Under a Rogue Moon

Chapter 1It was a bad idea. Flanna knew it, could feel the badness of it seeping into her bones, but pushed open the door to the nightclub anyway. She had to blink against the smoke that immediately sucked toward the entrance, as if the outside was eager to gulp it down. It made her wish even more fervently that she could have found a flight back to the UK that night instead of the following day. She’d spent too long in the States; simple things like remembering the smell of her Nan’s fresh bread instead of the damp and blood that seemed to follow her everywhere were leaving her heartsick. It was more than time to go home again. Leaving was for tomorrow, though. Tonight was about forgetting. A few hours of pretending that her body wasn’t battered and bruised from the past week of racing along the east coast. Stolen minutes where she was just a tourist looking for a holiday fling, hungry for lean muscles and dark eyes that made promises easily broken by the morning sun. Such a luxury was a rarity, and while this would not be the first time she had sought solace in a stranger’s arms, that didn’t mean it got any easier. Forgetting meant shedding everything she had ever been taught, everything she had ever believed about her own self-worth, all in favor of a few hours of bliss. She only did that when she was desperate for the release. She only came to places like this when she needed to be anonymous. To these men, she was just a woman. Nobody at Rage would ever know that Flanna McRae was a demonhunter. The music pounded throughout the dimly lit club, all bass and no melody as it made Flanna’s skin vibrate in a matching rhythm. The air smelled of cigarettes and stale cologne with a Jack Daniel’s chaser, enticing her deeper into the press of people, and she steered toward the long silver bar that lined the side wall. She needed a drink. Badly. As much as she might want this particular abandon, there was no way she could get it without some help. Sleeping around just wasn’t in her nature. Someone pinched her ass along the way to the bar, but Flanna ignored it, not even bothering to turn around to see if the hand was male or female. Either was possible in this particular venue. Deep in the bowels of Manhattan, the nightclub Rage was known for catering to every type, regardless of motive, history, or inclination. It broke more than one law with its very presence, allowing smoking to occur inside its walls and other more tawdry escapades to happen behind closed doors. It was the kind of place you went to when you needed to forget the outside world existed, when you needed it tattooed into your flesh with music and alcohol. Flanna had been here only once before, stopping through on a different trip back to England. She knew of others who rarely left its confines. The bartender was a bear of a man, face mottled with aging acne and his head shaved clean of the hair that covered the rest of his body. His rheumy eyes caught hers when she approached, and he nodded in silent acknowledgment as he finished pouring out the line of shooters on the bar in front of him. Knowing she would be served next, Flanna twisted against the bar, leaning back so that her elbows rested along the edge, and surveyed the gyrating crowd on the dance floor. It was packed tonight, bodies pressed so closely out on the floor that she saw more than one elbow or hand land in places that would have merited getting kicked out at any other club. Ages ran the gamut, from the jailbait waif currently shimmying against one of the loud speakers by the stage to the fifty-something biker she could see shouting something into his mate’s ear in the corner. These were not people she associated with on a day-to-day basis, but for one week out of every month, Flanna found herself thrust into their world, trying desperately to fit in without getting noticed. Being seen usually led to people other than herself getting hurt, and that was unacceptable. She barely had time to do a visual sweep of the room before she felt the bartender’s presence behind her. “What’ll you have?” he asked, leaning forward to make himself heard as she turned around to face him. “Give me the darkest beer you’ve got on draft,” she shouted back. A faint smile ghosted his lips at her accent, but he didn’t comment, turning away to grab a mug and pour her drink. That was a relief. Flanna hated having to explain what she was doing in town, but she’d yet to master an American accent to try and blend in with the locals. It was far easier just to keep quiet among strangers. She passed over her money when he pushed the mug across the bar, and turned back toward the crowd without waiting for her change. The glass was icy against her fingertips, a welcome change from the sweltering air. All these bodies crammed into one small space meant no call for a heating system, that was for sure. Already, she could feel beads of sweat trickling down between her full breasts. Flanna spotted the one she wanted before she finished her beer. Lounging near the narrow corridor that led to the restrooms, he was well over six feet tall, with heavy muscles made all that more prominent by the sleeveless black vest he wore. She preferred bigger men. They made her feel small. At five-ten, Flanna didn’t have many opportunities to feel dainty. Draining the rest of her drink, she shifted so that she could check her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. In spite of the heat, her dark red hair was still pulled tightly in its ponytail, long and sleek where it hung halfway down her back. Her blue eyes were bright, most likely from the alcohol, and her cheeks were pink and slightly shiny from the club’s warmth. Other than that, the rest looked like it always did—her mouth too full, her nose just a tad too long. She knew she wasn’t homely, but just once, she would have liked to be beautiful. Hopefully, what she did have was enough to get the guy’s attention. By the time she turned back to walk over to him, the spot he’d been occupying at the wall was empty, leaving Flanna standing and gaping while she tried to figure out where it was he’d disappeared to. There were too many