Cursed by the Moon (Shifter Rising Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Cursed by the Moon Copyright © 2016 Rebekah R. Ganiere

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cursed by the Moon

  Copyright © 2016 Rebekah R. Ganiere

  ISBN: 978-1-63300-018-6

  Cover art by Rebekah R. Ganiere

  Fallen Angel Press

  1040 N. Las Palmas Blvd.

  Bldg. 24 Suite 203

  Los Angeles, CA 90038

  www.FallenAngelPress.com

  Ordering Information:

  Orders by U.S. trade bookstores and wholesalers. Please visit www.FallenAngelPress.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  For our Military.

  For those who serve, those who have served, and those who gave it all– that we might be free.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Noah tapped himself in the head with the side of his pistol, breaking through the haze of alcohol and making his brain buzz. How had he gotten to this place? He tried to retrace the last six and a half months of his life that had led him to this moment.

  He set the pistol down on the faux wooden nightstand next to the chipped, black lamp. The stench of smoke and sweat permeated the stuffy, cheap motel room. A faded beach scene, in a once gold frame, swam above the ocean blue bed and reminded him of the view from his bedroom window in San Diego. His parents would be horrified to see him in such a place.

  He couldn't change the events that had led to this moment, but what he did now was for the best. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the fifth of tequila that taunted him on the floor, raised it to his lips, and let the liquid burn away all rational thought.

  A piece of cardstock with bright red letters, stared at him from the bottom of the bottle. He blinked, trying to clear his sight, and reached for it. Missing, he tried again.

  The small business card, with embossed type, scratched his conscience and made his gut twist. All the card held was a phone number, the name Donovan, and the logo for Night Shift Relocation Corp. Images of where he'd gotten the card flashed before him and he took several large swigs from the bottle, trying to drown out the memories.

  The room spun in the shallow lamplight. Empty pizza boxes and fast food wrappers littered the floor; siblings to the empty alcohol bottles. He rubbed his left thigh. After six months of recovery, the ache from the injury that had brought him home from Afghanistan was more a constant companion than enemy to be eradicated.

  A military-issue duffle lay open on the opposing, threadbare bed. An array of guns lay lined up in front of it, like small soldiers ready to be called to battle.

  He swayed slightly in his chair, then wiped tears from his eyes. Sounds of the television from the room next door whispered through the thin walls.

  How had he fallen so far? All he'd done was try to help a stupid dog and bam! He'd become a movie monster, something he'd never thought possible, even in his nightmares.

  Images invaded him again. His unit in the tent relaxing. “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blaring from the computer. The call of an incoming attack. Adrenaline pumping. Rushing out to secure the area. A large brown dog in the middle of the camp, his deep eyes looking straight at Noah. Jefferson.

  Noah sucked in a harsh breath and pushed the dog's face out of his mind. He grabbed the gun again, dropped the card to the carpet and tapped the muzzle against his temple over and over. He couldn't be this thing. It couldn't be him.

  His phone lit up and beeped. Reaching for it, he almost toppled to the floor. The number that blazed across his screen was like a shrapnel shard to the gut.

  "What do you want?" His voice came out hard as iron.

  "Sarge? It's Jefferson, sir."

  Noah gripped the side of his chair so tightly the plastic cracked.

  "Sergeant, are you there, sir?"

  "You did thissss." Noah's chest tightened and his heartbeat quickened. "You turned me into a monster."

  "I tried to tell you, it isn't like that–"

  "How could you go and join the Marines knowing what you are?"

  Silence filled the air. "Sir, your mom and Brigette have been calling since you were discharged from the VA three weeks ago. They're worried about you."

  "Well they wouldn’t be if it wasn't for you."

  "Okay!" Jefferson's voice held a note of anger. "I get it, sir. I do. I'm sorry. I can't tell you enough how sorry I am. But you have to listen to me, sir. You need to call the number on that card I gave you. If you aren't going to let me help you, you need to get help somewhere. Please Sarge."

  Noah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Jefferson was a stupid eighteen-year-old kid. And though Noah knew he hadn't been malicious in biting him, forgiveness for introducing him to this life of hell, wasn't something he could give. How did you explain to your parents made-up creatures like werewolves actually existed and now you were one?

  "Don't worry about it. I know how to handle these kinds of things."

  "What do you mean?"

  Noah looked at the gun in his palm.

  "Sarge, what do you mean?" Urgency had crept into the younger man's voice.

  "Don't worry about me, Jefferson. I know what I need to do."

  "Sarge? Sergeant!"

  Noah turned off the phone and threw it on the bed.

  Getting to his feet, Noah’s head spun and he grabbed onto the chair for support. The flimsy plastic tipped and Noah's leg gave out. He toppled over, head smacking the cement underneath the thin Berber carpet. Pain shot through his brain, causing him to let out an inhuman roar.

  Dammit!

