Page 22 of The Blood Moon Hunt

18 Years Old

I don’t remember the last time I felt free. Maybe I never have. Even before the Order, before the power, there was always something weighing me down. Responsibility. Obligation. Pain.

I sit on the cracked porch of the house I grew up in, staring out at the empty fields. The house creaks in the wind, tired and worn, just like me. My mother’s labored coughing filters through the broken window behind me, a sound that’s become the background music of my life. She’s been sick for years, and I’ve been the one keeping us afloat. Barely.

The air feels heavy tonight, like it’s waiting for something. I feel it too—a thrumming beneath my skin, an itch I can’t scratch. It’s been there for as long as I can remember, a restless energy I don’t understand. I clench my fists, trying to push it down like I always do. Nothing good ever comes from that feeling.

“Damien!” My mother’s voice is sharp, hoarse from coughing but still carrying the authority that only a mother can muster. “Come inside before you catch your death.”

I stand and brush the dirt off my jeans, the weight of the day pressing down on me as I step into the house. The air inside is stale, heavy with the scent of sickness and desperation. I see her in her chair, frail and sunken, her once-bright eyes dull with exhaustion. I hate that I can’t do more for her. I hate this life. But most of all, I hate myself for feeling that way.

“I’ll make tea,” I say, heading toward the kitchen. It’s all I can offer—small comforts in a life that feels like a slow death.

But before I can even fill the kettle, there’s a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, too forceful to belong to a neighbor. My body tenses, that restless energy sparking to life again. I glance at my mother, who’s already looking toward the door with a mixture of confusion and unease.

“Who could that be at this hour?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll see.” I move to the door, my pulse quickening as I open it.

Three men stand on the porch, their faces shadowed by the dim light of the single bulb hanging above the door. They’re dressed in dark, simple clothes, but there’s something off about them—something predatory. The tallest one steps forward, his piercing eyes locking onto mine.

“Damien Blackwood,” he says, his voice smooth and cold. It’s not a question. He knows who I am.

“Who’s asking?” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

The man smiles, a thin, humorless curve of his lips. “We’ve been watching you.”

The air around us shifts, growing heavier. My chest tightens as that energy inside me stirs, rising unbidden. It’s as if the very presence of these men is pulling it to the surface. I take a step back, my hands curling into fists.

“I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave,” I say, my voice low.

“Ah,” the man says, tilting his head. “You don’t know yet, do you? The power inside you. Raw, untamed. It’s extraordinary.”

My heart pounds in my chest. How does he know about that? I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide it, to pretend it isn’t there.

“What do you want?” I demand, my voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger.

“To help you,” the man replies. His smile widens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Or, more accurately, to help ourselves. You’re special, Damien. More powerful than you realize. And that kind of power shouldn’t be wasted.”

Before I can respond, the air around us crackles. My skin prickles as the energy inside me surges, breaking free like a dam bursting. A wave of heat radiates from my body, and the men step back, their expressions flickering with something I can’t quite place—fear? Or excitement?

“What’s happening?” I gasp, clutching at my chest. It feels like I’m being torn apart from the inside.

The tallest man steps forward again, his voice calm and commanding. “It’s your power, Damien. You can’t control it. But we can.”

The energy surging through me is wild, blistering, like a hurricane trapped in my veins. My knees buckle, and I stumble back against the doorframe. “Get away from me,” I rasp, the words barely audible over the roar in my head.

“Damien,” the man says, his tone softening as he reaches out a hand. “This isn’t something you can fight. Let us help you.”

I glare at him, anger rising to meet the storm inside me. “Help me?” I spit. “You don’t want to help me. You just want whatever this is.” I gesture to myself, the tremors in my hands betraying the force I’m trying to hold back. “Leave. Now.”

The man sighs, glancing at his companions. “It seems he needs more convincing.”

One of the others steps forward, his face dark with purpose. “Enough talking,” he growls. “Take him.”

Before I can react, he raises his hand, and I feel a pulse of energy slam into my chest. It’s like being hit by a truck—I’m thrown backward into the hallway, my breath knocked out of me. The walls rattle, plaster cracking as I struggle to get to my feet. My head is spinning, but the fire inside me grows hotter, angrier.

“Damien!” My mother’s weak cry cuts through the chaos. I turn to see her standing at the edge of the living room, clutching the doorframe for support. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with fear.

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