bodies to do it easily, and she stood on her tiptoes as she scanned for someone matching his height amongst the crowd. “Lucky guy.” The masculine voice at her ear startled Flanna, and she whipped around to find herself facing the man she’d been looking for. Up close, his features were darker, his hair shaggy against his nape. Thick brows stood out over his black eyes, but his teeth gleamed almost too white against his tanned skin. There was a scar that ran along his jaw, disappearing behind his neck and into his hair, and she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a fight he’d been in to warrant such a vicious reminder. Once he had her attention, the guy gestured toward the bartender for two more drinks. One beefy hand shoved a twenty across the countertop, while the other reached for Flanna’s wrist, pulling her just enough so that she stumbled against his chest. “I make my own luck,” he said with a grin. Flanna began to seethe. He wasn’t letting her go, his strong grip squeezing her tightly enough to make it hurt. Most of the time, she found it easy to fight off such an obvious attack, but the sheer size of this guy—the thing that had attracted her to him in the first place—was working against her. She wasn’t interested in the Neanderthal approach; she dealt with enough alphas and caveman attitudes when she was hunting. Somehow, she had to get out of this. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, almost shouting in order to be heard over the din. “That’s because I didn’t throw it,” he replied. His eyes swept over her hungrily, lingering on her full breasts as he added, “What about you, sweetheart? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” “That would be because I’m not.” Two could play this game, but she wasn’t about to give him the ammunition of her name if he wasn’t going to share the same. Thankfully, their drinks arrived, distracting him enough to look away from Flanna’s chest. She’d known coming to Rage was going to be a bad idea, but she hadn’t been prepared for it turning quite as awful as this. Once she’d picked up her mug, he began pulling her away from the bar, through the people and towards the corner of the club where he must have seen her watching him. Beer spilled over the rim, splattering across the top of her breasts and down her white blouse, making the fabric go translucent where it got wet. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He just continued his purposeful stride across the room, regardless of the discomfort Flanna was in. The crowd thinned as they reached the wall, the nearest people a woman straddling a man in a chair a few feet away. A hallway snaked along the side of the stage, leading to the bathrooms and other rooms, but the guy didn’t seem interested in taking her farther into the club’s bowels, setting down his drink on a narrow table as he turned to face her. “I’ll bet you’re a wildcat in bed,” he said with a smirk. His voice was lower. The noise level wasn’t quite as high over here. “Too bad there isn’t a bed around for you to find that out,” Flanna shot back. Her sarcastic dismissal didn’t faze him. His grin just widened, exposing canines that seemed slightly longer than the rest of his teeth. “Come here,” he growled. With a sharp yank, he pulled her against him, using the wall behind his back to brace against when her weight pushed him into it. The power in his muscles began to frighten her, though Flanna did everything in her power to keep it from registering in her face. Pressed into his chest as she was, it was impossible not to feel every stretch of sinew, and what was worse, the guy knew it. It only seemed to amuse him when she stiffened against him. “You have to play this way to get a girl’s attention?” she said, her voice dripping with ice. He shrugged, though his bulk kept the motion small. “I see what I want, I take it,” he said. “That’s what you think.” Flanna’s free hand lashed out before the man could react, nails raking down the side of his face. Blood welled in the scratches, but even as his eyes widened at the unexpected attack, she was moving again, twisting in his arms so that she could slam her elbow into his solar plexus. Though it wouldn’t do any lasting damage, the blow served its purpose, surprising him enough to loosen his grip and allow Flanna to break free. Her hand balled into a fist and slammed into his jaw, her silver ring cutting along his chin from the force. This time, he howled in pain, clutching at his face. “You b***h!” he spat. She didn’t waste time on a reply. She merely whirled on her heel and sped for the narrow corridor that would take her out the back way. Her heart was pounding. As she ran down the hall, the nearly pitch-black rear of the club made her stumble more than once, forcing Flanna to use the wall as guidance. Her fingers scraped against the rough texture, but in the far distance, she could see the red neon of the exit sign illuminating her escape. It didn’t matter, though. The unmistakable roar of the man not too far behind followed her every step. He was taller, but she was faster, not even slowing as she thrust her hands out in front of her to shove the door open. Wrists aching from the driving force, she gulped at the cooler air of the alley like a woman drowning, her head swiveling from side to side to determine which way would lead her more quickly to freedom. Never again, she chanted silently as she took off to her left. She’d live with all the tension in the world before she tried again to relieve it with anonymous s*x. It just wasn’t worth it. So intent on listening to the sounds behind her, Flanna didn’t see the other man rounding the corner of the building in front of her until it was too late. Crashing into his chest, she tangled her long legs with his, sending them both to the ground in a heap. “Sorry, sorry!” she exclaimed, struggling to get free. Strong hands settled beneath her armpits, helping Flanna steady herself. She pulled back to see a pair of brilliant blue eyes gazing across at her in worry, and as they each stood up, found they met each other at nearly equal heights. “Have you got the Devil himself after you?” he asked with