Call of the Moon: (BBW Paranormal Hunters Erotic Romance) (Avalon Book 2) (2 page)

“I’ll take a vodka and lime.”

I slid onto the stool at the end of the row and plunked an elbow on the counter as I addressed the barman. He looked sideways at me, flourishing his wet cloth across the surface in front of him, before straightening. I flicked a glance down. His cleaning technique wasn’t up to much. Too much cleaner, not enough elbow grease.

Crap, crap, crap.
I had to remember I wasn’t running a diner anymore. That was months…no…a lifetime ago. And I sure as hell didn’t miss it.

A glass appeared by my arm, ice chinking together in the clear liquid. A slice of lime perched jauntily on the rim. Lime, nice touch. Most places used lemon, which bugged the shit out of me. It was vodka and lime, not vodka and bloody lemon.

“Just passing through?”

I picked it up and shrugged. The sharp, artificial tang of cordial assaulted my nostrils. Real fruit—chemical drink. Well, I supposed I couldn’t have everything…or I would’ve been the Queen of England, with a harem of hot young men at my beck and call.

“Maybe…might stick around a while. Looking for someone.”

He lifted an eyebrow, the bushy slug crawling up his forehead toward a bald pate that shone in the overhead lights. Never a good look for a guy. His towel flicked, red-white- red-white as he wiped glass after glass, and put them back on the shelf.

“Someone in particular? Or anyone?” He slid a glance over me. “Lady who looks like you…could have your pick of the guys in here, if’n you were of a mind.”

I ignored the lewd look, even though every instinct I had wanted to introduce his face to the bar. Several times. I leaned forward, my expression cold as a winter storm.

“Someone very specific. The guy who put your defenses up.” His gaze flicked to the grills on the windows. I shook my head. “The other defenses.”

He froze, looking at me as though I were the Antichrist, or Barney the Dinosaur. One might laugh, but I’d once caught an episode of the purple monstrosity whilst out of it on painkillers and cheap whiskey. To tell the truth, at three in the morning, after I’d dug shotgun pellets out of my thigh, that fucker was scary.

“In the corner.” He jerked his head toward one of the shadowed booths. “Mr. Brown.”

“Mr. Brown? You’re kidding me, right?” I snickered as I slid off the stool, grabbing my drink on the way. I might have been here on business, but vodka, even cheap vodka, was vodka. “Does that make you Mr. Pink?”

“Huh? No. My name’s Johnson…why?”

“Never mind.” I waved in dismissal as I headed for the back booth. Some people had no culture.

The booth was dark and shaded. Which, of course, it would be. This was magic, and it required a certain ambiance and theater. Actually, that was total crap. Most tree-hugging people assumed magic required it, but they were wrong.

Real magic users, the big boys…people like that asshole Merlin and his like. For someone with that level of power, magic and all its components could be as easily traded under the bright lights of a fast food joint as it could in the grubby and dingy confines of Big Dave’s, or whatever this shit-tip was called.

My heels clicked on the flooring as I approached. The itch between my shoulder blades told me I was being watched. Eldritch eyes watched me from the darkness. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I sniggered, imagining a pair of them sitting on the table, grumbling to one another. Yeah…I passed the “insane” horizon years ago.

I didn’t hover outside the booth and wait to be invited. Screw that, I’d been figuratively and literally kicking doors down and stomping my way in for years. Sliding into the booth on the side my instincts told me was unoccupied, I looked right into a cold gaze.

It took a lot to make brown eyes cold, but this guy managed it. Spider-thin, he sat hunched over, a half-finished pint with a soggy rollup cradled in his hand. A look of surprise completed the scene.

“What the fuck do you want?”

I ignored the question. “I presume you’re Mr. Brown?”

His gaze shifted.

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t.”

I sighed and plunked my Sig on the table, finger curled around the trigger. Normally, it was considered bad form to bring a gun to a magic fight, but with Jasen’s condition progressing so rapidly, I was kind of short on time.

“Let me ask that again. Are you Mr. Brown?”

