Immortal Moon
Authors: June Stevens
Tags: #Romance, #vampires, #Paranormal, #zombies, #witches, #necromancer, #apocalyptic, #end of the world, #shifters, #dystopian
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors'
imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales
is entirely coincidental.
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Immortal Moon
Copyright ©2015 June Stevens Westerfield
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
978-1-63422-153-5
Cover Design by: Marya Heiman
Typography by: Courtney Nuckels
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
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To Patricia. Thank you for raising such a wonderful
son so that I could marry him and get you as my second mom.
I sidestepped
the fist coming at my head and my opponent pitched forward, his
balance off. Taking advantage of the situation, I slammed my fist
into his flabby gut. As he doubled over, he reached up and grabbed
my thick, red ponytail, yanking me backwards.
Why was it always the hair? It never failed.
It didn’t matter how big, buff, or macho the guy was, he always
went for the hair. Biting my lip, I turned so my back was to him
and let him pull me until I could feel his hot, rank breath on my
neck. Lifting my knee, I kicked back as hard as I could. My aim was
just right, and my foot connected with soft flesh. It was a low
blow, but then, so was hair pulling.
“Gah!” the sailor cried out, releasing my
hair. I turned to see him fall to his knees, both hands cupping his
nether region. I finished him off with a foot to the shoulder,
sending him sprawling on his back. The small crowd around the
makeshift ring cheered so loud they drowned the ref calling out the
ten-count. I stood back, catching my breath. The ref was halfway
through the count when the sailor flipped onto his stomach, and
then rose to his knees. By the time the count reached nine, the
sailor was on both feet, if stumbling a bit.
Damn!
That kick to his groin should
have put him out. The ref stopped counting, and the fight was back
on.
I watched him, warily taking in every
movement as he turned and glared at me. His face was bright red,
rage radiating from him.
Great.
I pissed him off, and now I
had a three-hundred-pound rage monster to contend with. The thought
was barely complete when he charged at me, letting out a gruff,
angry growl. With my back at the edge of the ring and the sailor’s
arms outstretched on either side, there was nowhere for me to go to
get out of his way. I did the only thing I could. I started running
towards him. At the very last moment before our bodies collided, I
dropped low and to the side. At the same time, I stretched out my
left leg, catching the sailor just above the ankle. He stumbled,
his momentum sending his entire body airborne. For one long second,
he flew through the air, and then came crashing down face-first
several feet away.
Pushing to my feet, I turned to see the
sailor rise up to his knees, and then to his feet.
Geezus
,
what would it take to put this guy down? Taking a deep breath, I
readied myself for another round. The big man took one step
forward, swayed, and crumpled to the ground. The crowd went silent,
as if they were all holding their breath, while the ref started his
count. The sailor didn’t attempt to get up again. He just laid
there, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, and emitted
an occasional moan.
“Ten,” announced the ref, and the crowd gave
an ear-splitting roar.
“Once again the winner is The Spitfire!” The
ref, a tall, lanky man in faded hemp-cloth overalls, grabbed my
right wrist and thrust my hand high into the air. The applause
doubled.
I tried not to grimace as I nodded to the
crowd, which was expected. Extracting myself from the ref’s grasp,
I quickly stepped over the thick rope that was looped around the
center of the warehouse to create a boxing ring. Ignoring the glare
of the sailor and the two guys helping him up, I strode directly to
the large, dark-skinned man lounging on shipping pallets stacked
against the wall near the open bay doors. “Pete, would you tell
Slim to quit calling me The Spitfire?”
“Aww hell, Anya, the crowd loves it,” Pete
drawled. “When the patrons are happy, they bet more, and betting
against a skinny, redheaded girl called “The Spitfire” makes them
happy. Very, very happy.” He waved a small, leather bag stuffed
full of coins in the air before tossing it to me.
I caught it easily and pulled open the
drawstring to peer inside. “Eighty bucks. That’s a damned good take
for two fights.”