a small smile. Before she could reply, however, his gaze slid beyond her shoulder, all mirth vanishing from his face. Flanna stepped away to see her assailant emerge from the alleyway. Fury darkened his eyes, and his skin was stippled with streaks of blood that he’d tried to wipe away. His nostrils flared, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more from the thrill of the chase than the exertion. That was all right, though. He was not the only one who could be a hunter. “Still interested in finding out what kind of a wildcat I am?” she asked. Without taking her eyes off him, Flanna crouched so that she could reach into her ankle-boot, pulling out the small silver knife she kept sheathed there for emergencies. Though the malice on his face didn’t falter, his step did, his gaze darting from the streetlight reflecting off the blade to the determination in her eyes. His lip curled back into a snarl, and his hands balled into fists at his side. “This isn’t over, b***h,” he growled. She stood unflinching while he cast one last look at her companion and then stalked off into the night. She only relaxed when he disappeared around the corner. “I always thought the Devil would be a much better dresser,” a masculine voice said behind her. In her preoccupation with the stand-off, Flanna had nearly forgotten about the man she’d bumped into. Pivoting, she saw him watching the empty street down which her attacker had gone before sliding his gaze effortlessly back to her, a bemused smile returning to light his eyes. It only took a brief downward flicker of his long lashes for her to remember the weapon poised in her hand, and she hastily bent to slide it back into its sheath. “It’s not what you think,” she said quickly. “Oh? And what is it you think I’m thinking?” The speed at which he spoke confused her for the briefest of moments, making her hesitate just long enough to elicit a chuckle. “Well, at least you’re fast with your knife,” he said. His joke made her splutter in annoyance, and Flanna drew herself up to her full height. It didn’t make her taller than him; rather, it made them more even, but the advantage it gave her mood-wise was palpable. “My apologies for bumping into you, sir,” she said stiffly, ignoring the clean scent of his body spray drifting toward her. When she attempted to go around him, however, she was forced to an abrupt halt. At the last moment, he slid sideways to bar her passage. “We’re not going to end it like that, are we?” he asked. His smile broadened as he stuck out his hand. “I’m Jason Randolph.” The movement put him directly into a circle of light, illuminating his face clearly for the first time. Besides the blue eyes, he had light brown hair, cropped close in a stylish cut that accented his angular features. Everything about him was lean—sharply defined bone structure, limbs looking deceptively long in his khakis and jacket—with the lone exception of his mouth. That was full and sensual, evoking inappropriate fancies of what it would feel like against hers, and Flanna stiffened when she realized the path her thoughts had taken. He was attractive, yes, but likely knew it and probably treated women accordingly. No amount of stirring inside her skin was worth making a second mistake tonight. When she didn’t move or answer right away, Jason took a step toward her, lowering his hand but not hiding it away. “At least let me walk you to the police station,” he said. “You’re obviously not from around here, and yeah, I know you could probably hold your own, but it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’re not alone.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to the police.” “You’re not actually going to let your boyfriend get away with acting like that, are you?” It took a second for her to realize just what he meant. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Flanna said. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. I fly back to England tomorrow. The police are hardly going to follow through with any investigation if the so-called victim isn’t even in the country, now are they?” That seemed to appease Jason, but as she tried to leave again, he again blocked her path. “It would still make me feel better if you let me walk you back to your hotel or wherever it is you’re staying,” he pressed. “There’s really no need—” “Because that isn’t some psychotic caveman who just threatened you?” “Because, as you’ve already admitted, I can take care of myself.” Out of the corner of her eye, Flanna saw the yellow of a cab appear at the corner and stepped to the curb to grab its attention. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Randolph, but it’s really not necessary. I’ll get door-to-door service and everyone can sleep easy tonight.” She didn’t look back as the cab coasted to a stop, though she could feel Jason hovering just behind her. Sliding into the back seat, she gave the driver the address of her hotel, waiting until they pulled away before giving in to the desire to glance at the man she had left behind on the walk. The persistent Mr. Randolph stood in the same spot on the curb, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he regarded the moving car. When he caught her looking at him, he smiled, sending an unexpected shiver along her skin, and nodded to her in a silent goodbye. Flanna whipped back around, staring out the front of the cab as she silently chastised herself for her poor judgment in going to Rage in the first place. As much as she might want to, forgetting who she was, even for a few hours, was a dangerous thing. There was no escaping the reality of what she had spent the past week doing, the blood she had shed, the creatures she had destroyed. Believing she could pretend to be normal was foolhardy at best. For this pivotal week every month, Flanna was a hunter, through and through. Like her father had been. Like her grandfather. If she wanted any sort of normal affection, it couldn’t happen while she was working. It couldn’t come from a stranger, either tall and threatening or amiable and attentive. It had to wait until she was safe back in the haven of her home. It had to wait until tomorrow.