  The pain gave him a sudden jolt of clarity. He was lucky the weapon hadn't discharged into the wall. The last thing he needed was the cops showing up.

  Noah dragged himself to his knees, looking around through cloud-fogged vision for the gun. The business card stuck to his palm and he crushed it.

  He located the gun under the overturned chair, picked it up, and flopped onto the bed. The full moon was tomorrow night. He'd felt its grip on him growing tighter the closer it got. The smells, the achy muscles; he couldn't do it. He couldn't be what Jefferson was. It was bad enough he'd been relieved of duty and shipped back stateside. How could he spend the rest of his life wondering if he would hurt or kill someone once a month? He'd been able to keep himself in check so far, because of the knockout drugs, but how long could that last? Until he hurt someone? Bit someone? Killed someone?

  How could he have a family? A ho
me? Children? He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. He was better off not even existing.

  Noah raised the gun to his temple a third time but his phone beeped again and he grabbed it without thinking.

  "Hello?"

  "Sergeant Davis?" The voice was soft but commanding.

  "Who is this?"

  "This is First Lieutenant Tate Wildred. Your name was given to me by Jefferson. He said you might need some help."

  Noah shook his head. "No one can help me."

  "Not true, Sergeant. We can help you. I'm with a group called The Night Shift and we do exactly what you need."

  Noah tapped the gun on his forehead and sucked in a ragged breath.

  "Sergeant. You need help."

  He sniffed once. "Nope. I'm good, First Lieutenant."

  "Then why don't we meet for a drink. There's a bar not far from where you're staying. I can be there in a few hours."

  "No need. By tomorrow it'll all be a distant memory."

  There was a muffled sound on the other end of the phone.

  "Sergeant Pierson." His name was barked not spoken. "This is Colonel Donovan Franks."

  "The man from the card." He hadn't meant to say the words out loud.

  "Sergeant, you listening to me?" It wasn't a question so much as an order.

  "Yes."

  "What did you say to me, maggot?"

  Noah tried to clear his head. "Sir, yes, sir."

  "You listen up, Marine. You have a duty and just because you're home doesn't mean you get to absolve yourself of being a Marine."

  "No, sir." The words came out slurred, jabbing at his pride.

  "Pull your crap together. Get yourself to bed and meet First Lieutenant Wildred tomorrow morning at o-nine-hundred. Do you understand me?"

  Noah sat up and straightened his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

  "And if you ever need anything, and I mean anything, you call my number, understand?" His gruff, smoke-stained voice gentled a bit.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  The line went dead. Noah's fingers shook and his hand wobbled. He glanced at the almost empty bottle next to his feet. Drinking anymore would just make it worse.

  Tears leaked from his eyes once more and he squeezed the warm metal that still lay in his palm. He opened his eyes and stared at it. He'd been given an order. He'd never disobeyed an order in his entire career. But he wasn't a Marine anymore. And he didn't have to follow orders.

  Noah closed his eyes while his mind was filled with visions of his parents and Brigette. He was doing this for them. They'd never understand that he wasn't the guy they'd known. Not anymore. And he never would be again. Not after what he'd been through. Not after what he’d become. A werewolf.

  A tear streaked down his cheek and he stared at the cream envelopes, lined up next to the pillow, on the bed. One for his mother. One for his father. And one for Brigette.

  "Forgive me."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cara pushed her hair behind her ear and picked up the tray laden with sandwiches and coffee. Hefting it over her shoulder, she headed for the table in the corner. Waitressing wasn't her usual job, but they were short at the coffee shop during the summer session, and her class load was light–ish.

  As she set the plates down, the hairs on her neck prickled and she whipped around, heart quickening. Liam stood in the shop entrance in his signature black leather jacket, low slung jeans and boots, his arm around his mate, the petite blonde beauty Natasha.

  Damn. When was she going to stop being so jumpy? She swallowed hard. It'd been almost six months since being attacked and tied up by Natasha's ex-boyfriend, Daniel, and his buddies, yet Cara still couldn't come or go without locking the door twice.

  Cara relaxed at the sight of them. She missed having a roomie now that Natasha had moved in with Liam.

  "Hey." She dropped the empty tray on the counter and headed toward them.

  Natasha stepped forward and hugged her; Liam gave her a tight-lipped smile but his shoulders held tension.

  "Hey, chica," said Natasha. "How are ya?"

  "Good. You guys want a table?" Cara pointed to one in the corner.

  "You got a minute to sit?" Liam's eyes were serious. Natasha took his hand in hers and leaned into him.

  A shiver ran down Cara's spine. "Um…" She looked around. No one seemed to need her at the moment. "Sure."

  She followed them to the table. "What's goin' on?"

  Liam settled uncomfortably into his chair. His long legs tucked underneath and his hands fisted on the table until his knuckles paled. "I got a call from Tate."

  Cara swallowed hard. "Is something wrong?"