His gaze remained steady on me, ignoring the gun on the table like an elephant in the room.

“That won’t do you any good.” He wriggled his fingers in an ominous “mystical” gesture. I wasn’t buying it.

“Cut the crap. It will take you at least two seconds to frame the simplest spell, and a lot less for me to put a bullet through your skull.”

He froze, the rollup in his fingers burning merrily away. I ignored the acrid, yet mellow smell of the smoke, in favor of staring him down. I’ve always had a good stare…a great stare. Even cats and small children gave up after a while.

“You’re curiously well-informed for a hunter.”

He was fishing. Hunters and magic didn’t mix. Not often. Actually, never. Magic users were too close to the monsters the average hunter tracked down and killed in a variety of bloody ways. During a cast, it was easy to go that one step too far and let something else in. Then it was out of the Homo sapiens territory and right into something else. Something that made men prey.

I debated my answer for a second and shrugged. Better he think I was just a well-informed hunter than know the truth.

“I read a lot. Sue me. I’m looking for a wolf’s tooth. Know where I might find anything like that?”

He blinked. I’d said something out of the ordinary. Which made me wonder if crazy-ass hunters threatening him in his own bar was a normal occurrence. Possibly. Sometimes the only way to trap a monster was with something special or unusual. The finger bone of a saint, the tears of a widow…the snot rag of St. Michael…yada yada.

Normally average stuff, but those kinds of things made great spell components too, and the best way for a hunter to get ahold of them was through the magical community. They were used to it, if not the violence that accompanied it.

A wolf’s tooth, though, that was something else entirely. He didn’t do me the discourtesy of thinking I was talking about a normal wolf’s tooth, thereby directing me to the nearest nature reserve. Good for him. The mood I was in, Mr. Brown, Mr. Sig, and I would have hightailed into the back for a bit of a chat. Probably to be joined in short order by Mr. Knuckleduster in my pocket.

No, the wolf’s tooth I needed was that of a werewolf, and therein lay the problem. Most tended to be a pain in the ass and insist on reverting to human form when dead. Removing a tooth then? Yeah, gross. However, the other option was pulling it when the thing was still alive, which required a hunter with balls of steel and a shitload of weaponry…

Or magic.

“What does a pretty girl like you need a wolf’s tooth for? That kind of thing doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

Bingo. Despite his first sentence, and the look of disbelief he raked over me, I had my answer. Mr. Brown here either had a wolf’s tooth, or he knew where to get one.

“I’m gonna make it into a necklace to match this gorgeous gypsy top I have…” I started in a girly voice, then stopped and glared at him. “What do you fucking think? I’m going to ram it up a werewolf’s ass and make him sorry he’s not a vegetarian.”

He didn’t flinch, just assessed me with a wary eye. Then he smiled. It wasn’t a nice one, but if he had the tooth, he could have been the devil himself and I wouldn’t have cared. Hell, if I thought it would help Jasen, I’d call a demon myself and make a deal.

It wouldn’t work. Any denizen of Hell stupid enough to heed my call would be so minor they’d be barely more than human, and run for the hills as soon as they got a good look at me. Chasing them down could be fun, but wouldn’t help me in my current situation.

“So? You got one, or do I need to find another seller? I hear there’s a big shot over in Birch Springs…”

I let that one dangle and took a sip of my drink. It burned all the way down to my stomach. Cheap vodka in a worn glass. Story of my life.

“Yeah…I got one. Cost you, though,” he finally said, flicking a glance at the Sig. I put it away. Now that we were talking deal, I didn’t want him to think I was trying to rob him. I was already chasing an alpha werewolf. The last thing I wanted was a back-town warlock on my tail at the same time.

“How much?”

I kept my gaze direct and words blunt. No shying away—now that we were talking price. He didn’t ask what I wanted the tooth for again, which was a good thing. Probably thought I had some harebrained hunter idea of using it as a defensive amulet against werebites.

