Moonbound (Moonfate Serial Book 1) (5 page)

There’s only one problem. Bus tickets, hotel rooms, food, all of that costs money. Money I don’t have. At least today is payday at work. It won’t be enough, but it’ll be a start.

And work, if the blinking of my alarm clock is anything to go by, starts in an hour and a half.

I crack my knuckles, take a deep breath, and jog toward the shower. I’ll have to use every trick I know, anti-scent shampoos and perfumes. Who knows if it’ll be enough.

But I have to try.

The thought fills me with fear, but as I untangle the knots in my hair at record speed and pick out my battle armor of black jeans and an even blacker leather-trimmed, long-sleeve shirt that clings to my every curve, I feel a twinge of something else. I’d almost call it exhilaration.

Chapter Seven

A storm brews in the magenta sky as I furiously bike down East Avenue on my way to the city center. The half-deserted skyscrapers left after Xerox and Kodak went bankrupt loom over the horizon. They almost block out the distant black clouds.

But I don’t stop, I pedal harder, heading right into the coming storm. I wonder if I’m riding toward Orion too. The smell of dust and electricity prickles my nose, and the rubber of the handlebars abrades my palms as I tighten my death grip and swerve onto the sidewalk. When I reach the end of the deserted street, I dismount and pull my rusty combination lock from my purse and thread it through the spokes. A flash of lightning illuminates the whole sky.

“Artemis!”

Standing at the entrance to the bar is my boss, Lola, waving at me. Her many faux-gold bracelets jangle. Above her, the green neon sign reading “Bar Lola” is flickering on, except the “a” is broken, so now it just reads “Bar Lol.”

“Honey Bunches of Oats, you’re going to get drenched if you stay out there much longer!” Lola calls, managing to sound both very sweet and very loud. It’s a talent.

“Coming,” I shout. I finish locking up and hurry across the street just as the first raindrop hits my skin.

By the time I get to the doorway, thunder cracks so loudly my bones vibrate. Taking one last look behind me, I search the shadows of the deserted street for a gleam of teeth or a pair of strange eyes, but I find nothing. Yet. Then I head inside.

Bar Lola is cozy, with dark walls and darker floors. It’s not especially unique with its sports pennants and flat-screen-TV decor, but if you look closely you can see the Polaroids of favorite regulars and other real mementos hidden amongst the crap Lola thinks will attract new customers.

Lola stands in the back, on a tiny raised platform that passes for a stage next to the bar, fidgeting with the plug for the dinky electric keyboard. Her heavy makeup and teased eighties-style hair can’t cover up the discomfort of her face. “Folks, I’m so sorry, but the band we scheduled for today canceled at the last minute. So we’ll have to see Jellyfish Riot another time, okay?”

The mostly empty bar is not impressed. In fact, a sorority girl in pink stands and gives a sour attempt at a smile to Lola.

“I’m, like, really not trying to be offensive or anything, and you have a really cool bar, but I feel like, since you put flyers all over campus advertising Jellyfish Riot, they should be here. And, like, I know their drummer and he’d never do this, you know. So.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Can you at least give us a coupon or something? IDK.”

Her friends nod in unison. I’m in snarky shock that she just used “IDK” in a real-life conversation. She and the werepufferfish should date.

“I’d be happy to offer you guys a free drink,” Lola says.

One of the other girls shakes her head. “No, like, for music. I paid cover for music.”

Lola’s brows furrow. I know she can’t afford to give them a refund, even though that’s what she’s going to have to do. Like, she
really
can’t afford it. She’s a single mom with a barely-getting-by business. Her life makes mine seem like a cakewalk.

“I can perform.”

Lola and the girls both turn to look at me in shock. I would too, if I were them. I can’t believe I just said that.

“Yeah?” says the sorority chick. “I don’t think I know your band.”

“That’s because I don’t have one.” Her snootiness sends a stiff bolt of courage up my spine. “I’m a solo act.”

Sorority chick looks at me like I’m a calculus problem she’s trying to solve with a hangover from last night’s party. “What?”

“I can sing and play some piano. And if you really don’t like it after I’m done, I’ll refund your money personally, okay?”

What the hell am I doing? Yes, my mom spent ten years teaching me how to sing and play piano. And yes, I had my own little singer-songwriter act when I was in middle school. But I haven’t played in years.

Lola raises her eyebrows at me as if to say, “Really, Honey Bunches of Oats?”

I give a smile that’s much braver than I feel. Like my mother always used to say, commit to whatever you do on stage. If you do, no matter how bad your performance is, at least the audience will care.

It must convince Lola, because she places her hands together in a gesture of prayer towards me before announcing, “Artemis is a real talent, folks. You’re in for a treat.”

The pink posse heads back to their seats as I slowly walk up to the makeshift stage. I can feel the customers’ pre-emptive embarrassment, or maybe that’s just my own nerves.

Calm down. You can do this
, I tell myself.

Settling onto the piano bench, I start to warm up, my fingers stretching from black key to white key and back again.

I’m sure I’m going to do something easy, a collection of power chords, but then my right hand trips and lands into a tangle of sharps and flats that actually kind of sounds good.

I take a breath so deep I’m sure I’ve sucked all the oxygen out of the room, then I sing the first thing that comes to mind.

“By the waters, the waters, of Babylon.”

With every note I dip deeper and deeper into the well of longing, grief and desire that’s been simmering inside me for ten years and just got unearthed last night.

Since I saw him.

Orion.

God, I don’t even know what to think, let alone how I feel. Yet when I start to play, I can put all of my heart’s indescribable colors into sound. And let them go.

