Beneath a Blood Lust Moon

  CONTENTS

  Beneath A Blood Lust Moon

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” Braxton Devereaux stopped his motorcycle and swiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand. Leaning over, he spit through clenched teeth. The bloody mucus puddled in the frozen winter’s ground.

  Despite being a werewolf, he preferred the coppery taste of his enemy’s blood to his own.

  Today had been one of the shittiest days he’d ever had. Considering his lot in life, that was saying something.

  His alarm hadn’t gone off and he’d shown up late for his bartending job. Once he arrived at work things had quickly gone from bad to worse when one of the customers at the Beaver Tail Strip Club slapped one of the dancers. Braxton had left his position from behind the bar and beat the fucker senseless. The one thing that made him flip his switch like nothing else was some asshole thinking he had the right to hit a woman.

  After four bouncers finally pulled him off the guy, his boss had handed him his last paycheck and told him not to come back.

  He didn’t mind losing his job; he knew he could find something else. He didn’t really like bartending that much anyway. He’d only stayed around for the dancers, to keep an eye out for them and make sure no one hurt them. Even tonight, when he was gathering his things, Wendy, the stripper who’d been hit, had wrapped her arms around him and apologized for getting him fired for coming to her defense. She’d said no one had ever done that for her before.

  Then she offered him a blow job.

  He frowned, now regretting he’d turned down her generous offer. God knows he needed some kind of outlet for his anger before facing his prick of a father.

  The frosty January wind ruffled his blue-tipped hair as he set the kickstand on his 1998 Harley Davidson Fat Boy. He dismounted his bike, mentally bracing for walking into his parents’ war zone of a house. At thirty-one, his stomach still clenched every time he drove up. His childhood hadn’t exactly been picture perfect and as soon as he was of legal age, he’d left. He lived a couple of blocks away in a shitty studio apartment, but it was still too close for his taste.

  He’d ridden over after getting a call from one of the neighbors concerned about the loud ruckus coming from the house. The neighbors knew his old man, Remy Devereaux, and were too afraid to go over themselves. They all knew the truth. Braxton had no illusions. He knew exactly what his father was capable of when it came to his mother, Lynette. The neighbors were right to not get involved. It would just make things worse on her.

  The hair on his neck stiffened as a desperate chill ran down his spine with each step along the crumbling walkway. The wind howled through the barren winter trees as if in warning of what he’d find on the other side of the door. What kind of shape would his mother be in this time? Busted face? Broken ribs? Bruised kidney?

  Braxton wished for the millionth time he could convince her to leave, to get out of Shreveport, Louisiana, while she was still alive. He promised to take her anywhere she wanted, so they could start over, but she never even entertained the idea. Every time he found a new bruise on his mother’s gaunt body, she made excuses for his father. The light in her eyes had long gone, leaving behind a shell of a woman who was too afraid to live without a man, even a man that continued to hit her. She’d allowed him to suck out her soul and then crammed in his own convoluted, worthless version of her identity back into her body.

  After his last visit, Braxton had discovered fresh bruises on her arms. He’d flipped, wanting nothing more than to wrap his hand around his father’s neck and squeeze. She’d begged him not to kill his father, when it was the only thing Braxton had wanted to do. In the end, he’d caved and promised his mom he wouldn’t murder the bastard. It was a promise he struggled to keep.

  He told himself that he wouldn’t keep coming over, wouldn’t keep torturing himself over how he hadn’t managed to keep his father from beating the shit out of his mother. He should have left Shreveport years ago and never looked back.

  Yet he’d stayed, hoping his mother would wake up and realize she was ready to leave Remy.

  Until then, he couldn’t leave his mother. Deep down, Braxton knew it was his presence that kept Remy from killing her.

  He winced as he thought back to the incident two weeks ago. He’d walked in on the scene of his mother crouching in terror on the floor, apologizing and sputtering blood, while his father continued to punch her in the face.

  Braxton’s gaze had gone tunnel vision, his only thought to the rip the prick apart, limb by fucking limb. He pulled him off his mother and proceeded to bury his fist in the bastard’s face, again and again and again, as bone broke under his assault. Remy, being the coward he was, shifted into wolf and overpowered Braxton. Braxton had refused to shift. He hated the wolf part of himself, simply because that was the only thing, besides broken bones and bruised organs, the bastard had ever given him.

  Clenching his jaw, he stood on the cramped porch and knocked on the front door. The house with its peeling yellow paint was empty of any rocking chairs or decoration, unlike the neighbors’ homes. Even the naked door, void of any wreath, reeked of desperation and hopelessness.

  He clenched his fists, ready for the smirking bastard to open the door and ask what the fuck Braxton wanted.

  Edgy silence seized his attention.

  He turned the cold doorknob, but the door didn’t open.

  He wasn’t surprised. His dad always made sure to deadbolt the door when he was beating his mother. Remy Devereaux didn’t like being interrupted when he was in a drunken rage.

  He peered into the dark windows and frowned.

  That was weird. Even the lamp in the living room was off. For as long as he could remember, his mother always kept that lamp on.

