Page 3 of The Blood Moon Oath

I shake the thoughts from my head, glancing up at the thick, cloudy sky that bathes everything in an eerie red glow. It’s the blood moon tonight, casting its strange hue over the snow-dusted landscape. The flakes drift lazily down, settling on the evergreen trees that line the narrow strip of asphalt leading to the bar, each one touched with a faint crimson tint, as if the whole world’s been dipped in blood.

The warlocks finish their walk up the narrow asphalt road that leads to the bar. They reach the door and push it open, stepping inside without a second glance behind them. My fingers tingle with anticipation as I follow at a safe distance. I’ve been tracking this group for weeks. They’re new arrivals, popping up at the same place every few days, right where they cross from their world to ours. And they’ve only got onepurpose here: to find someone vulnerable, someone who won’t notice until it’s too late. I’ve got half a mind to show them just how wrong they are tonight.

Inside, the bar is dimly lit, all worn wood and stained cushions, with the smell of stale beer heavy in the air. The usual crowd—a mix of truckers, drifters, and a few desperate souls hoping to forget their miseries in a bottle—fills the place, every single one oblivious to the two predators who just walked in. The warlocks stroll up to the bar, easy confidence in their movements.

They’re stupidly attractive, the type of men women notice the second they walk in. Each one looks like a slice of trouble, but of course, none of the poor souls in here could ever know just how much trouble they are. I slip into a shadowed corner, settling into the cracked leather seat with my back to the wall.

The bartender glances my way, his frown deepening, but I ignore him, my focus locked on the warlocks. If they think they’re walking away with a soul tonight, they’re in for a surprise.

The warlocks’ attention snaps to two women leaning against the bar counter. Both of them are locals, judging by the rough edges and the boldness in their appearances. One has heavy, dark eyeliner that sharpens her eyes into a feline shape, her lips painted a shade of deep red that smudges slightly as she laughs. She’s wearing a short leather skirt paired with fishnet stockings. The other woman has platinum-blonde hair teased high, her eyes wide and rimmed with glittery shadow that catches the low lights. Her skin is powdered and smooth, her cheeks flushed. She’s wrapped in a cropped fur jacket, exposing her bare midriff. Their laughter echoes through the bar as they toss their hair back and lean into the warlocks, completely unaware of what they’re inviting in.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Who wears that little inweather like this? No wonder they’re getting attention from the wrong kinds of men, not that it’s their fault. But maybe that’s why I’m still single, alone in the shadows while they get wooed by pretty faces that are hiding monsters.

It’s not like I don’t appreciate men, at least in theory. I can admit, I’m not blind to what makes them appealing—the strong jaws, the way a good set of shoulders fills out a jacket, the charm in a quick, easy grin. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed those things once or twice. But it all feels more like window shopping when the product’s faulty beyond repair. Men like this…they don’t just get what they want and leave; they take. They consume. They demand a price I’ve seen too many pay without even realizing what it costs. And maybe that’s the real reason I’m alone—I’d rather live in isolation than fall into the trap I’m watching unfold before me right now.

The women, laughing and swaying slightly, have no idea what they’re getting into. It’s infuriating. One warlock whispers something in a girl’s ear, and she giggles, leaning into him, not even realizing the danger as he steers her towards the back hallway.

I’ve seen this too many times. Warlocks have a pattern—a set routine to get what they want. Some like to brutalize their victims; others are in it just for the soul-snatching thrill, savoring that high of stolen energy. It’s a quick process for some, but for others, it’s prolonged, drawn-out. Either way, the end is always the same, and it’s my job to make sure it doesn’t happen tonight.

I get up, crossing the room with purpose, but a big, beefy bouncer steps in front of me, arms crossed. “Can’t just sit around without ordering something,” he growls.

“Move,” I say, my voice low.

He shakes his head, reaching out to grab my arm. I pivot,twisting out of his grip, my elbow connecting with a pressure point that makes him stumble. He curses, rubbing his arm, but I’m already out the back door, scanning the alley for those bastards.

The night is cold, the snow crunching beneath my feet as I slip around the corner to see the warlocks pinning their women against the exterior wall of the bar, eyes gleaming with hunger.

One of the women, noticing me, scowls. “Who the hell are you?” she snaps, annoyed that I’m “interrupting.”

“Get out of here,” I say, keeping my voice firm, ignoring her anger. She has no idea just how close she is to losing everything.

The warlocks turn, recognition flashing in their eyes. They know me. Of course they do. They growl, their faces twisting into something darker, something that shows just a hint of the monsters they really are. The women exchange confused glances, completely unaware of what they’ve nearly signed up for.

The warlocks drop their prey, stalking toward me, intent on keeping me quiet. My heart pounds, but not from fear. I’ve faced worse than these two. Before they can blink, I press on specific pressure points—ones I’ve learned over a decade of hunting their kind. Their magic fizzles, their smug expressions faltering as they realize they can’t use their power.

“Next time,” I hiss, watching them flinch, “think twice about who you try to take.”

They glare, backing away slowly. Then they bolt, disappearing into the night. As expected, they won’t stick around when they can’t use magic to defend themselves. I turn back to the women, who are still yelling at me, something about ruining their night. I shake my head and walk away without another word.

I slip around to the back of the building, heading for the woods beyond the bar. Snow crunches underfoot as I move, and my mind shifts back to my mission. They’ll return to their realm, but they will be back and there will be others—there are always more. As long as there are warlocks, there will be monsters to hunt.

But just as I cross the threshold into the trees, a sudden, overwhelming force hits me, like a weight slamming into my chest. Pain blooms, spreading through my body, and I fall to my knees, gasping. I’ve never felt anything like this before—this power, wild and searing.

I clutch at the snow, but it slips through my fingers as the pain builds, pushing me under. My vision blurs, darkness closing in, and I hear myself scream before I collapse, the world around me fading into nothing.

Chapter

Two

KAEL -THE ALPHA

The stone walls of the Keep rise tall and unyielding around me, an iron heart beating with the cold of the north. Though we’ve brought in what few modern touches we need, the essence of this place—the rough-hewn walls, the torches burning in wall sconces, and the imposing ironwood doors—hasn’t changed in centuries. Outside, it may look like a fortress from an age gone by, but inside, we’ve carved our own blend of tradition and function, honoring what came before us while arming ourselves for what’s next.

Two warlocks stumble into the great hall, and the silence that fills the room is colder than the winter wind outside. They bow quickly as they approach me, their eyes flicking between my brothers and me. My brothers, Ghost and Reaper, stand by my side, each a force in his own right. Reaper's fingers trace over the hilt of his blade, his lips pulling into that dark smile he wears when he’s itching for blood. Ghost, on the other hand, rolls a heavy silver ring between his fingers, the faint gleamcatching the torchlight as he studies the newcomers, his expression unreadable.

The warlocks before us tremble, their power dampened—almost snuffed out entirely—and the shame on their faces as they address me is apparent. “Alpha,” one of them breathes, his voice low, reverent. They should be flustered; weakness has its price in our tribes.

My gaze sharpens on them. “Speak.”

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