This was a nice one. He appeared around thirty, maybe a little older. His jet-black hair gently curled around his ears and he needed a shave, but he still looked yummy. He wore a rumpled jacket, a T-shirt, and blue jeans that fit a fine, strong body. Detective Flynn. Too bad he was a cop. I kept one hand on the door, but I doubted I could close it fast enough if he wanted to force his way through. “What do you want?”

  “I want to come in.”

  “And I should let you because . . . ?”

  “Because I’m a nice person. I had your piece of shit car towed off the sidewalk in front of Zeke’s Deli this morning. It’s downstairs. It could be at the impound lot.”

  Zeke’s Deli was three blocks down the street. Funny, he didn’t look nice. Sexy as hell—but not nice.

  I opened the door wider and he stalked into the single room that made up my kitchen, living, and dining area. He stared around the apartment like a health inspector surveying a roach motel. Then he stared at me the same way. “You look like shit.”

  “Thank you. Glad you noticed. Hello. I’m Cassandra Archer and I’m delighted to meet you, too, Detective Flynn.”

  I went to the fridge, grabbed the bag of coffee, and tossed it on the counter beside the coffeepot and pack of filters. “Make some coffee. Did you bring donuts?”

  “Fuck!”

  Oh, my goodness. I must have pissed him off. I gave him what I hoped was an evil smile. “I’ll take that as a no. I’m going to shower. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll understand.”