  Liam shook his head. "Nothing's wrong per say. But I have someone who needs relocating and I don't have anywhere else to put 'em on such short notice."

  "Well there's room with me, you know that."

  Liam's gaze drifted to Natasha. "Yeah, but this one is male."

  Cara shrugged. "I put up with you."

  Natasha slid her hand across the table and squeezed Cara's hand tight. "He's bitten."

  Cara swallowed hard. A cold chill ran over her skin.

  "He's also new," said Liam. "Only six months in. He was bitten in Afghanistan by a fellow Marine. He's been having a very difficult time of it. It's possible he has some PTSD. He’s been home for about six months and in therapy, but he’s not completely better.”

  Cara's head went fuzzy, and she sucked air in and out in short, shallow breaths. Her gaze travelled to her hand interlocked with Natasha's and she tried to remain in the present. She refused to let the memories and guilt sweep over her and drag her down into their bottomless depths. She’d worked too hard to put the past behind her over the past four years. She wasn’t about to let it compound her more pressing issues.

  "It's okay," Natasha said. "We can find him another place. Maybe he can stay with us for a few days."

  A dark look came over Liam's features. An unknown male in his house, with Natasha there, was not going to fly. Alphas didn't share space with males outside their immediate family.

  "I'm not going to pressure you into doing something you don't want," said Liam. "I can tell Tate you aren't ready yet."

  "No." Cara shook her head. The male needed help and this was the next step in getting over what had happened to her. Besides, Tate and Liam had helped her when she'd needed it, and she'd agreed to help others in return. "I can do it. It's fine."

  "Are you sure?" Natasha asked.

  Cara nodded vigorously and put on a smile so broad she worried her cheeks might crack.

  "It won't be for too long. We'll have him out before the full moon," said Liam.

  Natasha had given her the silver and wolfsbane bracelet only six short months ago but it had been a lifesaver. Just thinking of having to lock herself in the storage unit, after what had happened with Daniel, was enough to send her into another panic attack. She hadn't gone down there since the incident.

  "When is he coming?" She pushed her long curls behind her ear, then wrapped her arms around herself.

  "He'll be here in a couple hours. He was in Los Angeles when they got to him a few days ago. Apparently, he hasn't been doing well; Tate had to talk him off the ledge. He's a former Marine, so he's been staying with the Night Shift and getting some help."

  She nodded, trying to keep it together. "Do you have the key to get in?"

  "I'll give him the room on the main floor so you don't have to worry about him going upstairs."

  "It's okay. If he wants Natasha's old room, give it to him."

  "No." Liam leaned forward and the tension that bunched in his shoulders spread to his entire body. "I don’t know this guy."

  "Tate wouldn't have asked if us to if the guy was dangerous. I trust Tate and Donovan."

  "I know. I know. It's just– After everything that's happened–"

  "Liam. Don't worry. Everything will be fine." She faked a reassuring smile.

  "Cara!"

  She turned. Donny, the owner, pushed a tray
full of sandwiches across the counter.

  "I gotta go."

  "We'll stop by to make sure everything's okay," said Natasha.

  "I get off at four."

  "We'll see you no later than four thirty." Liam stood, pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her on the head. The scent of his leather jacket soothed her.

  "See ya." She gave a small wave and headed back to work.

  Cara tried to steady her steps and keep herself from shaking; she didn’t want to drop the tray. She hadn't been around a bitten werewolf before. She hoped she wouldn't freak out on him and make things worse. Being a shifter by birth was hard enough. Being bitten was worse.

  The beautiful sunset painted the Malibu sky in shades of violets, magentas and tangerines mimicking the flowers that adorned the courtyard of her condo complex. Cara opened the gate to her condo complex and let it swing shut behind her. Her hands shook as she headed for her front door. Every inch of her had been tied into knots since Liam and Natasha's visit. A bitten werewolf in her condo. She blew out a harsh breath and stepped up to her door. She checked to make sure the door was still locked. No one got inside, she told herself. She looked over her shoulder and scanned the courtyard, making sure she was alone.

  You're fine. You're fine.

  She tried to open the door but the key rounded the lock several times before she pulled it away and shook out her arm.

  "Get a grip." She stared at the cream colored door for a minute before trying again. She pressed the key to the lock again and it slid in. The door opened with a creak.

  Not a light was on and no sound emanated from inside. She set her keys and bag down and closed the door.

  She headed for the kitchen when a groan from the main floor bedroom caught her attention.

  She stopped. "Hello?" Her gaze slid to her pepper spray and she tensed. She fought the urge to grab it. She was safe. Tate wouldn't let anyone stay with her who would hurt her.

  The bedroom door opened and a tall, well-built, sandy blond guy took up most of the doorway. His high cheekbones and angular jawline were purely masculine. A white t-shirt stretched across his barrel chest and tucked neatly into a pair of tan cargo pants.