The idea was laughable. The only defense against a werebite was staying the fuck out of the way. Failing that, ammunition. Shitloads of it. Weres could take enough lead to drop a rhino and still chow down on your guts as a light snack.

Mr. Brown shrugged, his look cagey and coy now that he thought he had me. He did, the bastard. But I wasn’t about to let him know that. Perhaps I should put a bullet through his knee? Always a nasty one, that. A shattered joint took time and complex surgery to fix if one hit it just right. And I’d had
a lot
of practice at hitting them right.

He leaned forward, took a drag from the rollup. The end glowed red and ate up the paper almost to his fingers. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he dropped the remainder in the ashtray and crushed all life from it between his fingers.

“Depends what you got. And I ain’t talking cash.”

I gave him my innocent face to look at. I was good at it. Along with ditzy blonde, it earned me a lot of money when I was running a con.

“Don’t insult me.”

Reaching into my inside pocket I pulled out a small pendant and placed it on the table. It was old. The sort of thing you’d expect to find in an antique shop. Made of glass with a rose gold edge and chain, the design screamed its age. The aged metal told the tale of years of wear. Someone, somewhere, had treasured this.

But neither the age nor the gold were the interesting thing about it. Nestled between the tiny plates of glass was a small lock of blonde hair. Baby’s hair—by the soft appearance and hint of curl. Baby’s hair that screamed with so much power it set my teeth on edge.

“Valkyrie hair, I think you will find. Had it tested by a witchdoctor, back East.”

I hadn’t. The day I needed a quack witchdoctor to recognize Valkyrie hair was the day I packed this life in for good. But the lies tripped off my tongue easily. They should, I’d had years of practice. And I had to maintain the illusion I was nothing more than a hunter, one who had no idea what was good for her.

Anything else…if certain people found out where I was, let alone I still lived and breathed…and all hell would break loose.

Awe plastered over his face, Mr. Brown leaned forward. He reached out to touch the pendant, and I knew he felt the siren call of the hair. Any magic user would, as soon as they were within a foot of the thing. Snatching it back, I wrapped the chain around my fingers and dangled it at eye level.

“Oh no, no touchy. Give me the tooth and it’s all yours.”

His gaze didn’t leave the pendant, terrible lust for power written all over his scrawny features. That was what magic could do to someone. Made a person crave the power, the high of using it, until they’d do anything, sell anything, to gain more of it. Why do you think I stayed the hell away from it?

Shoving his hand under the open neck of his shirt, he pulled something free. A small bag on a cord. I recognized it, of course. A sorcerer’s amulet. A collection of objects that powered the sorcerer’s abilities if he or she wasn’t “to the manor born,” so to speak. I’d never used one.

Looping the cord over his head, he dumped the bag on the table and opened it. As soon as he did, the stench of old blood and rich earth rose. I swallowed, doing my best not to gag. The objects tumbled out of the leather. Among them were the wolf’s tooth and a tiny bone tied with a pink ribbon.

A child’s finger bone.

I didn’t bother to hide the disgust on my face. The stench made sense now. Mr. Brown had killed the owner to attain his power. The wolf’s tooth, while an impressive bit of magic, was little more than window dressing in comparison.

I looked up, memorizing every detail of his face and made a vow. When this thing with the were was done, I would come back and visit the same fate on Mr. Brown as he had on that little girl. Probably worse. After years on the road, I’d become
very
creative with ways to kill someone.

“A wolf’s tooth.”

He held the ivory fang out to me, his gaze doing the two-step from my face to the pendant. He wanted it so bad I felt the lust rolling off him in waves. It was so thick my skin crawled. I needed a weeklong bath, with bleach, just to get clean again.

It wasn’t surprising. Handing a sorcerer Valkyrie hair was like putting a feast in front of a starving man. One that never ran out, always replenishing itself. The wolf’s tooth didn’t have anything near that amount of power. The deal, from his point of view, was stacked in his favor. An honest man would have admitted to the dumb hunter that she traded an object of real power for something that, to most, was little more than a trinket.