  Always.

  “Fuck.” Braxton tensed his muscles and rammed his shoulder into the front door. Wood split and splintered as the door swung free from the deadbolt.

  “Mom,” he called out. His breathing, now coming faster, seemed to echo into the voluminous space. An ominous hush stole through the house like an invisible entity, sending his heart racing.

  His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he flipped the wall light switch.

  Light flooded the living room but did nothing to alleviate the bleak heaviness that clung to the air. Yet, nothing appeared out of place.

  His gaze drifted over the green and yellow plaid couch, raggedy-ass brown recliner, and 1970s coffee table. The drab end tables on either side of the couch held the familiar ugly green glass lamps that his mom had inherited from her mother.

  His gaze swept the room. The fireplace was dark and, judging by the chill in the room, there hadn’t been a fire for a few hours. The wood floors gleamed from his mother’s constant waxing in her attempt to make things perfect in her husband’s critical eye.

  The pristine appearance of the room did nothing to soothe the unease sliding around in his gut.

  “Mom?” he called out louder, panic filling his chest.

  He crossed the living room and into the darkened kitchen. His boot slipped sideways as his heel struck a puddle. He reached for the counter to regain his balance.

  “The bastard spilled his beer again.”
Braxton gritted his teeth and flipped the kitchen light switch.

  His breath left his lungs in a whoosh.

  A crimson spray of blood dripped down the white kitchen cabinets like a toddler’s attempt at finger painting. Thick drops trailed down the cupboards and puddled onto the yellowed Formica countertops. The nauseating scent of blood stung his nose and made it hard to breathe. It looked like a fucking horror flick.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as tremors racked his frame.

  A giant smear of blood trailed from the kitchen floor, around the island, and out toward the dining room.

  He took a step, his gut contorting, knowing what he was about to find. His heart beat furiously in his ears. Self-hatred filled him for not getting here earlier. He could have saved her if he’d just gotten here earlier.

  His heart stopped in his chest. A lifeless body lay sprawled across the white linoleum floor of the dining room in a pool of reflective blood. The orange afghan from the living room sofa had been thrown across the body, leaving only the badly beaten head sticking out. She didn’t even look human.

  A cold hard sweat broke out across his body as the room began to spin. Backing up, he grabbed the kitchen island and sucked in a deep breath. Rage melded with guilt until his body trembled.

  His father had made good on his promise. Remy had killed his mother.

  On shaky legs, Braxton forced himself to step closer. He knelt, his jeans soaking in the pool of thick blood that had leaked out around the afghan. The blanket that was once orange had now been turned into an unrecognizable shade of brown.

  He pulled off the afghan. Surprise and then relief flooded his chest as he picked up the heavy gold chain from around the neck.

  It was the chain that his father always wore. The corpse belonged to his father, not his mother.

  “What have you done?” His mother’s heart-wrenching scream tore through the house.

  Scrambling to his feet, he faced her. The familiar shadows that hung under her eyes seemed to darken as her frantic gaze darted from him to the bloodied body on the floor. Her hands trembled as she covered her head, trying to make sense of the horrific scene. Despite how abusive he was, Lynette had loved his father with a toxic adoration. Braxton had known one day it was going to end in death. He just always assumed it would be his mother’s.

  Shaking his head, he held out his hands. “I didn’t do this. I found him like this.” He stepped closer to take his fragile mother in his arms. She snarled and pushed him away. His heart twisted in his chest at the betrayal.

  She stepped closer and then fell to her knees in front of the body, her tan slacks soaking up Remy’s blood. She buried her face in her bony hands as she let out a wail. The sound ripped at Braxton’s heart.

  He bent down to tug her to her feet. She flinched at his touch and screamed, her wild eyes piercing him to the core. “Don’t touch me. You killed him.”

  “What’s going on, Lynette? You okay?” Mr. Cooper, the preacher and next door neighbor, rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks. “Holy shit.”

  “Mr. Cooper ...” Before Braxton could explain how he’d found his father, the preacher was out the door, hurling prayers over his shoulder as he raced back to his own home.

  Uneasiness pricked the short hairs on Braxton’s neck, warning of something headed his way. His wolf instinct told him something bad was about to happen.

  Sirens screeched in the distance and Braxton’s heart rate kicked into high gear. He didn’t exactly have a sterling reputation with Shreveport’s police department. He’d been thrown in jail quite a few times for disturbing the peace. It didn’t matter that he’d been protecting some of the dancers from guys who had thought their money could buy more than a lap dance at the Beaver Tail. To the Shreveport PD, Braxton was a criminal. To them, once a criminal, always a criminal.

  Dancing crimson and blue lights flickered in from the living room window, momentarily blinding him. His heart fumbled in his chest.

  “Hands up. We’re coming in,” two of Shreveport’s finest called out as they eased their way through the door with guns drawn.

  Braxton stood still, unable to look away from his mother as she cradled the mutilated body of the worthless man, a man who hadn’t cared less if his wife lived or died.

  Deep down, on some level, Braxton was relieved the fucker was gone. Maybe that made him as bad as his father.