Pete grunted. “Yep. But, damn it, Anya, do
you have to take them down so damned fast? You gotta give the
people a show. They keep betting against you because you’re going
up against the biggest dudes I can find, but what they really want
is a performance. If you keep dropping them in the first three
minutes, the bets are gonna stop rolling in. I got a business to
run here.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, it’s all about the
entertainment.” I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t the first time Pete had
given me this lecture. “Hell, Pete, I can’t help it if you keep
recruiting buffoons that don’t know how to fight.”
Pete’s Fight House was located on the
riverfront for one major reason; it attracted big, burly sailors
wanting to test their skills against other dudes and win a little
money in the process. The bigger the guys fighting, the larger the
crowds and bets they drew. When I was fighting, the crowd was
always huge. It didn’t matter that I was undefeated; there was
always a multitude of people willing to bet against me. The larger
my opponent, the bigger the bets. But size didn’t matter as much as
fighting skill. It wasn’t bragging to say I had skills in spades.
I’d trained at the Academy with the City Guard recruits, and until
she’d moved out a few months ago, I’d sparred daily with my sister
Fiona, one of the best combat mages the Black Blade Guard had to
offer. I knew what I was doing in a fight. And with few exceptions,
the big guys Pete recruited rarely had any real fighting
skills.
Pete snorted. “I can’t be testing their
skills before I slate fights. The biggest dudes get pitted against
you. It’s what people want to see. It’s up to you to make it more
entertaining.”
“Okay, I’ll try harder next time.” I
laughed. It was pretty much how this conversation ended every time
we had it, which was weekly. “Okay, I gotta dash. I’ll catch you
next week, Pete.”
“Sure thing, Anya,” Pete said, and then
pulled his attention to the next fight already taking place in the
ring.
I grabbed my hat, cloak, and bag from the
shelf Pete kept in the corner for fighters’ belongings. Slipping my
canvas shopping bag over my shoulder and across my chest, I was
just about to step out the door into the late morning sun when I
heard a hoarse cry behind me.
“Cheat!”
I turned to see the sailor I’d just beaten,
his face scraped and bloody, hobbling towards me with the help of
his two friends.
“She’s a paranorm. No norm girl could move
like that,” his friend, a tall blond wearing heavy denim pants and
a grungy shirt of indeterminable color, called out.
The companion on the other side of the
sailor was short and broad. His hair was a couple of shades darker
than the blond man, but he wore clothes that, except for the
shirt’s color, were identical to the sailor and the blond. Pretty
generic clothing for sailors. His face twisted in anger. “We’ve
been cheated.”
Oh, shit balls, this wasn’t good.
The standard rules for fighting houses and
street-fighting leagues was that anyone could attend the fights,
anyone could bet, but only norms could fight in norm-slated
matches. It kept the playing field level. Vamps and Shifters had
super strength and speed that gave them unfair advantages that
norms couldn’t compete with. Some houses allowed mages to compete
in norm fights because although they could use their powers for an
advantage, most didn’t. It cut down on accusations of cheating. Of
course, there were fight-house owners and bookies that had
paranorms on their payroll. They were put into fights as norms to
hustle, but Pete ran a clean establishment. Pete’s fights were all
above board, and he hated being accused of allowing cheating in his
club.
Really
hated it.
Before I could react in any way, Pete stood,
his considerable mass sliding off the crate with the grace of a
cat. I couldn’t help but grin as the three guys stopped, their eyes
taking him in. When seated, his affable grin splitting his face,
Pete looked as cute and cuddly as a child’s teddy bear, but when he
stood, he looked more like a grizzly. It was easy to mistake the
girth under his gray denim overalls as flab. But his six-foot frame
was packed with solid muscle.
“I can assure you, gentlemen,” he said in
his thick, jovial voice, “Anya is not a paranorm. She is just a
good fighter.”
“Bullshit,” the sailor grunted, holding one
arm across his ribs. I wondered if perhaps one or two had been
cracked. “There is no way she’s norm. She’s too fast, too
strong.”
“Yeah,” his blond buddy chimed in, obviously
bolstered by the fact that there were three of them against Pete.
“Look at how pale she is. And she has that cloak even though it’s
plenty warm out. And why does she need a wide-brimmed hat? She’s
got to be a vampire.”