“We lay down and wept, and wept for thee, Zion.”

I had always thought the fervent, dreamy teenage girl I used to be died when my parents did. Or worse, that the werebeasts had stolen her somehow. I realize now that she’s still alive inside of me. She always was. That’s the thing about dreams: they only come to life when you share them. They’re like stories that way.

The sorority sisters are standing now. At first I think they’re going to leave, but instead they’re moving toward the stage. They stumble around the chairs like they’re possessed. I notice this the way a star might notice a tsunami. It’s odd, but I feel so high.

I crash through into the last chord change. Suspensions have infiltrated the piano like shadows, and the melody is different now, harsher, and almost all improvised. I’m more yelling than singing at this point.

“We remember, we remember, we remember thee, Zion.”

Everyone’s here now, gathered at the lip of the stage like little kids ready for story time: Lola, the pink posse, even another customer I didn’t see before who has a yellow polo.

They look the way I did when I saw Orion in the dream for the first time. Captured. If I didn’t know that weremates don’t share the power to influence others with their voice, I’d think I was using a werecall.

I lean away from the keys, the song ending abruptly along with whatever weird musical spell I’d cast. The crowd doesn’t shake their heads or anything; they just stop looking at me and start making their way back to their seats.

Lola’s the only one who stays. “Wow, I had no idea you could do that. You’ve got to go on
American Idol
or
The Voice
or something.” Despite her praise, she sounds more confused than anything else, then she gives me a bright smile that’s charming in spite of the gap in her teeth. “Could you do some Elvis?”

I wince, trying to find a way to tell her that Elvis probably won’t go over well with the pink posse. “How about some Beatles?”

Lola nods.

I play a couple more songs after that, but I keep the mood light and easy. My performances aren’t great, but I’ll take mediocre over dangerously weird any day of the week.

Finally, after I play a weird pseudo-cover of Jellyfish Riot’s hit “Transformation Electric,” I decide that it’s time to end the show.

“Thanks, guys,” I announce.

Nobody claps, except Lola. I think some of the pink posse has even left. I can smell a bad Yelp review coming on. Oh, well, at least I tried. Now it’s time for the real work of the night: bartending.

I leave the keyboard on the stage and make my way to the bar. When I reach my destination, Peter, the other bartender, sends a rag sliding over the counter toward me with a jowly nod. Not even a thanks for relieving him of his shift. I grab it and hang it up behind me, not watching him go. Asshole.

“You’re Artemis, right?” asks a high but definitely male voice.

I turn. At the other end of the bar, the guy with the yellow shirt fidgets with the coaster underneath his empty glass.

Where do I know him from? “Yes. Can I get you another drink?”

His nose wrinkles, a prim gesture that fits his slightly feminine face. “He didn’t say you were a weremate.”

“What?” I hiss. My eyes dart around the bar, checking to see if anyone heard. Thankfully, no one is paying much attention to me.

“Lawrence. He mentioned he had a roommate who worked at Bar Lola, but that’s about all he said.” His eyes lower. “Then again, he is one cagey guy, the beautiful bastard.”

I take a deep breath and give him my best customer-service smile. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, girl.” He rolls his eyes impatiently. “You’re showing your matemark off like it’s a new tattoo. You can stop pretending.”

I look down at the counter and my wrist. Sure enough, like an idiot, in my rush to get out of the house I forgot to bandage up my mark and my crescent of white fur is on display for everyone to see. I fumble with my sleeve and bring my arms behind my back.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I’m not a weremate,” I say. “I just have a condition.”

He slams the glass down on the counter and gives a high-pitched “Ha!” that manages to echo through the room. “Fuck, and I thought
I
was living in denial. I should let my therapist have a crack at you. He’d implode with excitement.”

The remaining sorority girls look up from their booth. The man glowers in their direction before swiveling toward them on his bar stool and rolling up the sleeve of his polo shirt.

They settle down into a storm of whispers like this is middle-school gym class.

When he turns back around, I see what he showed them. Over his biceps glimmers a slash of scales like a tattoo, iridescent and studded with spikes.

Oh my God, I know why I thought I recognized his face before. It was because I had seen his picture. On Tracker.

He’s Cooper Dunham. He’s the werepufferfish.

Chapter Eight

“I will not make the argument that every weremate has been in love with their werebeast. But I will say this. Eve chose to lay with Lucifer, Juliet chose to forsake her hunter heritage for Romeo, and even Red Riding Hood chose to stray from the path.

None of them were forced.”

Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and their Mates

By Dr. Nina M. Strike

My flight-or-fight response breaks. I freeze and stare in horror at the mark on his biceps. There is too much oxygen in this cramped bar. My pulse flutters like a dying baby bird.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Nothing to do with you. So you can stop having a panic attack.” Cooper purses his lips and raises his eyebrows—an expression that looks very fish-like. “Lawrence just hasn’t been answering my calls, so I thought I’d try a different avenue of communication.”

Slowly, the facts begin to assemble into a story that might make sense in an alternate universe. Lawrence had a one-night stand with the werepufferfish and hasn’t called him back. Because he never calls them back. And then his rejected lover found me. What, to ask me to put in a good word?

“You won’t tell any other weres I’m here?”

“Definitely not. You see…” He breathes out in one long blowfish sigh. “Maybe another Fireball whiskey first?”

“Answers, then alcohol.”

“Reversing that order makes life easier for everyone.”

I cross my arms.

He sucks in his cheeks, raises his eyebrows, and holds out his hand. “My name’s Cooper. Nice to meet you, Lawrence’s crazy weremate friend.”