  “Freeze!” one of the cops yelled out, keeping his gun leveled at Braxton’s chest.

  Braxton blew out a breath to calm his racing heart, wondering if uttering the word freeze was part of the police protocol. Did they not realize no one had moved since they entered the room?

  “Get your hands up!” The bald-headed cop narrowed his eyes.

  Braxton slowly lifted his hands over his head. “He’s my father.” The words tasted acrid on his tongue as he admitted his relationship to the man. “I’m the one that found him.”

  His mother’s frantic wails drew his attention. “Tell them who I am, Mom.”

  The cops kept their guns leveled at him while addressing Lynette. “Is this your son, ma’am?”

  His mother lifted her watery gaze to Braxton and held out her bloody palm. “Why, Braxton? Why did you…”

  His chest tightened. “Mom, you know I didn’t do this.” He took a step toward her. He needed to make her understand he hadn’t killed his father.

  The cops rushed forward, shoving him face-first into the wall. His cheek collided with the paneling. He fought back a growl as anger surged within him.

  “Hands behind your back, buddy.”

  “Get your hands off me.” Braxton gritted his teeth and sucked in a deep breath as he attempted to cage his temper. “I didn’t kill the bastard.”

  “Well, mommy seems to say different.” The older cop with the five o’clock shadow clicked the handcuffs around his wrists, tightening them until the metal bit into his flesh, and guided him through the front door.

  Braxton squinted against the flashing red and blue lights spilling out across the yard. Neighbors crept out of their houses dressed in robes and slippers, arching their necks trying to get a better look at him, as if he were some kind of attraction from Barnum and Bailey’s murderers on parade.

  He grunted as the cops shoved him against the side of the cop car and started to pat him down.

  “Well, well. Looks like we got us a murder weapon.” The older cop pulled a five-inch knife from the inside of Braxton’s boot and held it in front of his face.

  Fuck. He’d forgotten about the knife he always kept on him. He wanted to tell them if he wanted to kill someone he’d just rip their throats out, that he didn’t need a weapon.

  The bald cop handed the knife over to the younger cop, who promptly stuck it in a ziplock bag he pulled out of the police car.

  “Go ahead and test that knife. You won’t find any traces of blood on it.” Braxton ground out between clenched teeth as they turned around.

  “I guess we’ll just have to see, smartass.” The cop opened the back door of the police car and thrust him in, slamming Braxton’s head into the frame of the door. “Watch your head,” the cop sneered before shutting the door.

  Braxton ignored the brief blinding pain shooting through his skull and blinked away the blood trailing down his head. As a werewolf, he’d heal soon enough. He wasn’t worried about the injury. Holding back the anger that threatened his shift into wolf form was the real challenge. Shifting in front of humans was an absolute no-no in Were Law.

  A female’s scream shredded the darkness and Braxton’s concentration. He jerked his head toward the house as his mother raced toward them. The young cop grabbed her around the waist, preventing her from reaching the car.

  “Let go of my mother, asshole,” Braxton growled through the car.

  “The ambulance is on its way to check you out, ma’am. You really don’t need to talk to the culprit,” the younger cop assured her.

  “Braxton,” she cried out.

 
“Mom, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.” Braxton’s heart ached at the sight of his wild-eyed mother, clothes smeared with his father’s blood.

  “You’ve broken the law, Braxton.” Her voice sent a shiver down his spine.

  His heart dipped to his stomach. There was no way he could make his mother understand that he hadn’t killed his father. Not while she was hysterical.

  “That’s why we’re taking him to jail, ma’am.” The cop nodded and shot Braxton a glare before releasing his hold on his mother.

  She sprinted for the car and pressed her bloody palms to the window. “They are coming for you, Braxton. And they are bringing judgment with them.”

  Braxton clenched his muscles as the reality of the situation set in.

  He barely registered the ambulance pulling up or the activity of someone taking his mother to sit in the back while a paramedic took her vital signs.

  News in the Were community traveled like lightning. The werewolf council in Shreveport probably already knew what had happened. If they believed Braxton had murdered his own father, then he had, indeed, broken the law.

  The Werewolf Law.

  Breaking the Werewolf Law meant one thing.

  The Assassins were on their way to kill him.

  ***

  Kate Wolph tugged the starburst-patterned quilt around her shoulders and opened her front door. Stepping out onto the porch, she shivered against the assault of the icy breeze. Easing into one of the wicker rockers on the front porch, she buried her nose into the quilt to keep the January wind from freezing it off. Despite the late hour of three a.m., the woods around her isolated bed and breakfast had a calming effect on her.

  The solitude is what had drawn her mother here years ago to buy this particular B&B rather than buying one in the charming town of Eureka Springs. It was the isolation that kept the customers coming back even after her mother died.

  Kate swallowed, her eyes stinging with a fresh batch of tears, wondering what her mother would think of the floundering business if she were still alive.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Kate whispered into the cold night air, her escaped tears almost freezing against her cheek. “You were so right about Tom. I should have listened to you. ”